Free The Sinner by Tess Gerritsen Page A

the body of Camille Maginnes, lying on the table.
“But
. . . she was a nun.”
    “Yes,” said Maura. “And she’s recently given
birth.”
----
     
F IVE
    I T WAS SNOWING again when Maura stepped out of the
building
that afternoon, soft, lacy flakes that fluttered like white moths, to light
gently
on the parked cars. Today she was prepared for the weather, and had worn ankle
boots
with rugged soles. Even so, she was cautious as she walked across the parking
lot,
her boots slipping on the snow-dusted ice, her body braced for a fall. When she
finally
reached her car, she released a sigh of relief, and dug in her purse for her
keys.
Distracted by the search, she paid scant attention to the thud of a nearby car
door
slamming shut. Only when she heard the footsteps did she turn to face the man
who
was now approaching her. He came to within a few paces and stopped, not saying
anything.
Just stood looking at her, his hands tucked in the pockets of his leather
jacket.
Falling snowflakes settled on his blond hair, and clung to his neatly trimmed
beard.
    He looked at her Lexus and said, “I figured the black one
would
be yours. You’re always in black. Always walking on the dark side. And who
else
keeps a car that neat?”
    She finally found her voice. It came out hoarse. A
stranger’s.
“What are you doing here, Victor?”
    “It seemed like the only way I could finally see you.”
    “Ambushing me in the parking lot?”
    “Is that what it feels like?”
    “You’ve been sitting out here, waiting for me. I’d
call
that an ambush.”
    “You didn’t leave me much choice. You weren’t
returning
any of my calls.”
    “I haven’t had the chance.”
    “You never sent me your new phone number.”
    “You never asked.”
    He glanced up at the snow, fluttering down like confetti, and
sighed.
“Well. This is like old times, isn’t it?”
    “Too much like old times.” She turned to her car and
pressed
the key remote. The lock snapped open.
    “Don’t you want to know why I’m here?”
    “I need to get going.”
    “I fly all the way to Boston, and you don’t even ask
why.”
    “All right.” She looked at him. “Why?”
    “Three years, Maura.” He stepped closer, and she caught
his
scent. Leather and soap. Snow melting on warm skin. Three years, she thought,
and
he’s hardly changed. The same boyish tilt of his head, the same laugh lines
around his eyes. And even in December, his hair looked sun-bleached, not
artificial
highlights from a bottle, but honest blond streaks from hours spent outdoors.
Victor
Banks seemed to radiate his own gravitational force, and she was just as
susceptible
to it as everyone else. She felt the old pull drawing her toward him.
    “Haven’t you wondered, just once, if it was a
mistake?”
he asked.
    “The divorce? Or the marriage?”
    “Isn’t it obvious which one I’m talking about?
Since
I’m standing here talking to you.”
    “You waited a long time to tell me.” She turned back to
her
car.
    “You haven’t remarried.”
    She paused. Looked back at him. “Have you?”
    “No.”
    “Then I guess we’re both equally hard to live
with.”
    “You didn’t stay around long enough to find out.”
    She laughed. A bitter, distasteful sound in that white silence.
“You
were the one who was always heading for the airport. Always running off to save
the
world.”
    “I’m not the one who ran from the marriage.”
    “I’m not the one who had the affair.” She turned
and
yanked open the car door.
    “Goddamn it, can you just wait? Listen to me.”
    His hand closed around her arm, and she was startled by the anger
she
felt transmitted in that grasp. She stared at him, a cold look that told him he
had
gone too far.
    He released her arm. “I’m sorry. Jesus, this isn’t
the
way I wanted it to go.”
    “What were you expecting?”
    “That there’d be something left between us.”
    And there was, she thought. There was too much, and that’s
why
she couldn’t let this