Page 52 of The Sinner: James

My father had a schedule conflict and couldn’t come while my mom is still in California, visiting some friends.

Daria is not back from college.

By default, I was the only family member who could attend.

Fresh off the plane from Italy, I’m still adjusting to being back home. The time spent overseas has been a great experience.

I met interesting people and visited beautiful places, but that’s not all.

The time and space I put between Daria and me allowed me to gain a fresh perspective on things and become a little wiser.

Many good things have happened over the past few months, except for one.

I couldn’t forget James Sexton, no matter how hard I tried.

Holding my head high, I strut across the vast room, my red evening gown sweeping the floors, drawing people’s eyes.

Tailored to my body, the chiffon beauty features a one-shoulder neckline and a side slit revealing my leg up to my thigh.

I cut my way through the crowd, occasionally stopping to reconnect with many family friends.

Many of them seem genuinely surprised to see me here, confessing they’ve had a hard time recognizing me.

Most of them remember me as the teenage girl riding her bicycle up and down the cobblestone streets, joined at the hip with her best friend.

As the party unfolds and the guests gather around the tables, twirl on the dance floor, or discuss politics on the terrace, I snatch a glass of raspberry lemonade from a server’s tray and head outside.

Voices echo when I enter the hallway leading to the exit.

Lifting the bottom of my gown so I don’t drag it across the floor and clutching my glass so I don’t spill my drink, I walk to the exit door.

“Oh... I’m sorry,” I say, turning around without looking and bumping into a man’s hard body.

He pivots to me, grazing my arm with his elbow, and my glass jerks in my hand.

Horrified, I watch half of my drink spill onto his jacket.

“Oh...” I murmur apologetically, my voice genuinely lined with regret.

My eyes are trained on his tuxedo jacket, my fingers brushing off pinkish liquid beads from his sleeve.

He doesn’t move or say a word, prompting me to raise my eyes.

My gaze drifts up, an apology rolling off my lips, yet not fast enough before the air stops flowing into my lungs.

I halt mid-sentence, my words fading.

Our eyes lock, sharing a fierce stare.

“I’m sorry,” I mutter.

Ice-cold blood runs through my veins as I soak in the perfect fit of his tuxedo, his handsome face, and the raven hair sliding over his crisp white collar.

Against my better judgment, I shift my eyes to the pretty brunette at his side.

She studies me as well, her blue eyes filled with curiosity.

She’s not much older than me, the thought creating a twister of rage in my chest.

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