Page 94 of Sins (The Sins Trilogy 1)
She is. She so is.And I’m nowhere in her mind.
I reach for my coffee and down the rest of the cold, bitter brew. I have to be going insane. I keep reacting like I’m talking to Ivy. But if I give myself a moment to think logically, it’s obvious she isn’t. Her parents died nine years ago. Ivy’s parents died eighteen years ago. It’s clear Iris has never been to a conservatory, much less Curtis. If she had, she would’ve remembered such a milestone.
Still, I keep thinking about those memory gaps like a drowning man grasping for a rope. Sam was there the entire time to “correct” her. Did he correct me out of her mind? Could he even do that?
But why would he? There was no reason. Although he and I were never close, I was away for so long that we didn’t have any bad blood, either. Certainly nothing so bad that he’d do that to me.
“How are your hands?” she asks suddenly.
“What?”
She gestures at the little cuts that have scabbed over.
“They’re fine.” Nothing, in fact, compared to the wound bleeding inside me.
She fiddles with her napkin, shredding a corner. Another of Ivy’s old habits. I forcibly remind myself a lot of people do that when they’re nervous or thinking.
She finally stops and looks at me. “Did you know Jamie Thornton’s been seriously injured?” The question is a whisper.
News sure travels fast. “Yes. How did you hear about it?”
“Marty called. He was furious…and accused you.”
Well, well. So Marty isn’t a complete moron. I was wondering after that idiotic attempt to prevent Iris from leaving with me last night. “A garden at night can be a dangerous place. Who can Jamie blame for his injuries other than himself for being so clumsy?”
She looks skeptical, of course. She’s smart. But I can’t tell her the truth. Violence upsets her, even when it’s directed at scum like Thornton. He deserved every bit of what I did to him. And he will never be able to touch another girl without thinking of my punishment.
“So you had nothing to do with it?”
“If I had things my way, Thornton would be dead.” That’s honest, although it doesn’t really answer her question.
She shifts in her seat. “I don’t know how you can talk about death so casually.”
“I don’t. I take death very seriously.” She has no clue how much. “Some men believe they aren’t bound by social norms or human decency. If they want to live like animals, they should expect to be treated as such.” Then, out of uncharacteristic impulsiveness, I add, “I’ve always regretted not doing more nine years ago when that guy tried to rape the girl I told you about. I stopped him, but…I didn’t do enough to ensure he would never do it again.”
There isn’t even a glimmer of recollection on her face. “Don’t be hard on yourself, Tony. I’m sure she was grateful to you for saving her.”
A hint of admiration touches her tone, and suddenly I can’t stand it. I didn’t save Ivy. I’m the reason she’s dead.
I’m the reason so many beautiful things are broken.
