The Sinner (Notorious 1)

“Did you?”

“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “Not to Pete Borjat. Not to his girlfriend.”

“But there was nothing you could have done, Matt.”

“I could have stopped the opening to be sure that corner was strong enough.”

I stepped into the shed, grabbing equipment, needing to do something, anything, because the pressure in my head and body was about to burst.

“Did the contractor tell you he didn’t reinforce the floors there?”

“No, but the building was in much worse shape than anyone thought. I knew he’d downgraded some of the supplies.” I threw more and more tools onto the ground, pitching them in anger, hurling things I didn’t need to feed my impulse for violence. “He told me over and over again that he could not afford my visions. My obsessions.”

“But if he didn’t tell you, it’s not your fault—” Suddenly she stopped, blinked, her mouth gaping.

I pulled out more tools and her silence continued. She stood there, a deer in headlights, her face white with shock.

“Savannah,” I asked. “You all right?”

She put her hands over her face and I stepped to her side, sliding my hand over her shoulder in support.

“My grandmother has been telling me the same thing for years,” she said. “It’s not my fault because I didn’t know. Years of her saying that and then you come here, with your guilt and your lies, and it all makes sense.”

She lifted her pale face to mine, her eyes burning and wet with unshed tears, her lips a white line.

“What’s not your fault?” I asked.

“You asked me about Katie’s father.” Her voice was a whisper, thick and ragged. “Years ago, he hired me to do some research. It was working on a documentary about Creole music and culture. I did the work and as a side note told him he should come to Bonne Terre, to see Remy’s. It’s a club out in the bayou about ten miles south of here.” She took a deep breath and it shuddered at the top. “He came. Fell in love with the place and decided to change the focus of the documentary to Remy, fourth-generation Remy, who still runs the place.”

I squeezed her shoulder, seeing how this might pan out.

“We started…dating.” Her smile was sharp, bitter. Loaded with all the things she didn’t need to say about those dates. “And in time, I told him he should stay at the Manor. He stayed on and off for three months and I—” She shook her head and looked at her hands, unfurling them to reveal moon-shaped divots made by her nails. I wanted to kiss those divots. Kiss every pain she ever felt. “I was stupid in love. Stupid. And I thought he was, too. So, when I got pregnant, I thought it would all work out.”

“It didn’t.”

“He was married with two children in Chicago.”

“Fucking asshole,” I swore.

She laughed, a brittle, slightly hysterical sound. “I’ve blamed myself for nine years. Every whisper behind my back. Every slur painted on our walls, I’ve accepted them as payment for my sins.”

“But you didn’t know,” I said.

“I’m a researcher, Matt. Finding out is what I do. I let myself get taken. Not like you.”

She touched my fingers, lacing hers between mine, strong and fragile at the same time. Our palms touched, her heartbeat pulsed against my skin. The urge to pull her close, bend that strong body against mine was like a riptide, pulling me places I had no business going.

“If the contractor didn’t tell you, you couldn’t know, Matt. It wasn’t your job. You can stop blaming yourself for something you had no control over.”

“It’s not the same thing,” I said, shaking my hands free.

“It’s not?”

“Lives are ruined!” I yelled. “Peter is dead. His girlfriend is alone. The contractor is bankrupt.”

“Not your fault,” she said. “It’s a tragedy, no doubt about it, but you didn’t cause it. This guilt you’re carrying—” she shook her head “—it’s not yours.”

“Someone should be punished.”

“The world doesn’t work that way, Matt.”

“Well, the world doesn’t always get it right.” I ducked into the shed, pulling out two pairs of gloves. I tugged on the ones with the hole and gave her the new pair. “You can work,” I said, “but I’m done talking.”

SAVANNAH

I heard Katie up in the tree, getting ready with her water balloon arsenal. Funny, I thought, wiping the sweaty hair off my forehead, three days ago I wanted to hurl the water balloons myself.

Now, I didn’t know what I wanted. But it was time to stop Katie’s attacks on the poor guy who was kneeling on the ground, measuring trenches like graves. Lord knows he suffered enough at his own hands without Katie’s help.

“Katie!” I cried, just in time to halt the yellow balloon lifted in her little hand. “I need to talk to you inside.”

“But, Mom—”

I put down the shovel and stepped over to the tree, peering up into the branches at my daughter’s red round face.