The Sinner. Amanda Stevens

Darius Goodwine from the police.

      I still couldn’t say with any certainty that he had returned from Africa. It was just as likely he’d found a way inside my head, even across all those miles and an ocean, but regardless of his physical location, his presence worried me. Why had he come back into my life now and what was his relationship to the dead woman?

      I wondered what Detective Kendrick would say if I told him all that had transpired in the cemetery—or inside my head—before his arrival.

      His expression remained neutral despite the gleam of curiosity in his eyes. Before he had a chance to question me further, his phone rang and he put up a finger to pause our conversation. Lifting the unit to his ear, he listened for a moment and then answered in clipped monosyllables. During this brief exchange, his gaze never left me. I found myself growing more and more discomfited by that stare. I wanted to believe it unintentional. Maybe his concentration was so focused on the call that he’d forgotten my presence. But I had a feeling Detective Kendrick knew exactly what he was doing. He was like Devlin, in that respect. He knew how to unsettle.

      I dropped my gaze to the gravestone.

      “Sorry for the interruption,” he said, slipping the phone back in his pocket. “You were saying?”

      “It wasn’t important.”

      “Are you sure? There must be a reason you asked if I’d seen anyone else in the cemetery just now.”

      I shrugged, still trying to retain an air of detachment as I wiped a trickle of sweat from my brow. “Like I said, I thought I heard something, but now that I think back, I’m certain it was just voices carrying up through the woods from the search.”

      I had no idea if he bought the explanation or not. He looked a little dubious as he waited for me to start down the path. I took my cue, weaving my way along the overgrown trail as the sun poured down hot and bright on the headstones. The cottonwood trees beckoned. As we neared the main gate, the carpet of yellow cosmos and coreopsis gave way to delicate patches of blue forget-me-nots and pools of silvery green moss.

      For a moment, time stood still as a wave of longing washed over me. How many summer days had I spent sequestered behind cemetery walls, lost in a daydream or in the pages of one of my favorite books? Those early years with Mama and Papa had seemed like such an innocent time, peaceful and perfect, but my naiveté had withered all too soon. My protected world had come crumbling down long before my gift had evolved into something far more frightening than that of ghost-seer. Long before I had followed my great-grandmother’s clues to Kroll Cemetery. Before Devlin had decided that my susceptibility to the unnatural world made me an unsuitable companion for someone like him.

      I shook off the smothering melancholia as I moved up under the trees. The shade was deep and cool and I closed my eyes for a moment, dispelling the loneliness left by Devlin’s departure and the foreboding that had accompanied Darius Goodwine’s arrival.

      Kendrick watched me warily. I offered him a bottle of water from the cooler, but he declined. I fished one out for myself and then sat down on top of the chest, lifting the icy bottle to the back of my neck.

      “You wanted to talk to me.” Twisting off the plastic cap, I drank deeply.

      “Yes, but it can wait. Just sit there for a moment until you feel better.”

      I nodded absently, my gaze moving over the vehicles I could see through the fence. I counted three squad cars and an unmarked SUV that I suspected belonged to Detective Kendrick. A vehicle like that would suit him, I decided. Stealthy, mysterious and more than a little menacing.

      As I sat there staring out at the road, a white sedan pulled up alongside the entrance and the elderly driver craned his neck for a look inside the gate. No doubt one of the gawkers Kendrick had warned me about the day before. I was still surprised that more hadn’t come. Murder and mayhem were common attractions. People who led otherwise mundane lives often found crime scenes irresistible.

      The driver’s window lowered as the car inched along. A snowy-haired woman in the passenger seat leaned across the console toward her husband in order to get a better look. When the man spotted us beneath the trees, he stopped the car and got out. Putting up a hand to shade his eyes, he walked through the gate and called out to us. “Hello! We saw the police cars and wondered what happened.”

      “There’s nothing to see here.” Kendrick gave a dismissive wave. “Just go on about your business.”

      “Young man, we have people buried in this cemetery,” the woman scolded from the open car window. “If something happened here, it is our business.”

      “Nothing happened in the cemetery,” Kendrick said. “Now get back in your car and move along. You’re blocking the road.”

      His harsh admonishment drew twin scowls of disapproval and embarrassment from the couple. The man hustled back to the car and climbed in, grumbling furiously to his wife before shooting Kendrick a contemptuous glare. Then he put the car in gear and drove off.

      “Don’t you think you were a bit hard on them?” I asked. “You said yourself the curious would come.”

      “They always do. Predictable as clockwork.”

      “I would think predictability an asset in your line of work.”

      “Depends on your perspective,” he said with a shrug. “When you’ve done what I do long enough, it all starts to seem depressingly the same. Even the victims. Predictability becomes less of an asset and more of an albatross. It’s wearing.”

      “Do you really have that much crime in Ascension?” I asked. “It seems like such a sleepy town.”

      “I haven’t always lived in Ascension. But human nature is basically the same wherever you go.”

      “I understand your point, but I find it difficult to imagine a world in which a woman buried alive inside a caged grave could be considered predictable.”

      “As I said, it’s all about perspective.”

      I couldn’t tell if his viewpoint was that of a cynic, a sociopath or a little of both.

      I set the water bottle aside and leaned back on my hands as I gazed out over the cemetery. I saw nothing among the graves to indicate Darius Goodwine or anyone else had been there only moments earlier. The scent of ozone had faded and the storm clouds that darkened the landscape earlier had now moved back out to sea.

      Kendrick kept his distance, standing several feet away in profile, arms at his sides, feet slightly apart. As I studied his silhouette, I became overly aware of the curl of his long lashes, the slight arch of his dark brows. He’d discarded his jacket in the heat so that I couldn’t help but take in the definition of his forearms and biceps and the broad expanse of his chest beneath the dark gray of his shirt.

      I wasn’t attracted to Lucien Kendrick, although I could certainly appreciate his attractions. It took nothing away from my feelings for Devlin to admit this. Not that it mattered now that Devlin had removed himself from my life. I felt a pang at that thought and drew in a breath to dispel it.

      Kendrick looked up sharply and I felt my face warm as our gazes connected. His expression was hard to define, but the glint in his eyes made me remember yet again Darius Goodwine’s warning to trust no one.

      I stirred restlessly on the cooler. “Can I ask you a question?”

      He turned once again to watch the road. “What is it?”

      I picked up the water bottle, rolling it between my hands. “Your accent. It’s hardly discernible except for the way you pronounce certain words. I’m usually pretty good with dialects, but I haven’t been able to pinpoint it. You’ve a bit of the Sea Islands in certain inflections, but sometimes I would almost swear I hear the trace of a French accent in your vowels.”

      “That’s not a question,” he said.

      “Where are you from?”

      I