Page 24 of Sins (The Sins Trilogy 1)
Chapter Eight
Ivy
I return to my bedroom, my concentration shot. The only thing I can think of is that kiss.
He devoured my mouth like it was the most delicious morsel, his tongue stroking mine. I get why he pushed me back when I asked him not to stop. He’s trying to make a point because, for some bizarre reason, he has this warped idea he’s a bad guy.
But then he wiped his mouth, like I was something gross. The whole time, his gaze never wavered. It’s like he wants me to feel undesirable and unwanted.
Bastard.My hands clench tightly, and for the first time, I actually feel an urge to punch something. I loved what he did, the heat he made me feel, making me forget all the fumbling kisses I’ve had before. I thought he felt the same way. Or at least he liked it from the way he ravished my mouth.
Why is he being so mean? Did I do something to upset him? Is it because I defended him to Mrs. Wentworth? Or because I did it front of his mom? Or that I teased him about hanging on to his bad-boy rep? I only wanted to make him smile and realize how silly he was being, trying to make me think he’s so much worse than he is.
Throwing myself on the bed, I think back over what happened. He was okay when I thanked him for the aspirin. He only tensed up when I said I told that horrible woman what really happened at Caleb’s party, and his mother heard it.
That’s it!He was upset his mom knew…
Suddenly I realize he always calls his parents “Mother” and “Father,” while his brothers don’t. Why so formal? Why the distance?
It’s like pieces of a puzzle are missing. I gaze at the ceiling, letting my mind relax, and two words float up…
Sister killer.
Mrs. Wentworth didn’t say it loud enough for Aunt Margot to hear, but she definitely wanted me to. Is Tony worried she might announce it publicly and upset his mom? Katherine is a delicate topic in this household. When I first arrived, Jonas warned me not to mention Katherine, ever, lest it upset my aunt. And it’s true. Nobody talks about her in Aunt Margot’s presence.
But over the years, I’ve pieced together some facts. Katherine died in a hunting accident when she was six. She wandered off into the woods, and a hunter shot her by accident. She was in a fawn-colored top and brown pants. The deputy sheriff decided it was an unfortunate mistake, but not a crime.
But somehow Mrs. Wentworth thought she could call Tony a sister killer. And her husband has been the sheriff of Tempérane since forever.
What does she know?
I pull out my phone and start typing. I spend the next hour lying on my bed and poring over Google results for articles or mentions of the death of Katherine Blackwood. If it later came out that Tony was the one who really killed Katherine, there should be some coverage…some mention somewhere.
But no. Nothing.
So why did Mrs. Wentworth say that? He was only twelve at the time. The man who shot her was twenty-six and from Birmingham, Alabama. It’s clear Tony didn’t pull the trigger.
What could it have been? He wouldn’t have dressed his sister in the outfit; it isn’t the kind of a thing a boy his age would’ve done. Was he somehow was responsible for her going along on the hunting trip?
I wish I could ask someone who was here when it happened, but I can’t just walk up and say, “Hey, how did Katherine really die?” Jonas probably knows—the man knows everything about my aunt’s family—but he’s so tight-lipped that it’d be easier to chip an answer out of a statue. Harry was too young to know, and I don’t feel comfortable approaching Uncle Lane or Edgar. It might still be too painful for them to talk about.
My phone buzzes, pulling me out of my thoughts.
So. Are you okay? Mom caught me sneaking in and got all pissed off. Like having a few drinks is a big deal.
I stare at the text. Sue Ellen. What makes her think we’re still okay? She stood by while Caleb attacked me. Apparently helping a friend ranks lower than whatever she thought she’d get waiting by the door like Caleb and his buddies wanted. And this tone-deaf text isn’t going to help me forgive her.
I start to type, ready to give her a piece of my mind, but end up deleting the text. No response could be sufficient. Calling her a bitch would be anemic, but text-ranting until my fingers fall off isn’t the way to go either.
Honestly, I can’t even. If she’s expecting sympathy over her mom getting mad at her… I hope she’s not holding her breath. Asphyxiation is a crappy way to go.
The clock says it’s already five thirty. I need to change if I want to be presentable for dinner.
Tossing the phone on the bed, I walk into the closet and pull out my lucky dress. It’s ivory, sleeveless, with a modest square neckline, and ends two inches above my knees. It’s made of two layers; the bottom one is almost sheer, while the top one is all intricate lace. Aunt Margot bought it for me when I started auditioning. Every time I wore it, I killed. She told me it wasn’t the dress, but the confidence a good outfit inspired. She was so proud of me, her entire face glowing. It’s one of many, many times I felt unconditionally loved by her.
I need that confidence now. Realizing that someone’s not really your friend, and that the guy who rocked your world with a kiss wasn’t all that into it, can really mess with your mind. It makes you wonder about your judgment and desirability.
