Page 38 of Sinners Atone
He takes a small step to the left, and my eyes move with him. A muscle puckers in his jaw as he glares into the treeline on the other side of the lake, then lifts his beefy fist to his mouth. He mutters something so quietly even Rafe doesn’t notice.
What else?
Well, back in Seattle when the nights were long and loud, I never slept. I’d bury my head under the covers and watch an endless stream ofYouTubevideos on my iPad at full volume. Usually makeup tutorials and Sephora hauls, but since my mother wasn’t the type to care about silly little things like parental controls, I once happened across a true crimedocumentary. It was about this serial killer: a fat, smelly trucker who got his kicks from picking up prostitutes and strangling them in the back of his cab. The host interviewed a sex worker who narrowly missed his wrath, and it was all because she’d learned how to spot a psychopath with one simple trick.
She’d yawned.
He hadn’t yawned back.
Apparently, normal people will yawn in response to being yawned at because they have empathy, so a true, cold-blooded psychopath won’t.
Gabriel shifts his attention from the treeline to the vast open space between Tayce and me. His shoulders tense and his gaze slowly drops to meet mine.
Panic steamrolls over my lungs and stomach. Survival instinct tells me to look away again, but the simmering irritation in his eyes is paralyzing.
Maybe I should smile.
No, definitely not. He’ll probably cut my lips off.
Before I can stop myself, I open my mouth wide, and a long, silent yawn stretches the back of my throat. It comes easier than expected since I’m so damn tired.
“Jesus, Wren, that’s so fucking rude,” Tayce hisses beside me, but she sounds a million miles away, and Gabriel just scowls at me. He doesn’t yawn back.
He. Doesn’t. Yawn. Back.
Oh my God, he really is a psychopath.
The world spins clockwise, and my brain turns in the other direction. The wind blows hot, burning my face like the brush of death. I’ve stared it in the face on a dark road, stuck my tongue out at it across a club, and pleaded with it in the reflection of my front door window. Now, it stands across the aisle from me, and I can’t breathe.
“Tayce,” I bite out, blindly reaching out to grab her arm. “Tayce, there’s something I need to tell you?—”
“Shhh, they’re exchanging rings!”
“But it can’t wait, we need to warn Rory?—”
“Wren.” The sharpness of Tayce’s tone slices through my panic, so I turn my head and stare at Angelo and Rory. My vision swims and diamond rings glint. I slip my hand into Tayce’s and squeeze it like a lifeline.
This will be a long day.
The day has faded into a star-filled night, and love warms the air. It’s electric, with fizzes in champagne flutes, echoes in laughter, and clicks under designer heels and shiny loafers. My skin is alight with its magic, my heartbeat dictated by the brass band floating in the candle-lit lake.
Sigh.
Ilove,love. Even more so when it looks like one of my Pinterest boards. I’m high on it, drunk on it, and despite my earlier meltdown, not even the black hole looming by the bar can sober me up.
The band breaks into a Whitney song, and though I always “Wanna Dance with Somebody,” I need a respite. Not breaking in these heels before the wedding was a rookie mistake.
I spot Matt at an empty table, hobble over, and flop down on a chair opposite.
“Are you still sulking?”
He sinks a shot, then slams it on the table so hard the other empty shot glasses shake.
All seven of them.
“I’m not sulking. I’m thinking.”
“About what?”
