Читать книгу The Sinner - Amanda Stevens - Страница 12

Seven

I had only a few moments to speak with Detective Kendrick before he was called away on another case. I didn’t mention the memory of those flashing rubies. Until I knew if the image was real and what it might mean, I saw no need to draw more attention to myself. A stranger in town was an easy target for suspicion so I needed to be careful in my dealings with the police. My discovery of the body had already elicited a certain amount of curiosity, if not outright distrust, and I certainly didn’t want the killer to cast an eye in my direction. For now, it was in my best interest to remain on the periphery of Kendrick’s investigation.

I had intended on returning to the cemetery to finish the section of headstones I’d started that morning, but as I drove through town, the enticing aromas drifting out from the restaurants along Main Street reminded me that I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Normally, I would have stopped by the house for a quick bite or taken something back to the cemetery with me, but today I felt compelled to dine among the living. I parked the car, got out and walked over to the café where I’d eaten a few times since my arrival in Ascension.

As I paused to study the lunch menu taped to the plate-glass window, the reflection of the building across the street caught my eye. A large skeleton key had been painted on the window in gold leaf. I’d noticed it before and had always meant to stop in because the gilded key reminded me of the one I wore around my neck. I had no idea of the nature of the business. There was no other adornment on the window, no name or street number on the door.

As I returned my attention to the menu, a memory fluttered at the back of my mind. I saw again the flash of those ruby earrings as the sunlight caught them. I glimpsed the curlicue of that tattooed message as a slender hand lifted to open the glass door. And now something else came to me—behind that gilded key, a lurking silhouette inside the shop.

The memory...the image...whatever it was wavered for a moment and then vanished. I turned slowly toward the building, heart tripping at the implication. If those vague flickers could be trusted, then sometime before her death, the victim had visited that shop. She might even have gone there to meet the person who had waited inside. I tried to remember when I might have seen her. My last trip into town had been at least a week ago.

I stared long and hard at that gold key, hoping something else would stir, but the memory remained elusive. On impulse, I crossed the street and tried the door of the shop. It was locked and I could see very little of the interior when I peered through the window.

A narrow alley ran alongside the building and I followed it back to a wooden gate that stood wide open—an invitation. If the gate had been closed, I would never have entered. At least that’s what I told myself as I peered through the opening into a tiny courtyard.

A fountain splashed against colorful mosaics and a dozen or more pinwheels clicked in the hot breeze. There were any number of sculptures and yard decorations cluttering the small space, but what caught my attention, what brought a gasp to my lips, were the dozens of padlocks hanging from pegs hammered into the wooden fence. They instantly brought to mind my great-grandmother’s key collection, which had hung from the ceiling of her sanctuary for decades, waiting for me to come along and find them.

This couldn’t be a coincidence, I felt certain. Once again, I had been brought to a particular spot for a reason. I was meant to find this courtyard. I was meant to see all those locks. The sight so intrigued and puzzled me that I failed to register the sound of voices until it was almost too late. Someone was coming.

I backed into the alley and slipped behind the wooden gate. I had a perfect view of the courtyard between the fence pickets and it disturbed me more than a little that I no longer even tried to justify my eavesdropping. I could have easily scurried down the alleyway and out to the street, but I didn’t.

Instead, I waited breathlessly as a man and woman came out of the building and paused near the fountain to speak. I recognized the man at once. He was Martin Stark, the locksmith that Detective Kendrick had summoned to open the mortsafe. Now the locks on the fence and the painted key on the plate-glass window made sense. This was undoubtedly his place of business.

I could only see the woman’s profile, but I knew her, too. I’d met with Annalee Nash enough times now to be familiar with her features. She was tall and fit, but where an air of grit had lingered over the petite dead woman, Annalee’s wide eyes and heart-shaped face gave her a delicate, almost frail appearance. She wore jeans and a striped T-shirt that made her seem very young even though I knew her to be a few years older than me. As she stood there in dappled sunlight with the breeze tousling her short locks, I could easily imagine her as that ten-year-old catatonic girl covered in blood. As if she’d been rolling around in a puddle of gore.

I couldn’t make out anything of their conversation, but as Stark turned to go inside, Annalee caught his arm. When he whirled back around, I could have sworn I glimpsed fear in his eyes. He tugged his arm free and hurried away from her.

Something unpleasant prickled at the base of my spine as Annalee headed toward the gate. She seemed very different at that moment. The illusion of frailty and innocence vanished as a satisfied smile tugged at her lips.

As she neared the entrance, I tried to shrink more deeply into my hiding place. If she closed the gate, I would be exposed and I had no good reason for being there.

But she didn’t close the gate. She breezed through the opening and strode down the alley. I thought I was home free, but before she got to the street, she whirled back around. I couldn’t tell if she was trying to peer between the gate pickets or if she was looking for something inside the courtyard. For a split second, her gaze was so focused and intense I worried that she had spotted me.

I felt the crawl of something unpleasant at the back of my neck and the scutter of insect feet across my scalp. I imagined an infestation of Darius Goodwine’s corpse beetles in my hair and it was all I could do to remain still. I wanted nothing more than to run screaming into the sunlight, but I stood frozen, my gaze fixed on Annalee Nash.

She lifted a hand, fingering the curls at her nape, and the spidery sensation crept down my collar. I could feel those scurrying feet all up and down my spine now and inside the legs of my jeans. I told myself it wasn’t real. The bugs were merely a manifestation conjured by my own fear. But real or imagined, I couldn’t stay still for much longer. I had to get out of there. I had to...

Annalee’s fingers slid up into her hair and I could have sworn I saw her shudder before she turned and headed back to the street. I waited until she disappeared around the corner before leaving my hiding place. I shook out my hair and batted my clothing, but already the sensation had faded. There were no beetles, no scurrying feet, nothing but deepening dread that perhaps I had stumbled into something far beyond even my capabilities.

By the time I came out on the street, Annalee was gone. Which was just as well. I’d already taken too many risks. It was time to regain my perspective.

For all I knew, the meeting between Annalee and Stark had been perfectly innocent, but I couldn’t forget the fear in his eyes when she’d caught his arm. Or the way her lips had curled as she strode through the gate. I hoped I was reading too much into her demeanor. What I now knew about Annalee’s past had undoubtedly colored my perception, just as it had with the Willoughby house.

But the image of that sly smile lingered all afternoon as I cleaned headstones in Seven Gates Cemetery.