The Sinner (Notorious 1)

“No one’s seen her today. God, I hope she’s just hiding,” Savannah said. “This is what she usually does.” Turning back to Margot, she said, “I heard you come in last night, and I figured you’d keep an eye on her.”

“I’m sorry,” Margot said. “I forgot you went to work today. She just got—”

“Lost in the shuffle.” Savannah’s anger vanished and she looked so guilt-stricken it made my stomach do a flip. “She’s so mad at me right now. Did you check the rosebush or the vin—” She stopped and swore. “They’re all gone. All her hiding spots.”

She bent her head back so she could stare up at the ceiling and feel terrible about herself.

I wanted to hug her, ease that stress the way she’d eased mine last night. The way she touched me as if she cared, as if she saw right through to the bone and heart and blood that I was made up of, to the hard kernel that remained from the accident, like scar tissue.

“I’ll look upstairs,” Margot said, putting down her cup.

“I’ll check my office.”

The women were gone, leaving behind their individual scents, lemon and roses and the slightly acrid tang of regret and worry.

I didn’t know how I could help, or if my help would be accepted, but I wanted to do something. Wished I could do something. Anything. For her.

Savannah came barreling into the kitchen.

“No sign of her?” I asked.

“She’s not in the office,” Savannah said, grim and stony-faced. “Did you check the sleeping porch?”

“No,” I said. “Why do you think she’d go there?”

“She’s eight and she’s mad, Matt. Who knows why she’s doing anything?”

It was a good point and I stepped into her wake, following her to my room.

Savannah

I opened the big wood-and-glass doors to the sleeping porch and listened for any signs of my runaway daughter. Again. It was a lesson in compartmentalization. What happened last night in this room just didn’t exist right now. I banished the ghosts of our animal selves some place far far away.

“I know you’re in here,” I said, opening a closet in the corner. Nothing but a long-forgotten winter coat and a dusty Christmas wreath.

Guilt was a stitch in my side as I scanned the nearly empty room. Only Matt’s neatly made bed - which I ignored - and duffel bag. The terra cotta flowerpots, cracked and covered in dust, sat in the corner.

The smell of him—sunshine and hard work and something clean, something totally Matt—was everywhere. And beneath that I imagined there was something of us, in the air.

I’d forgotten my daughter today. Forgotten her. And I wasn’t stupid. I knew, in part, it was because of Matt, because of this growing obsession I had with the man.

Did good mothers forsake their attraction to men for their kids? Was that what was required of me right now?

Because I didn’t want to let go of it. Even though I knew he was leaving.

Yeah, I was probably the worst mother in the world. But I wasn’t going to apologize. A few months ago, I would have, I would have turned my back on what I wanted, but I was different now.

Matt Woods stepping into my life had changed me.

“I know you’re mad,” I said to my daughter as if I could see her. I got down on my knees and looked under the bed. At first, I saw nothing but dust bunnies the size of my head then, at the foot, my daughter’s defiant blue eyes.

“Katie.” I sighed, holding out my hands, reaching for my daughter’s outstretched palm.

“I’ve been here for like, three hours!” Katie yelled. “I’m stuck.”

“You should have yelled,” I said, not giving her all the sympathy she was angling for and I pulled Katie from where she was wedged on her side under the bed, her legs curled up to her pointy little chin.

“My legs don’t work right,” Katie muttered, sticking her face into my neck. I fell back on my butt and cradled my daughter close.

“They’re asleep,” I said. “Give them a few minutes.” I pulled dust bunnies and cobwebs from Katie’s hair and brushed the worst of the mess off the second set of pajamas from Margot’s cruise. Ruined, of course.

“I’m really sorry about today,” I murmured into the pink shell of Katie’s ear.

Katie pulled back, her eyes accusing me of everything short of a third world war. “You just left.”

“I thought Margot was watching you.”

“You left me here with—” Katie’s eyes flickered over my shoulder “—that guy.”

I felt Matt over my shoulder, a warm solid weight like a hand against my skin. I wanted to laugh at the thought of Matt as just that guy. Somehow, someway, in the past few weeks, he’d become far more than that.

What he was, however, I had no clue.

“Matt is not that guy,” I said, trying to be patient.