Free The Sinner by Amanda Stevens

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