Page 522 of The Sinner: James

“Isabel something. My snitch.”

His eyes widen.

“No. The one from my high school?” he asks, surprised.

“Precisely. How else do you think I knew about you and Abby Newtown? Isabel had the teacher’s home under surveillance. Night after night, she had her eyes glued to her window, waiting for you to show up and pay a visit to the woman living across the street. I imagine the rest of them were not much different. Girls or women... Whatever. They were all smitten with you and never dared to say a word to you, question you, or hold you accountable. They listened to you, each hoping to be the chosen one. They helped you as much as they could. Abby, for instance, was a home run. She’s older than you and by default, so much more understanding.”

I pause.

“What’s your point?”

“My point is, you’ve always picked the easy ones. The ones who submitted to you, no questions asked. It’s a valid strategy, and I applaud you for that, but the problem is you don’t learn much that way, and that’s why you wouldn’t be able to handle someone like Rain.”

“How old was she when you met her?”

“What does age have to do with anything?”

“How old was she?” he insists, like a dog who found a bone.

“Eighteen.”

“Wasn’t she a good girl?”

“Yes, she was, but that’s not how she got me. Later, when she turned into something bad and pulled all the stops, she made me pay attention to her.”

A smile creases his lips.

“No way,” he says, sagging back into his seat.

I tip my chin down in response.

His gaze shifts to his drink, turning blank.

“I haven’t picked them that way,” he says, in the mood for a confession. “That’s how they came to me. I’ve always attracted good girls. It’s not my fault.”

“Uh-huh,” I say, not convinced.

“You don’t believe me.”

“Nah-uh.”

He’s about to say something else when my mother enters the room with a platter of food and sets it on the table.

His demeanor instantly changes.

He becomes more reserved, no longer eager to talk about his private life.

Soon, he starts to eat while Theresa sits across from me and snacks on fruit.

We talk about Portugal, no longer mentioning the past.

By the time Tiago enjoys his dessert, the sun slides toward the horizon, casting a red-orange glow over the table and making my mother’s dress even brighter and Tiago’s eyes vibrant with life.

Lifting my glass to my lips, I try to wrap my mind around it.

It’s impossible not to notice how surreal this feels.

Here I am in a foreign country with the two people who, aside from Rain, are the only family I have left.

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