Page 6 of Sins (The Sins Trilogy 1)
Chapter Three
Anthony
I undo my top two buttons and try to take in some air as I reach my old childhood room. I don’t remember this house feeling so suffocating, but it does, despite the high ceilings and windows everywhere. It’s far worse than that day nine years ago.
What the hell was I thinking, agreeing to play Fantasie ten times, seated so close to Ivy that I could feel her breathing? Schubert wrote the piece out of love for a woman he could never have. The music gave him a reason to be as close to her as possible, feel her arm graze his as they performed together. I should’ve told Ivy to play with Harry when she asked…
Except the idea of him sitting that close to her and being affected by her presence bothered me. But the connection I felt for her for almost an hour built such a restlessness, I had to leave as soon as I hit that last note.
After gulping a few lungfuls of air, I blink and look at my old room. It’s a suite with a balcony, almost at the end of the hall, and little has changed. It’s spotless, the sage bedsheets perfectly spread, not a wrinkle to be seen. My Princeton diploma is already framed and hung—probably Father’s doing, since he took it with him after the graduation ceremony—but everything else on the pale mint walls, shelves and desk is gone except for a picture of Katherine on my nightstand.
She’s smiling in it, a dimple in one plump, rosy cheek and Mother’s golden curls around her heart-shaped face. Fringed with long, curly, dark eyelashes, her blue eyes are wide and bright, the rosebud mouth cherubic and red. And she had the cutest nose. I could never resist pushing it like a button every time I saw her. The dress she’s in is frothy pink, with more lace and satin than a fairytale princess costume. Mother designed and made it just for Katherine, spending hours on her sewing machine.
I run my fingers over Katherine’s young face, sorrow and the old grief clenching their cold, bitter hands around my heart. She was the best of the four of us—all that innocence, all that vitality. She read better than some of the older kids in the area, much to Edgar’s astonishment, and played better piano than Harry, much to his indignation. She sang better than me.
It should’ve been you. Mother’s rage rings in my head, as fresh as though it were yesterday.
Suddenly feeling dirty and unworthy, I yank my hand away from the picture.
“Is everything to your liking?” Jonas says, standing in the doorway.
How long has he been there?Jonas is paid to be discreet, but I hate the idea of people watching me. “Don’t you ever knock?”
“The door was open, sir.”
I run my fingers roughly through my hair. Was it? I can’t remember.
“I’ve had your things unpacked and put away—in the places you preferred before,” Jonas continues. “Except for the condoms,” he adds, shifting a bit. “The small drawer under the right bedside stand.”
So there is something that can ruffle his unfailingly calm demeanor. The idea is amusing for some reason. “Thanks,” I say, looking at the dressers and the open door to the huge walk-in closet.
It used to hold my old toys and memorabilia—collectable comic books, autographed baseballs and tickets…all gone now.
“What happened to Bolt’s things?” I ask. Bolt is my golden retriever puppy. Well. He must be a big dog by now. Then I realize his photos are gone too. “And his pictures?”
“Your mother had them…removed.”
“All of them?”
“Yes.”
I pause and draw in a shaky breath. She was furious when the little dog tried to comfort me that day, but I didn’t realize her anger went this deep. I swallow an ugly lump stuck in my throat. “He’s not here, is he?”
“No.”
“Did he at least go to a good family?”
“He did, sir.” Jonas’s voice is gentle. “I made sure of it.”
“Thank you. That’s all. I’ll let you know if I need anything.”
He nods and leaves, closing the door behind him.
I sit heavily on the bed, elbows on knees and head cradled in my palms. Bolt’s only crime was being too loyal. If he hadn’t sat next to me, whining softly and licking my cheeks in tender canine solace and love, Mother wouldn’t have sent him away.
“Get that dog away from him, and out of my home! I don’t want to see it ever again,” she screamed like a wounded animal, tears streaming down her pale face, while Father held her tightly. If he hadn’t, she might’ve strangled Bolt, a puppy she’d selected herself for my eleventh birthday and lavished with care and love, calling him clever and beautiful.
Numb and cold, I watched the entire scene unfold. It felt like something out of a psychedelic movie, not something that was actually happening. I couldn’t muster an ounce of emotion, although I shivered continuously. It was too cold in the house, and I couldn’t warm myself up.
