Page 72 of Sins (The Sins Trilogy 1)
TJ takes me to my penthouse. The second I step inside, I spot Edgar, helping himself to my best whiskey.
He hasn’t changed much. Still the same old Edgar, except now he looks even more like Father. It’s like he was born parthenogenetically, with none of Mother’s DNA.
Normally I want to be alone in this kind of mood, but Edgar is okay. Smart and levelheaded, he’s the one who pulled me out of the abyss of despair and self-destruction after Ivy’s death. He also secretly invested in Z, since our parents disowned me. That’s why he has access to all my properties around the world. And gets free booze at my clubs.
He lifts his glass, a warm glint in his eyes not enough to hide his worry. “Tony.”
“Edgar, good to see you,” I say, doing my best to appear normal. As long as I act like a sane individual, he won’t try to stick around to hover over me.
We exchange a quick hug, and I take the empty stool next to him. “What are you doing here?”
“A minor change in plans. I have an overnight layover in L.A. before the first flight out tomorrow, so I figured why not drop by?” He shrugs, his lips twitching with a smile. “Tu casa es mi casa.”
I laugh, but I don’t buy his overly casual explanation. He made a detour specifically to see me after Harry’s call. Feeling grateful and guilty, I pour myself three fingers of whiskey, neat. I’ve needed it since leaving Hammers and Strings.
Edgar cocks an eyebrow, but doesn’t comment. Instead, he says, “Thanks for taking care of Harry.”
“Don’t mention it. If we don’t take care of that kid, who will?”
Edgar sighs. “Who indeed? It’s like he doesn’t even want to try to be responsible.”
“Let him be. It’s good to have at least one brother who doesn’t care enough to be serious.” I down half the whiskey in my glass, the fine liquor creating a smooth burn in my throat and belly.
Edgar finishes his, then taps the rim of his glass. “I saw the video.”
“Harry said you yelled at him. You shouldn’t have.”
“Are you okay?”
I start to say, Sure, but stop. Edgar’s always been honest with me, and he deserves better than a pat answer. “No.”
“Did you see her? Harry said you went to the music store. The woman in the video does look remarkably like Ivy.”
“She looks exactly like Ivy.” I knock back the rest of my drink. “I actually ran into her. Physically. She was this far from me.” I put a palm in front of my face.
“Tony… Ivy died nine years ago.” Edgar’s quiet voice is full of compassion and worry.
“I know.” So much frustration and conflicting desire bubbles up. “I know she died, but this girl really looks like Ivy. She even has the mole.” I put an index finger on the spot right below the center point of my mouth. “The same facial bones. Her hair’s the same color. Her eyes—that bright, beautiful gray. She even plays like Ivy.”
“She plays like a recording. A really good recording, but no more special than a thousand top-level pianists out there.”
My hand tightens around the glass. I want to tell Edgar he’s wrong, that the girl played Grand Galop Chromatique exactly like Ivy, but I can’t. No artist can play music exactly the same way every time. Hell, even Ivy herself would sound slightly different if she played the same piece twice during practice.
Edgar continues, “You think this woman at the music store looks like Ivy because you’re seeing what you want to see. There are millions of strawberry blondes out there. The same for women with gray eyes. And even the mole. When we desperately want something to be true, we tend to ignore contradictory evidence.”
He looks at me like he’s bracing for an impending breakdown. And why not? I had one after Ivy died. My heart skipped a beat every time I saw a strawberry blonde with a similar build. I couldn’t accept that she was gone because I was still alive. If she’d really died, I would have, too—because my heart belongs irrevocably to her, beating only for her.
Edgar puts a hand on my shoulder, his touch as firm and solid as a battleship’s anchor. “Don’t make the same mistake twice, Tony. You don’t need a repeat of Lauren Tater.”
The old anger and mortification burn another hole in my gut, and I want to throw something. Six months after Ivy’s death, Ryder invited me to Los Angeles because he was ostensibly worried about me. It was worse in the city. There were so many damned women who reminded me of Ivy in some way. Jaunty grins. Smiling gray eyes. Hands with long fingers. Pretty tiger lily tattoos—but not on their left wrists.
But none of them had the whole package. None of them were Ivy.
Then, after a year in L.A., I met Lauren. It was striking how similar she was to Ivy—her hair, her bright gaze, her laugh and smile, her beautiful long fingers. She could even manage some serviceable Mozart sonatas. I adored her, lavished her with everything I had to give. A small voice inside said certain things didn’t add up about her, but I squashed it. Lauren felt like a chance at redemption—to be the kind of man who could’ve kept Ivy safe…
…until I discovered she and Ryder were fucking behind my back. Ryder claimed he didn’t know she was my girlfriend. Said he never saw the two of us together. He was pretty convincing, too—but then, he is a great actor.
“How could you not know?” I raged. “She looks just like Ivy!”
