Page 102 of Sins (The Sins Trilogy 1)
Chapter Forty-Three
Anthony
I run my fingers along her silky hair, watch her chest rise and fall gently as she sleeps, her eyelashes like dark fans above her cheeks. I think back on what she said—almost an exact match of a private conversation I had with Ivy.
If she’s a setup, a plant…how could she know those things? Only Ivy and I know them.
At the same time, why did she say—again—that the scar came from the crash? I thought if I asked when she was on the edge of sleep, she might slip and tell me she hurt herself with gardening shears. So either she’s mentally much tougher than I thought, or she isn’t Ivy and really did hurt her palm in that car crash.
And if she’s Ivy, why is she calling herself Iris now? Even people with partial amnesia don’t forget their names, do they? Then there’s the thing with her musical talent. She was studying at Curtis. She wasn’t studying there so she could get a normal nine-to-five job, for fuck’s sake. She was studying there to be a concert pianist. Can losing one’s memory change both ambition and personality as well?
But most importantly, if this really is Ivy, whose body did the cops find in the Lexus? She was wearing Ivy’s concert dress. Had the pendant I gave her.
No matter how I turn them, the pieces don’t fit. Unless I’m just going insane and imagining the conversation I had with her. But I don’t feel crazy.
Crazy people don’t know they’re crazy, Tony. You didn’t think you were out of line when you lashed out at your parents after the whole Lauren fuckup.
Hmm.Well, until Edgar says I’m insane, I’m going to assume I’m not.
The accident that killed Ivy was a hit-and-run. I’m convinced Sam had nothing to do with it. He’s a bottom feeder, but he doesn’t have the stomach for murder. And he certainly doesn’t have the mental fortitude and utter lack of conscience required to look a victim in the eye and lie for years.
At the same time, he knows something about the event. How else would he have ended up with her? But no matter what I say or do, that bastard won’t tell me. I wanted to backhand the oily grin off his face at the reception so bad, I had to excuse myself and step away.
But first things first. I’m going to help Iris with her résumé so she can get that job at the Pryce Family Foundation. Elizabeth runs a thorough background check on everyone. Well, her Russian hound does. If there’s even a whiff of something fishy, he’ll find it and report to Elizabeth. If it’s serious enough that she won’t hire Iris, I’ll have my answer. Otherwise, I’ll casually check in with Elizabeth later and see what she’s discovered, if anything. Maybe dangle the possibility of a reconciliation with Ryder to make her spill.
Damn, I wish Jill were back in town. I could have her look into all this rather than use Elizabeth. But I need someone extraordinary to pick Iris’s life apart, and I don’t quite trust whoever Edgar plans to hire to be as thorough as Jill.
And there’s no way I’m waiting three weeks.
Iris’s new job will come with one additional benefit: moving out of this penthouse. The fact that she lives with Byron makes me want to hit something. I don’t give a shit whether she’s actually sleeping with the bastard; he’s definitely planning on sleeping with her.
I start texting. Byron’s in Honolulu on business—a contract with some Korean firm. I know the head of the negotiation team well, and he owes me a favor. I’m sure things can be arranged to tie Byron up for a while longer.
