Page 8 of When Sinners Fear

I stand at that and collect all the guns up, not ready for any feelings associated with that conversation. “No. I’ve got to go now.”

“Where?”

“Home. And then out to some more meetings.”

“What about?”

Placing the guns back in the car, I turn to look back at her. “Why?”

“What?”

“Why do you want to know where I’m going and what I’m doing?”

“Cut the conspiracy bullshit, Knox. I was only asking. I wondered if you were doing anything nice with your evening.”

Nice. My evenings don’t involve anything nice. “No. Just work.” Walking past her, I get in the car and drop the window. “You go first. I’ll follow you out.”

She nods. “Thanks for this. I had fun.” And then she’s backing away from me and smiling, until she’s in her car and we’re both powering out through the wasteland back towards responsibilities and obligations. Not that she really has any other than a whorehouse and the building of another. Me, on the other hand, I’ve got four sets of accounts to run through, a strip club to visit, and a meeting with Carmen to look over the new intake. I might fuck something while I’m there. If there’s one that looks as virginal as I’m after.

CHAPTER FOUR

PEYTON

“Who was the guy you were talking to?” Evie bounces up to me as I close the door behind me.

My face blushes at the mention of Knox. Of course, my little sister noticed. As my mouth opens to answer her, we’re interrupted.

“Evie, leave your sister. Help your mother,” Father bellows from the den. Her face drops, and I nod, encouraging her to do as she’s told.

She turns and heads to the den, and a few moments later, she comes out, escorting Mother to the bottom of the stairs and then, tediously, up each of the steps, one by one.

I stand and watch the slow process, my heart hurting for the pain and burden to Evie and the diminishing dignity the disease is affording my mom.

“I’ll get dinner started,” I mutter, mainly to inform my father that I’m pulling my weight, but also in the hope that I’ll avoid the inquisition regarding my conversation at church. Talking to a man doesn’t happen to me often, not a stranger, at least. Maybe a few polite hellos, but anything more is abnormal.

“What are you making?”

Seems he heard. “Roast chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans.”

“Are you going to do that cornbread your brother likes?” He’s still calling from his seat in the den.

I take a breath. I’ve made that cornbread every week since I’ve been back. It’s not Matthew who loves it; it’s him. Why he can’t come out and ask is a mystery.

“Sure.” I walk through the house to the kitchen, grab the apron off the hook on the back of the door and tie the strings around my waist.

The kitchen has been the cornerstone of my return – the setting to ensure the family remains well provided for. Fortunately, Mother’s recipe books are simple enough to follow. There are no complicated equations or problems to solve. Although, why, when I follow all the same steps that my mother has included, my food often lacks the same level of taste, and thus joy, that I remember from eating the same meals remains a mystery. I suppose I still have to learn some secrets about what makes a good cook, as my endeavours have been satisfactory at best.

My scholarship to Caltech meant that most of my needs were provided for when I moved away. Room, board and tuition were covered, and because I had to stay at home for my undergraduate degree, my college fund went a lot further than any of us expected. With some careful calculations and a small investment, I’ve been able to live off what they had put aside for me when I moved out to California, but cooking wasn’t a skill I’d mastered before I left. Chores in the Summers’ household focused on tidying and cleaning, as Mom took so much happiness from cooking. Another part of her that her disease has stripped away.

I grab the bag of potatoes from the pantry and set about scrubbing and peeling them. My mind doesn’t play over the usual theories that get me through the mundane task. Instead, I’m picturing Knox and the fine suit he wore, the watch on his wrist and our conversation, or more specifically, his interest in me. Someone like him doesn’t usually talk with someone like me. The close group of friends I made through my studies all have similar traits to me – a type. Introverted, focused, diligent in our academic pursuits and unaffected by material possessions. Knox seems to belong to another group entirely. Wise, confident, good-looking, smart, and clearly not short of money.

My funds have lasted me well, but with Mom’s medical bills and lack of income, my remaining money is put toward the household bills. Assessing the financial state, I’ve made arrangements with the university to help in the faculty with a paid teaching assistant role. It wasn’t going to be academically challenging, but it will allow me some flexibility, the time to work on my research and a chance to earn what I needed to support myself. It all depends on how long I’m here for.

Now, with my money almost obsolete, I’ll have to consider a local job in the next few weeks. Maybe even extend the term I’d already agreed to be away for. One option would be to go back to the faculty at St Mary’s University and ask if there’s a paid position there.

Reviewing the costs and expenses coming in and piling up on my father’s desk, the savings set aside for Matthew and Evie’s college education are already supplementing Father’s income. It’s unfair that I’ve been afforded to coast while their future education will be jeopardised. Something I’d have acted on earlier if I’d known.

I shake the circumstances out of my head and focus on the job at hand. Potatoes and roast chicken.

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