Page 48 of The Sinner: James

The question remains unanswered the entire time I sit at the patio table and eat brunch––spinach quiche and tomato salad.

It’s almost one in the afternoon when I climb into the town car waiting for me in front of the house.

The driver shuts the door and walks around the limo before jumping in and steering the car away.

Slowly, we roll toward the gate.

The place looks different in daylight.

The scenery is breathtaking, soothing, and peaceful, with plenty of trees, the leaves a medley of colors this time of year, and the shrubs showcasing a variety of pink, red, and white roses.

There’s not a trace of cars or bikes.

I reach the local market, and my hope to hear back from him vanishes completely.

I should’ve known.

The driver is waiting for me while I pick up some fresh fruit. Later, he takes me home.

My mom’s Mercedes sits in front of the house as the town car slides next to it.

The limo driver holds the door open while I step out and slip by him, thanking him in a rush.

A few seconds pass before he unloads my bicycle.

I freeze next to him, blankly staring at the entrance, trying to come up with an explanation for my absence.

“Oh… Look who’s here,” my sister utters, strutting out of the house.

I grab my bicycle and wave the man goodbye.

A sigh of relief leaves my lips when he climbs in, closes the door, and veers the car away just as my sister stops next to me.

Her eyes follow the car to the crossroads, where it slowly turns left, heading downtown.

She shifts her gaze to me.

“What was that?” she asks suspiciously.

Luckily, our mother walks toward us as well.

I spend two seconds studying my sister’s face before moving my gaze away, ignoring her question.

My mother’s face beams with a smile.

An attractive woman barely in her mid-forties, she wears an elegant soft knit suit crafted in tones of cream and navy, the cut and fabric flattering her figure.

I get lost in her embrace.

“So, where were you?” Daria asks behind my back.

I break away from my mother, not glancing at my sister.

We both smile, ignoring Daria’s pissy mood.

“The market,” I say curtly.

“I called you,” she says, pivoting so that I see her.

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