Page 106 of Sins (The Sins Trilogy 1)
Chapter Forty-Six
Anthony
The second I get to my car, I stick a Bluetooth headset into my ear and dial Edgar. He picks up.
“Tell me again,” I demand, sitting behind the wheel. I leave the engine off.
“Iris Smith does exist. Used to live in a small town in Northern California called Almond Valley. Distantly related to Sam Peacher.”
I hate him for telling me the same thing he told me just moments ago when I was with the woman herself, my mouth full of her taste. He should be telling me he made a mistake…that Iris is Ivy. “There have be thousands of people named Iris Smith,” I snarl.
“And how many are related to Sam?” He lets me digest that for a moment. “She’s actually related to Mom, too, very distantly, on the Smith side of the family.”
“Fuck!”
“I looked into Ivy, too.”
“Ivy? Why the hell would you do that?”
“Because she was adopted by Uncle Perry. I thought perhaps Iris could be a twin sister, someone we didn’t know about.”
“And?”
“Nothing. Ivy never had a long-lost twin, or any sibling. Her birth mother died when Ivy was ten in a burglary gone wrong.” Edgar’s quiet for a moment, letting the news sink in. “Damn it,” he says tautly. “You need to get the hell away from that woman if you haven’t already. I know you, Tony. Regardless of your promise, you’ve probably already made a move to get to know her, to see if she’s Ivy.”
“She is so much like Ivy. She has—”
“Argh, I knew it!” I can practically hear Edgar pacing. “If she really was Ivy, don’t you think Sam would’ve said something? He met her, and he knew what she meant to Mom. Telling her Ivy was alive would have been the best way to get her to like him enough to want to invest, and you know how much he wanted that.”
“Mother started to invest with him anyway, so it doesn’t matter.”
“It would be the best way to make Dad like him, too,” Edgar continues. “Right now, Dad can’t stand him, and the only reason he hasn’t done anything to Sam is because Sam’s been scrupulous in his dealings with Mom. Besides, what about all the people Ivy knew at Curtis? Don’t you think someone would’ve said something by now? They must’ve seen that video, but nobody’s said, ‘Hey, that’s Ivy Smith, who used to study at Curtis with me!’”
“They might not have seen it. They might not have a younger brother who’s glued to junk news sites and social media all day long,” I say, bitter and furious because Edgar’s right. My rebuttals are about as sturdy as tissue paper. It’s all I can do to not smash my phone to pieces so I don’t have to hear him anymore.
“Tony,” Edgar says kindly, “it’s been nine years. Let. It. Go. It’s destroying you, eating you up inside. I’ve already lost a sister. I don’t want to lose a brother, too.”
He’s lost more than a sister. He’s lost a loving home because of me. Mother was never the same after Katherine died.
I finally understand Mother—why she could never forgive me. Why she hates me to the point she doesn’t even want me dead. Why nothing I did to atone was ever good enough.
Nothing can bring Katherine back.
Just like nothing can bring Ivy back.
Did Mother feel like she was going crazy, like I do now? We both had “closure”—the funerals, the eulogies, the flowers—but none of that means anything when you can’t accept that the one you love is gone. I used to wake up thinking that God might appear in my bedroom and say, “Just kidding! Ivy isn’t really dead.” I even prayed that He would do just that—I’d give Him anything He desired. Until I became so furious one rainy day, I broke every piece of glass in my place and raged until my throat was hoarse—fuck all the gods and wishes and prayers because they’re stupid torments we inflict upon ourselves for nothing.
I lick my lips. She even tasted like Ivy…but is that my imagination too? I press a hand against my eyes. They burn, but shed no tears. Instead, my heart grows heavier. It seems to press against my lungs, making it impossible to breathe.
Can one die from heartache? The pain is so sharp and intense, I feel like I could. Surely there’s a point where your body just gives up, preferring the oblivion of death over the agony of living.
“Tony? Are you still there?” Edgar says hesitantly.
I swallow the odd thickness in my throat. “Yeah.”
“I’m sorry. I know how much she meant to you.”
“Thanks. Um, I have to go.” I hang up. The phone slips from my hand and lands on the floorboards.
Then, the back of my head pressed against the headrest and breathing harshly, I pound on my chest with a fist, as though that will fix the broken heart inside.
