Sinnerman (19 page)

“Have you tried to get in touch with him—to find him?”

She nodded.

“And?” I said.

“I have no idea where he is. Have you ever tried to find someone who doesn’t want to be found?”

I had and what I’d learned was that no matter how hard someone tried to hide, there was always a trail.

“Couldn’t you track him through his bank account, credit cards, that type of thing?” I said.

“He cashed it out.”

“All of it?” I said.

“Every penny.”

I had the feeling there was a lot more to the story, and I wasn’t about to leave before I found out what it was.

“Why did your grandson want to leave so bad?” I said.

She shook her head.

“I’m sorry, I can’t. Even after all this time…it’s just too hard.”

It was time for the sympathy vote, but I didn’t have the heart to tell her about my suspicions.

“You asked me before why I was here,” I said.

She nodded.

“I’m looking for your grandson.”

“Why?”

“I think he knew my sister,” I said. “In fact, I believe he might have been the last one to see her alive.”

Giovanni and Decklan appeared at the door.

“What are you two talking about?” Decklan said.

I gave Giovanni the I-need-more-time look and hoped he grasped my meaning. He did.

“I’d love to see the rest of this magnificent house,” he said to Decklan.

Decklan’s house paled in comparison to Giovanni’s, but Decklan took the bait, which was all that mattered. When they were safely out of sight, Decklan’s mother grabbed my arm.

“Is your sister—”

“Yes,” I said.

“How long ago did she pass away?”

“A few years.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Me too.” I said. “I hope you can see now why I need to find him.”

“How are you so sure the man you’re looking for is my grandson?”

“Because he wrote me a note on that piece of paper I showed you, and I believe his mother’s art studio was the only place around that used it.”

“I see.”

“What made him leave?” I said.

She sighed and then breathed in and exhaled with force, like she was prepared to give a long speech.

“Decklan had a hard time after Laurel left. He didn’t sleep, he didn’t eat. All he thought about was her. And you need to understand that every time he looked at my grandson, he saw Laurel staring back at him. It pained him to even talk to the child. At first, he just distanced himself from him, but after a while, just to have him around was more than he could bear.”

“So he ignored him—his own son?”

She hung her head like she’d just been disgraced in public.

“He sent him away.”

“Where, at what age?”

“To an all-boy school about three months after his mother left, and when he came back, he was like a different person.”

“In what way?” I said.

“He had fits of rage and night terrors. He’d wake up at all hours and scream for his mother. This went on for years. He was so angry.”

“How did Decklan react?”

“He didn’t know what to do. I’m sure he loved the boy, but you have to understand, he’s never had a high tolerance for that type of behavior.”

That type of behavior? I couldn’t believe she’d uttered those words. The child lost his mother. How could his father expect anything less?

“And he was violent,” she said. “The older he got, the worse it was, and it escalated to the point that he went after Decklan one night with a knife.”

“Was he hurt?” I said.

She shook her head.

“It was more rage than anything. He thought his father hated him, and by then—well, he pretty much assumed his mother felt the same way too. All those years and he never heard a word from her. But the night he got physical with the knife—well, that was the last straw for Decklan.”

“How old was your grandson when this all happened?” I said.

“Sixteen. Decklan gave him some money and said he’d pay for him to have a place of his own and all of his expenses, on one condition.”

“Which was?”

“He left and never came back.”

The entire story was unreal, and I felt like I was in an episode of The Twilight Zone. I couldn’t believe a father could do that to his own son.

“And did he—leave I mean?”

She nodded.

“I kept in touch with him and visited him at the place his father set up for him, and I begged Decklan to take him back. He needed his father. But both of them were too proud to even speak to the other. And that’s how I lost him.”

“What happened to his hand?” I said.

“Burned himself on the stove when he was a little boy. He used to light things on fire over the burner. When I asked him about it he said he liked to watch things melt down into ash. It drove his father crazy, but he still did it whenever he wasn’t around. And then one day it got out of control, and when he tried to put it out, he lit his own hand on fire.”

