Page 67 of Sins (The Sins Trilogy 1)
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Anthony
As the Cullinan speeds toward Hammers and Strings, I rub the spot between my eyebrows—the place where I get furrowed lines when I’m having dark thoughts Ivy used to say—and try to lean back, draw in some air. My right foot keeps tapping the floor of the SUV, and every cell in my body seems to vibrate with restlessness.
It’s not her, Tony. She’s dead. So why are you going?
But I have to see for myself, in person. Crazy, I know. I’m sure she isn’t there anymore, so I’m going to be disappointed. Even if she is still there, I’ll be let down because she won’t be who I want.
There are plenty of strawberry blondes in the world. A lot of them can play the piano well. Those two things don’t make the woman in the video Ivy.
If they did… I run a hand roughly over my face. Jesus, I’d date strawberry blondes exclusively if I thought that would get Ivy back. But I know better. I’ve purposely avoided them for that reason—to remind myself I shouldn’t even think of chasing after a ghost.
I press a fist against my mouth to stop myself from letting out a sound that will be half laugh and half sob. TJ doesn’t need to hear that. To him, I’m a cold-hearted bastard who pays him well to do whatever job is required.
The second we pull up in front of Hammers and Strings, I hop out of the car. When I walk into the store, a thirty-something brunette hurries out from behind the counter, laminated employee tag bouncing around her neck.
“Hi. Can I help you?” she asks, tucking a few wayward tendrils of hair behind an ear and smiling a smile that borders on flirting.
The gesture’s wasted. “Yes. Earlier today a woman came by and played Grand Galop Chromatique in this store, right?”
“Yeah, she did. She was amazing, wasn’t she?” She sighs dreamily. “I was surprised she isn’t a concert pianist. She plays better than some recordings I’ve heard. As a matter of fa—”
“Do you know anything about her?” I don’t need her critique of the performance. To reassure her I’m not a deranged stalker, I give her my best harmless look, hoping my eyes don’t look too remote as they often do these days. “Is she a regular here?”
The saleswoman shakes her head. “I’ve never seen her before. But she came in with a guy. Probably a boyfriend.” She grows starry-eyed.
The unexpected revelation punches me in the gut. “Boyfriend?”
“They seemed very close. He’s the one who put the video up. And when the jerk who started the whole thing started to get a little nasty, he stopped him.”
Now there’s a hole in my chest. Idiot. Ivy’s dead. The girl who played Grand Galop Chromatique with such spark and brilliance isn’t her. If Ivy were alive, she would’ve come back to me. I would’ve found her somehow. And there wouldn’t be a boyfriend.
“If you’re interested in the piano she played…” The clerk gestures at a glossy white Steinway baby grand, the same as Ivy’s practice piano in Tempérane.
The sight of it scrapes an old wound that hasn’t quite healed. I blurt out, “You don’t have a Bösendorfer Imperial?”
“No. We only have a Bösendorfer baby grand over there. Not a concert grand like the Imperial, but still really nice. But if you’re looking for a concert grand, we have a Steinway you can try. Black. Very classic.”
“It’s all right. I don’t want a Steinway.” I manage an even tone. What Ivy wanted was a Bösendorfer Imperial. Except there’s no reason for me to ask the woman about it, not when Ivy’s gone.
“I can give you a catalogue of what we can order for you. Just give me a second.”
Before I can tell her it won’t be necessary, she vanishes into the back. A tight fist wraps around my neck, and suddenly I can’t breathe. I have to get out of here.
I turn around abruptly and bump into a woman coming in—hard. She loses her footing on the steps to the store, her body tilting backward.
I instinctively grab her wrist and wrap an arm around her waist to stop her from falling. Her body’s soft and slim, and I tense at the familiar scent of tiger lilies. When she turns her face toward me…
Holy mother of God…
Long strawberry blond hair tumbles around a face that is the exact replica of Ivy’s—the same gently arched eyebrows, the clear, intelligent gray eyes, the small nose and the siren’s mouth… I blink to clear my vision, convinced I’m seeing a mirage. I’ve been thinking about Ivy almost nonstop since Harry showed me the video.
But no. Her face is still there. She’s thinner now, and it makes her cheekbones more prominent, almost stark. I drop my gaze to the spot below the center of her lower lip, my heart thundering.
Jesus. The mole.
Stop projecting onto a woman you don’t know. It could be a food stain. A scab. Anything but a mole. You’ve made this mistake before, remember?
