Page 10 of Sinners Atone
Her secret bobs in her throat and rolls over her tongue. It passes her teeth, then dies on her lips.
Her gaze slides upward, following the sound of a slow-moving roar. It draws closer, ruffling her hair and fluttering her wings.
She leaps to her feet and starts to scream.
For the briefest of moments, I think it’s God coming to get her. I glare at the sky and consider the consequences of stealing from Him. Then the chopper cuts across my eye line and amusement bleeds through me.
It’s not God. It’s Denis.
FuckingDenis.
Rule nine: The Villain must learn that trust is a weakness, not an ally.
My father couldn’t have been more wrong.
The girl drops to her knees, relief pouring out of her like a sunbeam. “See! I told you someone would pass by soon.”
The hands that grip me beneath my armpits are strong and familiar. But somehow, the hand curling around my bicep feels more inviting.
“Wait,” she yells, over the whir of the blades. “I didn’t get your name!”
For the first time since Mama died, all three syllables bubble up my throat. “Gabriel.”
She shields her eyes with her hands and smiles. “Gabriel, like the angel?”
I laugh. She laughs. “I’m Wren.”
Wren.
Denis drags me backward, and that familiar piano run bursts into my ear again. This time, at max volume. Wren grows smaller and smaller, the gold aura around her burning away the dark.
I watch her through the window. Even when the doors slam shut. Even when Denis rips away at the fabric stuck to my torso. Even when the ground disappears beneath us and she becomes a pink speck of light, I can’t take my eyes off her.
Wren.
Her name carves into my heart and etches into my skin. I hope the Devil allows keepsakes in hell, because fuck, I’m taking it with me.
We climb above the treetops, and she disappears from view. The earbud crackles with static until “Dancing Queen”comes to an abrupt stop mid-lyric.
The roar of the wind. The low hum of urgency.
And then my father’s voice.
Rule ten: The Villain never ever gets the girl.
The sweet promise of a happy ever after paints the club a perfect shade of pink. It stains my cheeks, colors my mood, chasing me into the elevator and clinging to my coat as I burst out of the entryway and under the veranda.
Then my cell buzzes in my coat pocket, and the night fades back to black.
No.
No, no, no.
I fold in half under a heat lamp. My SOS bag slips off my shoulder as my clutch slides from under my arm, and both drop to the concrete with a heavy thud. Why is the punch to my gut always so violent? It’s been three years. Daily, for three years, and I still haven’t figured out how to soften the blow.
It takes a few seconds for the sting to die and common sense to take its place. Then I straighten my back, smooth down the faux fur of my coat, and walk to the edge of the veranda, where the lamp’s orange glow bleeds into the never-ending night.
An ice-cold inhale soothes my lungs and relaxes my shoulders.