“Where was Decklan during all this?”

“I’m embarrassed to say the boy was home alone, but I didn’t live here then. He called 9-1-1 himself and was taken to the hospital. By the time Decklan arrived, child services had arrived. I thought they would take him, and I was relieved when they didn’t. Sometimes I wonder if he might have been better off if they did.”

I went to close the photo album and return it to its rightful place when I noticed a pocket attached to the back cover. A picture protruded from it. I pulled it out and stared into the face of a young, brunette woman.

“That’s her,” the woman said.

“Laurel?” I said.

She nodded.

Laurel looked a lot like Sinnerman’s victims. Dark hair, dark eyes, slender, same age group—I was astonished.

“I appreciate you taking the time to talk to me,” I said.

“I don’t know how any of this helps you, but if you do find my Samuel, will you tell him how much I’ve missed him all these years? It would mean everything to me if I could see him again.”

There were a couple of things that stood out most in our conversation. Sinnerman strangled his victims with most of his force applied with his right hand. The left was weak and made strange looking imprints on the bodies. The burns from the stove made sense. And then there was the comment about him being able to shoot at a target with impeccable accuracy.

I thanked her again and then asked if I could use the restroom before I left. I’d seen what appeared to be the corner of a notebook stowed away under the dust ruffle of the bed. Once she exited the bedroom I went back in, snatched it and plunged it into my bag. As I left the room, I looked back at the picture of the child with the fish on the dresser, but I no longer saw an innocent little boy—I saw the face of a killer.

We reached the car and Decklan waved farewell to Giovanni, his newfound friend, and then went around to the side of the house and gazed at the monstrosity of daisies in his flower bed.

I turned to Giovanni and said, “I’ll be right back, okay?”

“Do you want me to accompany you?”

I shook my head.

“I need a moment alone with Decklan.”

I tossed my handbag in the car and shut the door and made my way over to him.

“I just want you to know that you disgust me,” I said.

Decklan turned around with a dumfounded look on his face and then turned to the left and then the right like he thought my words were meant for someone else.

“Excuse me?”

“Why did you turn your back on your son?” I said. “After all he’d been through with the loss of his mother, I’d love for you to explain to me how a person justifies doing that.”

“You’re out of line.”

“Of the two of us, Mr. Reids, I assure you the only person out of line here is you—the out-of-the-ballpark-and-never-going-to-return kind of out.”

“You don’t understand, my son was—”

“Torn up when his mother left, I know,” I said. “So were you. That doesn’t give you the right to shun him.”

“It was so much more than that. You could never understand.”

“He was angry, hurt, frustrated, and he needed help. What’s not to get? And you could have got him the help he needed, but instead you chose to abandon him, and for that I hold you responsible.”

“For what? I don’t know what kind of stories my mother has filled your head with, but Samuel made his own choice to disassociate from this family. He was more than happy to do so. It was what he wanted.”

“And what about you?” I said. “It’s easy to shift the blame to your son, but you’re the one who asked him to leave and never to come back.”

“It was his decision, and he made it.”

“You talk about it like you gave him a choice. Cut the crap Mr. Reids. We both know you didn’t.”

Decklan plunged the hoe he held in his hand deep into the terra firma with great force and then said, “Enough! How dare you come to my home and assume to know anything.”

“You have no idea,” I said. “Not the first clue about the man your son is today.”

Decklan took three steps toward me and in doing so violated my inner circle of trust. A circle he wasn’t in, not by a long shot, and before I knew it he’d lifted his hand in the air and that’s all it took for Giovanni. He was out of the car and by my side in a flash.

“Back up out of my face,” I said.

“Or what?”

Decklan turned to Giovanni. “You need to get a handle on your woman.”

