The Sinner - Molly O'Keefe Page 0,42

before the party.

Instead, they subbed an iron-and-steel piece of his that weighed a literal ton. The contractor, wasn’t informed until two nights before the event.

It was a small detail compared to the thousand bigger ones the men were handling leading up to the gala. It had been dealt with by assistants and subcontractors, and by the time word got to Matt it was too late.

The contractor, as he said in his deposition, had crossed his fingers and prayed. Clearly, it hadn’t worked.

Peter’s family hadn’t pressed charges against Matt, but the cleanup and recovery costs had bankrupted the contractor, who, even before taking on the Elements Building, had been having a tough year.

In the six months since the tragedy, Matt had opened a fund for Peter Borjat’s family. Given a few more hours, I’d probably be able to find out how much he’d donated.

I closed my computer. I didn’t want to feel this way about Matt. Sympathy, empathy, whatever this was, I didn’t want it.

It made my chest hurt.

Asking me about Katie’s father had been a low blow, but considering the depth and breadth of his guilt I would have done the same thing.

“Mom!” Katie cried from the bottom of the stairs. “Dinner!”

Ugh.

I twisted my hair up on my head in a sloppy bun. It was almost too hot to eat.

Rising reluctantly, I pulled on a clean tank top and changed from cutoffs to a light pink skirt. It wasn’t quite dressing for dinner, but at least Margot wouldn’t lecture me.

I met Katie at the bottom of the stairs.

“He’s here,” Katie said, with a scowl fit for any bad guy in the movies, which was a pretty good indicator of who he was. “Margot invited him.”

“Then we will be polite,” I said, rubbing a hand over Katie’s head. My little girl continued to scowl. “I don’t know why you’re so mad at him.”

“Because you are,” Katie said. “Or you were.”

“Let’s try to keep an open mind,” I said, tucking my arm around Katie and heading toward the dining room. Something that felt like excitement tingled along my skin.

It wasn’t the prospect of being close to Matt again. It was this mystery that was so thrilling. His grief was fascinating.

Yeah, I know. Morbid. Mean too, maybe. But the guy lied. Put his liar’s mouth all over me. I got to be mean in return.

I stepped into the dining room and he looked up from where he sat at Margot’s left.

My stupid heart hammered inside my chest.

His face was deeply tanned from working outside, except for small wrinkles and creases around his eyes that somehow made him more attractive. His hair had lightened from mahogany to oak and against all that tan skin his eyes were the brilliant color of spring grass.

“Hello, Savannah,” he said, his voice felt like his tongue licking my stomach.

“Matt,” I said and I smiled, briefly, awkwardly, to smooth my rough edges.

Katie stuck out her tongue.

“Don’t,” I said in my stern mommy voice, and Katie flounced to her seat at Margot’s right.

The atmosphere in the room was strange and volatile. Cold winds, warm breezes and a great dark cloud where Matt sat.

I had no clue how to make any of it better.

“Now,” Margot said, her smile wide and gracious. “Isn’t this nice.”

MATT

It was hell.

I could not take my eyes off Savannah. This version of her, slightly messy, almost undone—God, it was such a surprise. Such a turn-on.

I felt like a fourteen-year-old boy. And, even in my exhausted state, my body was reacting like a fourteen-year-old’s and I wanted to dump the cold Thai noodle salad right into my lap.

“Are you enjoying the dinner, Matt?” Margot asked.

“It’s delicious,” I said, and it was, I’d just prefer to eat Savannah.

I lifted a cold shrimp and a bunch of herby green things to my mouth.

“It’s one of Savannah’s specialties,” Margot said, inclining her head toward Savannah where she sat at the foot of the table. Seriously, Margot was, like, old-world charming. They simply didn’t make them like her anymore.

“No, it’s not,” Savannah said, laughing slightly. She turned to me her blue eyes hesitantly warm, cautious but friendly. I realized that’s exactly how she was tonight —a warm fire, banked.

Her finding out about the accident had made her pity me.

“I don’t cook,” Savannah said. “She’s trying to match-make.”

I choked on the shrimp.

“Don’t worry,” Savannah said, shooting her grandmother a knock-it-off look. “It’s compulsive. Like lying. She can’t help herself.”

“It’s a gift,” Margot said.

“A curse,” Savannah interjected.

“Tell that to John F. Kennedy.”

“John F. who?”