Page 74 of Sinners Atone
As I reach the top of the stairs, I freeze at the sight of a figure climbing them. It’s tall and broad but far too smooth around the edges, and when a glint of gold winks beneath the moonbeam coming through the entryway window, my heartbeat resumes its regular pace.
“Ah, it’s the lovely Wren.” Rafe’s warm voice rises toward me. He retreats to the bottom step and stands aside. “After you. It’s bad luck to cross on the stairs.”
He watches me descend, amusement curving his mouth at the sight of my robe. “Sleepover?”
“Kind of. We’re on a make-believe honeymoon in Fiji.”
“Ah,” he says, glancing at the sheet of rain on the other side of the window. “I trust you’ve remembered your sunscreen?”
“Of course. I don’t want to look fifty when I’m forty.”
His laugh is sheer silk. “I’ve no doubt you’ll be the most glamorous fifty-year-old on the beach.”
I beam up at him. “Oh, and congratulations on the new casino, by the way. I can’t believe it’s on a yacht!”
He dips his head in acknowledgment. “Thank you. Stop by anytime, we have the freshest lemonade on the Pacific,” he says, green eyes twinkling.
We bid each other good night, but when he’s halfway up the stairs, I remember something else.
“Hey, Rafe. I heard Penny is working for you, right?”
His shoulders form a tight line. After a beat, he slowly turns his head. “Who?”
“Penelope Price. You know, around my age, pretty short, red hair?—”
“I’ve no idea who you’re talking about.”
I blink at the sharpness of his tone.
“Um, I guess you hire hundreds of girls, so…” I shift my weight from one foot to the other. “Well, anyway. If you happen to see her, please tell her?—”
My mouth falls slack when he takes the steps two at a time and disappears around a corner, then a door slams shut.
“To stop by The Rusty Anchor for our girls night,” I mutter to myself.
Weird.
I brush it off and continue exploring the house in an aimless drift. I pass locked doors, descend more stairs, and marvel at how Rory navigates this place without a map.
As I move from room to room, flinching at every shadowy corner and feeling mildly disappointed when it’s empty, I realize I need to get on the other side of the office door.
I know—I’ll make brownies. Everyone answers the door for brownies.
Pumped by my bright idea, I find myself under the bright lights of the kitchen. I poke around in the four-door fridge and peer inside cupboards. I get distracted by the fancy coffee maker sitting on the center island and pull my cell from my robe pocket to Google the price of it.
As I gawp at the five-figure price tag, a notification pops up at the top of the screen. Absentmindedly, I click on it.
Dear User 3569,
Your edit has been rejected.
The kitchen spins in a blur of chrome and marble. My blood heats, and my heart pumps it around my body so fast itwhooshesin my ears.
The midnight email is always bad, but it’s worse on the nights I’m not watching the clock. The nights when it hits me sidewaysinstead of head-on, where I can at least see it coming and brace myself for the impact.
I fear she was right.
She always was, and maybe good deeds and a big heart won’t change it. Law school probably won’t either. Those five words, thirty-five characters including spaces, are stitched together with an iron thread, forming a sentence as long as hers. The full stop at the end of it is etched into my DNA, and each midnight email only deepens the scar.