I still had a lot to learn about Giovanni, but one thing I knew without a doubt was that no one spoke to him that way and got away with it. I held my hand out to Giovanni to indicate I still had more welled up inside me that needed to come out. He grimaced but remained by my side in silence.

I turned to Decklan. “You won’t understand this right now, but one day you will—I blame your son for his actions—there’s no excuse for the person he’s allowed himself to become. But you, Mr. Reids, will someday have to own your part in all of it. You weren’t there when he needed you most, and whether you realize that now or later, at some point you’ll never be able to forgive yourself.”

Decklan stood still with his jaw propped open wide enough for a little bird to fly in and forge a nest. He wanted to say something, but there were no words. All he managed was a pathetic, “Get off my lawn.”

Weak.

“And now I need a moment,” Giovanni said.

“Let’s just go,” I said.

Giovanni put his hand on my shoulder. “Sloane, I’ll meet you at the car.”

I thought about fighting it, but I knew he’d given me my moment to shine and he deserved to have his if he wanted it, though I couldn’t imagine what more needed to be said.

On my way back to the car, Giovanni sounded off in the distance. I didn’t hear all of what he said, but it started something like: “If you ever come at her like that again, I’ll…” and that got me wondering what I missed after that. I’ll break your fingers…I’ll string you up and dangle you from the edge of the top of a hotel? Or maybe it was something more gangster like he’d bust a cap in his ass. Was that the way gangsters threatened people, and did they even talk like that? All I knew was that I had a protective guard dog that allowed me to do whatever I wanted, and since we’d met, he’d always been there to back me up. I liked my independence, but I couldn’t deny the fact that it was nice to feel protected at the same time. Woof.

Sam Reids sat on a somewhat gnarled but thick wooden branch of a tree in his yard; a yard that was one street over from Decklan Reids house. Through his binoculars he watched Sloane scold his father and then some strange man he’d never seen before follow suit. The strange man angered him. He stood close to Sloane. Too close.

Sam’s attempt to control his emotions had subsided about an hour earlier when Sloane entered his childhood home and then his room. He hadn’t foreseen her level of commitment or what Decklan and his grandmother would tell her about who he was and what had become of him. It didn’t matter. What could they possibly know?

Sam felt like he should care, but he didn’t. There was just one thing that mattered to him now: Sloane. They could say whatever they wanted. If his own father was too stupid to recognize him when he drove by in his car day after day, Sam was sure any information he offered wouldn’t make the least bit of difference, and they wouldn’t be able to track down his whereabouts. It wasn’t like they’d ever tried anyway. Sam recalled the time he rolled by Decklan on a side street and Decklan actually waved a friendly hello to his neighbor, all the while being too stupid to recognize that neighbor was his own son. It had been over two decades, of course, but just for a split second Sam thought Decklan would be able to identify him for who he was—his son. Except now Sam didn’t see himself like that at all anymore. He wasn’t his son, he was Sam, and his father wasn’t his father—Sam called him by many names; one of them, Decklan.

Sam purchased the home on the next street when he learned his grandmother moved in with Decklan. She was frail, and there wasn’t much life left in her now, and she needed someone to help look after her. Not that Decklan was ever good at that. Sam was sure it was the other way around and that her moving in would take years from her life instead of adding to them. He watched her sit on his bed for hours and pour over his old photo album. Sometimes she would cry and clutch the album tight to her heart. He liked to see her distraught and unhappy. At least someone missed him.

Today was the first time Sam felt different about his grandmother. He watched her sit and spill her guts to Sloane and was desperate to know what she’d said. He didn’t like the way it made him feel—like he’d cut himself at a crime scene and left splotches of blood behind. He tried not to panic when Sloane slipped back into his room when no one was looking and stole away his old notebook—the one he wished he hadn’t left behind. It hadn’t mattered until now. No one seemed to notice it was even there. And now Sloane had come along and abducted it from its place of eternal rest. It was unforgivable that she defiled him that way. Those were his private thoughts, the ones no one else should ever see, and she needed to be punished.