Page 11 of Souls and Sorrows

“That does not help.” Scrubbing my hands over my face, I exhale. “What are you doing here?”

“Can’t a girl come visit her favorite brother on his birthday?”

“Sure, but Palmer doesn’t live here, and my birthday was yesterday.”

I’m under no illusion that I’m Lenny’s preferred sibling even if we have gotten closer over the last year since our father’s passing. Though that might have more to do with my awareness of her role in his death and the fact that it’s not really something she could confide in Palmer.

Where my twin is energetic and pure, Lenny and I have always had a certain degree of darkness in common. With that shared moral repugnancy, there has always been an unspoken understanding—theburied bodyclause.

When “bodies” start showing up, neither of us asks questions. We just pitch in however needed.

Even if that means having your friend at the medical examiner’s office pad your father’s cause and manner of death. Most middle-aged men in perfect health don’t suddenly die of heart attacks, but according to his official autopsy report, that’s exactly what took him.

Never mind the blood we needed bleached from the floors of Primrose Manor or the subsequent disappearance of Lenny’s ex-boyfriend at the same time.

Reaching over the counter, I swipe the plastic container from her hands, slapping the lid back on.

“Hey!” she snaps, licking the spoon. “I was eating that.”

“Don’t you have your own fridge to raid? Or is your fiancé letting you starve?”

Her green eyes crinkle up at the corners, genuine happiness lighting her features at the mere mention of the British assassin waiting for her at home. “He keeps me plenty fed, thank you,” she replies, wiggling her brows.

I groan at the image and return the yogurt to the fridge. “Then, go bother him,” I say, crossing my arms against my chest.

A beat of silence passes, and I shift my weight on my heels, uncrossing my arms just as quickly.

Lenny’s mouth twists, as if she’s in thought. “You seem weird.”

An incredulous sound comes from my throat, and I laugh, holding my fingers up in a Y-shape and bringing them to my ear. “Pot? Kettle calling.”

“Well, that’s notnews. Little sisters are supposed to be weird, and I grew up with Mama and Daddy as my closest friends, so weird was my only option. But you seem more off than normal. Are you sure everything’s okay?” She pauses, dropping her gaze for a moment before looking back up. “Palmer said you were drinking last night.”

“Palmer brought me outspecificallytodrink.”

“Which you never do.” One of her brows lifts. “So, what gives?”

Theburied bodyclause is on the tip of my tongue, but for some reason, I can’t force the words through. They stick on the ridges of my teeth, collecting like stalagmites.

Guilt over things she doesn’t know about eats me alive. It’s a burden I don’t want to share.

“Nothinggives, swan,” I say instead, watching her eyes narrow at the use of her childhood nickname.

For a few moments, we stare at each other, waiting for a confession.

Maybe things would be different between us if I admitted what I know. What happened after our father passed—hell, even before then. Things had changed, grown sinister, in the decade before he died.

Perhaps if I came clean, it would expunge my soul of its stains.

But we didn’t grow up Catholic, so we’ve never believed in that anyway. And if I’ve learned anything since leaving Harvard, it’s that all confessions do is drum up more trouble.

Fuck acquiescing guilt. I’ll just be buried alongside my sins.

They’ll be my company in hell.

Lenny sighs, snapping the spaghetti strap of her pink corset against her tanned skin. She hops off the barstool and grabs her leather clutch from the counter. “Fine. Be moody and broody. You’re gonna die alone because of it, just like Daddy.”

As she starts toward the front of the apartment, words tumble out of me, unbidden. “Justlike him?”

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