Free One Deadly Sin by Annie Solomon Page A

didn’t look like the studious type. In fact, he had trouble imagining her sitting still long enough to get any use out of a library.
    Miranda tugged at his shirt. “Can I get a real one?”
    “A real one what?”
    “A fattoo!” The tone implying her father was not all there.
    “Oh, sure.”
    Her face lit up, and he hated to spoil that excitement, but hey, he was the dad. It was his job. “Some day,” he added.
    She pouted. “When?”
    “When you’re older.”
    “How old?”
    “Thank God you came home,” Mimsy said. “I’ve been running around those questions all day.”
    “How old?” Miranda repeated.
    “When you’re old enough, I’ll let you know.” Holt swept her up. “Come on, you.” He took her upstairs and put her to bed.
    Covered in a comforter with pink doodads over it, she looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes. “Maybe I can get a flower,” she said.
    He grinned. She was nothing if not persistent. “We’ll see.”
    He closed her door and went across the hall. When he moved back to Redbud, he’d been a mess. No job, no desire to get one. His parents had taken him in and he was too tired to protest or do anything else. In fact, their kindness had been a welcome relief.
    But he couldn’t bear going back to his old room, so he gave that to Miranda, and Mimsy had transformed it, burying his boyhood under a weight of pink ruffles and lace. Now, he bunked in what used to be the spare room, a narrow compartment that Great-aunt Ida used to sleep in when she came to visit. Far from lavish, it was clean and utilitarian, and suited him fine. He hadn’t added much to it in the five years since he’d been back. In the beginning that had been a hedge against making the room and the move permanent. But it had become permanent. He’d planted his feet and they’d stuck.
    He opened his laptop. Spent a couple of hours searching for places to purchase black angels. Found a gothic clothing store, a 1946 movie, a rock group, but no retailers. Which meant he wouldn’t be able to trace the things through the net. That only left the rest of the wide-open universe.
    At a momentary dead end, he tramped downstairs to the den, where his father was ensconced on the couch across from the TV. Holt paused in the doorway, taking in the room.
    Like the kitchen, the den was worn and lived in. Old basketball trophies and plaques still decorated the bookshelves along with pictures that swept the realm of his life. His own high school yearbook picture where he looked impossibly young and goofy. Prom night with Cindy. Their wedding, her smile sweet and gentle and happy. And Miranda. A red-faced infant. A toddler with him and Cindy. And then… with just him. There were pictures of his parents’ life, too. James and Mimsy on a cruise. At the foot of the Eiffel Tower. In front of a tent in the Smokies. It was all a jumble, one on top of the other. But the pictures never changed. Just like home was always home.
    It was precious. Even more so after today. Holt had seen his share of violent death, but it never went down easy. The images of the day circulated inside his head—the blue sheen of Dennis Runkle’s vanity car crunched and scraped raw. His body, crushed and bloody. In case Holt ever forgot how fragile we all were. How fast everything could be taken away. How vital it was to hold on to what was important.
    He wondered what his dad would have done if Mimsy had died before she turned thirty, leaving him with a year-old baby. Would he have slunk back to his parents’ home?
    Wouldn’t have been an option. His father’s parents were long gone by the time James Drennen had married and fathered a son. He’d started with nothing and made a good life for his family. Holt was proud of that.
    Now James sat on the sofa staring at what should have been the Braves game. Instead, a diamond ring circled in close-up on the muted screen.
    “Thinking of adding to your jewelry collection?” Holt strolled in and sat beside his