Page 2 of The Sinner: James

It’s their favorite place for wheeling, dealing, and closing financial deals with a handshake before enjoying guilty pleasures away from other people’s eyes and ears.

Now that story is even harder to believe if you ask me.

That’s not to say it’s not possible.

Throughout the years, the place we grew up in has become a portal between the old and the new, the truth and the darkest secrets, the pure and the damned, while stories like this have only made this town feel more alive.

“Wait for me,” Eve shouts as I steer my bicycle away from her.

The wind blows in my hair, the afternoon sun trailing the horizon while kissing my cheeks and warming my skin.

“I’ll meet you down there,” I say, pointing to the bottom of the slope.

Holding my hands up, I let the bicycle glide, exhilarated, enjoying the adrenaline rush.

Gaining speed, I grab the handles and pedal rapidly, zipping down the road until I reach the end of the slope and yank the levers hard, the brakes squeezing the rims before my bicycle comes to a halt.

Pebbles spit from under the tires when Eve stops next to me, her cheeks flushed just like mine.

“That was fun,” she says, running her hand through a curtain of wavy dark hair.

“Let’s go,” I say, pedaling up another slope.

She follows me as she always does––beaming with trust, curiosity, and excitement––the road taking us through a few wooded hills and an open field still green, not yet tarnished by the rusty colors of the fall.

Minutes later, we roll our bicycles onto a cobblestone street downtown, cruising past historic buildings, small shops, and an idyllic park.

A delicious smell of freshly brewed coffee and grilled food drifts from the restaurants while chairs and tables draped in crisp linens sit on the sidewalks.

The few cars crawling by cautiously slow down, yielding to the distracted pedestrians walking in and out of the boutiques tucked behind colorful awnings.

Close to downtown, we make a left, slide past the Public Library and City Hall and follow the right lane until Red’s, the club of the affluent, comes into view.

The building seems deserted, looking dull in bright light, and the parking lot is completely empty.

The place must be closed.

Without giving it a second look, we move away.

Moments later, we pull in front of Cherry’s––the place named the best Italian ice cream parlor in the area for two years in a row––to enjoy some frozen desserts.

“I’m buying,” Eve says, propping her bicycle against a wrought-iron bench. “What would you like to eat?”

“Strawberry cream and crunchy hazelnut with chocolate swirls. A scoop of each.”

“Anything to drink?”

“Nope.”

She spins around and vanishes inside the tiny shop while I pull my phone out of my pocket and take pictures of the street and the ice cream parlor.

Seconds later, I'm playing with several filters while editing the photographs.

It doesn’t take long before the door swings open with a loud bang, slamming into the wall, and Eve bursts out, screaming at the top of her lungs, empty-handed.

“They’re here. They’re fucking here.”

She sprints to me, eyes glinting with excitement.

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