Page 86 of Sins (The Sins Trilogy 1)
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Anthony
Eventually, Iris falls asleep, the quiet sound of her breathing even and slow. I ease the kinks out of my stiff neck and study her in the dim light.
When she asked me to stay, I felt like a man given the key to a treasure chest. Edgar said I was confused, projecting onto her what I want to see.
But looking at her freshly scrubbed face, I can’t help but notice the same delicate curves of her cheekbones, the same small nose and full lips. How can I be confused? I worshipped her, have her etched in my heart and soul.
Then what was Lauren?
That was different. I was younger. Still wallowing in grief.
So you don’t grieve for Ivy now?
Of course I do. I’ll always grieve for her, the way I still grieve for Katherine. But looking at Iris, I have to question if she really is Ivy somehow—
She died, Tony.
I take her long-fingered hand in mine gently. Just look at it—that’s Ivy’s hand—
Lauren had long fingers, too. They don’t mean anything.
If Edgar could hear half these thoughts or the debate I’m having with myself right now, he’d worry himself sick.
Maybe I am crazy. How much is sanity worth if clinging to it means walking away from this woman right now and never looking back? Because if I accept that Edgar is right, I need to get the hell out of here and forget I ever met Iris.
I trace the scar on her palm with my forefinger. Isn’t it proof that I’m right? But when I asked her about it, she said it came from a car accident. And she wasn’t lying. I looked at her carefully for even the slightest hint of deception, but there was nothing.
If Iris is really Ivy, and bent on pretending like she doesn’t know me to punish me, then Ivy’s become a remarkable actress, one who can stick to her role even through a traumatic attack.
Some things about her add up all too well—her musical ability, her appearance, the scar on her palm. Other things add up to a one-way ticket to an asylum. Her reaction to me, as though I were a complete stranger. The lack of tattoo—if she’d had it lasered off, it wouldn’t have left a scar like that. Her ties to Sam, whose sleaziness has grown along with his bank account, and Byron Pearce, who thinks I’m a piece of shit.
Sanity or madness?
What does it say about me that both options look equally attractive? Every time I think I’ve reached bottom, I find a way to sink lower into the abyss.
I reluctantly release her hand and tuck it under the cover. I remember the cut on her lip, and stand up. I have unfinished business.
