Page 149 of The Sinner: James

I fucking hate that little fucker.

And now I’m scraping at the bottom of the barrel, which means one thing and one thing only. My fate is sealed.

Like most people I know, I eat, sleep, and breathe to earn enough money to eat, sleep and breathe some more.

This is not the freedom that I thought it was.

The things I thought I’d do easily have taken weeks and months to become reality.

The things I thought I’d do with the money I'd earned never happened because the money has never been enough.

People I thought I’d meet have never crossed paths with me because I fell off everybody’s radar once I hit bottom.

Nobody cared where I was.

Whether I lived or died.

Whether I got lost in this crazy world that often feels like a vicious maze.

As it turns out, meeting people has to do with access. And access to the good stuff and decent people only happens with money, power, and influence.

Life is also about access to good jobs, decent places to live, and even good men.

I smile bitterly.

Hmm...

Good men. Someone should’ve taught me about good men before I fell into his arms.

I sip my now lukewarm tea before glancing at my phone.

I have no one else to call.

Of all the nights I have to spend in this box, this is not the one I want to stay home.

I push out of my chair, walk to the small closet, and fumble through a few racks, sifting through what’s mostly work attire.

Slacks and blouses, a couple of suits for interviews, and several skirts. Tucked in the back, there’s a party dress I never had the chance to wear.

I bought it way back when I arrived in New York, and my hopes ran high, and my dreams were overly optimistic.

I remove the tags and put the dress on the bed, examining it with a critical eye.

It’s a fitted black dress with long sleeves, a plunging cleavage, a matching rhinestones belt, and a long metal zipper on the back.

The four-inch designer shoes I bought to go with it are black too.

From a drawer, I pull out a lingerie set, a garter belt, and thigh-high stockings.

This purchase goes way back to when James Sexton was on my mind.

I take a quick shower, run a towel over my body, blow dry my hair, and put on my dress.

I slip into my shoes and brush my long blonde hair before I let it drape over my back.

I spin in front of the mirror, painstakingly running my gaze over every detail.

The dress stops above my knees, the fabric molding smoothly on my body, the cut flattering my figure.

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