Page 30 of Sinners Retreat

Kindra’s hand rises to my face before grazing my ear. When she pulls her fingers away, I catch the glimpse of red on the tips. Realizing it’s blood, I swipe it away.

“Must have cut myself shaving,” I say. I can’t tell her the truth. I reach for her fingers and wipe the tips of them on my sleeve. “Nothing to worry your pretty head about.”

“I guess,” she says, but she hesitates before looping her hand through the crook of my arm.

She seems like she’d rather I pull her teeth out one by one than take her to this party. I sure hope she can loosen up and enjoy herself. We’re at a retreat after all.

The retreat owner—Jim Madigan—lives on the island year-round. He calls himself the Siesta Hunter, and he’s a present-day Butcher Baker. He started by bringing prisoners to the island so that he could hunt them, but he ended up going a little stir crazy from being so alone.

I get it. It’s a lonely profession.

Several years later, he started hosting these retreats to bring like-minded people together. This fancy mansion, which is located in the island’s interior, is his home. It’s a centerpiece, and a beautiful one at that, with massive columns standing like sentries in front of the entrance.

Kindra, Cat, Bennett, and I pass the large fountain in front of the mansion. In its center stands a woman gripping a severed head. Beside her, water shoots from a decapitated marble man’s neck stump. In October, Jim likes to drop red food coloring into the pump. It’s quite the sight, but his groundskeepers pay the price when they have to scrub the pink tinge from the marble each November.

The four of us pass through the columns and enter the house. Having been here enough times, Bennett and I take the lead and guide the women into the dining hall.

Soft classical music plays from overhead speakers near the fireplace. Jim didn’t light the logs this year, and I’m grateful. We nearly sweated to death last year. This tropical heat and humidity are no joke.

I pull out a chair for Kindra, and she throws me a half-assedthanksas she plops down. She swipes a hand across her forehead to snag an errant bead of sweat, and I fight the temptation to bend down and lick the salt from her fingertips.

I ease into my seat and begin unfolding my napkin to place it into my lap. Kindra plants her elbows on the table and drops her forehead to her arms. She lacks refinement, but I find this more endearing than off-putting.

Bennett and Cat argued the entire walk over here. About the history of the domesticated feline, of all things. It was unbearable to listen to. No one should have that much to say about cats, let alone two people. I’m grateful for the silence that falls over them as Kindra and I sit between them. If they want to argue over our heads, however, this seating arrangement may need to change.

When I look around the table, every seat is full.

Except for the chair directly across from us. That place setting remains untouched.

The retreat owner enters the dining room, and all eyes turn to him as he struts to the table. He isn’t in his finest attire, as he saves that for the last night of the retreat, but he’s still resplendent in a tailored suit.

Kindra glances around the dining hall, then leans close to me and whispers, “Where’s the guy with the mullet?”

“He’s probably lost track of time. I’m sure he’ll join us at some point. He was pretty drunk earlier.”

Kindra stares at me for an unnecessary amount of time before she finally looks ahead again. I swallow as soon as her eyes leave mine.

“Welcome, Sinners,” Jim says, raising his hands toward the ceiling. “I’m so glad you have all chosen to join me this evening.” He looks toward the empty chair. “Where’s Eighties?”

I clear my throat. “He was drinking down by the beach. He was pretty lairy when we left him.”

“Right.” As he sits at the head of the table in what can only be described as a throne, I don’t miss the annoyed glance he tosses at the empty seat across from me. “Chef Maurice has been in the kitchen all day preparing a feast for us, and I would expect everyone to be excited and on time, but here we are.”

Our attention turns to the front of the room as the two double doors swing open and Maurice rolls a cart from the kitchen. The first course is salad and when he sets it down in front of Kindra, she frowns down at the leaves drizzled in Italian dressing.

“I’m not a big fan of salad,” she whispers as she pushes the plate forward a bit.

“Just put some on my plate so it looks like you ate from it.”

“Does the chef care that much?”

“Cooking is his sole reason for breathing, so yes.”

While the chef is busy placing plates in front of everyone else, Kindra transfers half her salad to my plate. I stab into the green lettuce and bits of mozzarella and baby tomatoes, thenbring them to my mouth. I’ve hardly made a dent before Maurice retreats to the kitchen and appears once again.

He tootles around the table and sets a serving dish in front of each of us. When Kindra goes to grab the cloche, I place my hand over hers and guide it back to her lap. Her eyes go wide as she registers just how serious Maurice is about table manners.

Once Chef Maurice has placed the last dish, he turns to us with a smile and a nod. Everyone reaches forward in unison, and like actors in a play, we perform our parts and reveal delicate slices of roasted meat lying on a bed of mashed potatoes.

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