Page 96 of Sins (The Sins Trilogy 1)
Chapter Forty-One
Anthony
On Monday, I arrive at the Pryce Family Foundation, the feel of Iris’s skin on my mouth still lingering. I wanted to kiss her for real, but there was that damn cut…
I spent yesterday afternoon and evening thinking about her. I just can’t believe Iris isn’t Ivy, logic be damned. Even if she is using a different name and has no recollection of our time together.
It hurts that she doesn’t remember, when there hasn’t been a day or night I haven’t thought of her. Is it just the head injury? Is it too emotionally painful to recall? All the silly movies and shows have that kind of nonsense, but this is real life. If you could just erase painful stuff from your head, I wouldn’t remember Katherine…or Ivy’s death.
It’s just possible she’s a ringer, a setup by some enemy, like Edgar said. But I can’t believe it. If someone was going to dig nine years back, they would do better than amnesia, a different name and no tattoo. And if she weren’t Ivy, she wouldn’t have said or done the things she has.
What she said when I was kicking Jamie’s ass. Piano practice in the morning. How she still loves tiger lilies. Grapefruit juice being her favorite.
Yeah, sure, Edgar’s voice says, then ticks off its points. No tattoo on her wrist. Didn’t attend a conservatory. Has no ambition to become a concert pianist. Her parents were alive until nine years ago. The scar on her palm is from a car accident, not gardening shears. Didn’t care for the French toast and bacon. The yearbook that proves she was just an ordinary high school kid who graduated on time with a bunch of other ordinary high school kids.
Shut up. It’s enough to drive a man out of his mind. Mainly because unless I find answers to all those points, there’s no way I can really be certain that I’m not repeating the mistake I made with Lauren.
To get some answers, I picked up my phone last night and texted Jill Edelstein. She’s a PI that I sometimes use. She’s thorough, nasty and loyal, which is exactly how I like the people who work for me to be.
Good to hear from you, but I’m out of the country at the moment. Can’t take the job.
Fuck. When are you coming back?
Don’t know yet. Three weeks? Could be earlier, could be later, depending. If urgent, I can give a referral.
No need. I don’t want a referral. I want the best.
So I’ll do this circuitously until Jill’s back in town.
I walk into the foundation’s neat, contemporary and functional office. I spot the Russian—assistant to Elizabeth Pryce-Reed, now Elizabeth King—in the vestibule. His sandy-brown hair short and military, he looks like a cross between a pit bull and a Rottweiler. I’d bet my entire fortune he has the tenacity and aggression to match those breeds as he studies me with pale, emotionless blue eyes. He’s in a dress shirt without a tie, a jacket and slacks. Most likely carrying. Since the attack in her home some months ago, Elizabeth is probably being extra careful. And this assistant’s prominent presence is obviously part of her plan.
I put on a pleasant expression. The last thing I want is him sniffing out the real reason I’m here, since I plan to use both him and Elizabeth. The Russian’s ability to dig up stuff not even the CIA can get is a well-guarded secret, but I’ve made it my business to know everything related to Ryder Reed, and that includes his sister and the huge charity foundation she runs.
“Got an appointment?” he asks, his voice chilly.
I nod. “Yes. Would you let her know Anthony Blackwood is here?”
He squints like he’d rather kick me out of the office, but hits a button on a tiny Bluetooth earphone. He nods, then tilts his jaw toward Elizabeth’s office.
I walk in. The space is large and tastefully decorated, without that self-conscious humblebrag that many charities and foundations have. The walls have pictures of the difference the foundation has made since its inception, and none of them look particularly posed. It used to do mostly international work, but recently it’s acquired a more domestic focus, helping the people who are most vulnerable and helpless. Pretty fulfilling work.
“Hello, Anthony,” Elizabeth says from her desk. As usual, she’s stylish in a pink dress. Her ring finger sports an enormous pink princess-cut diamond.
Since her marriage, Elizabeth has changed. Her eyes seem more gray than brown, and she’s less uptight. I met her through Ryder while we were in Europe together. He and his siblings, including Elizabeth, were banished together for being in the way of the lifestyle their parents wanted. Elizabeth was easygoing and spontaneous in Europe, but once she returned to the States, she turned into such a robot of propriety that I couldn’t help but wonder if she ever had any fun.
But now she’s more relaxed, and her smile’s more genuine than camera-ready. It’s obvious marriage has been good for her.
“I don’t suppose this is a social visit,” she says.
I sprawl in a seat opposite her. “Not really.”
“Are you here to donate?”
“That depends.”
“On?”
“There’s a young woman. A high school graduate, I think. No job experience, but she’s smart, articulate and very well traveled. Unfortunately, she hasn’t been able to land a job. She’s staying with a friend now, but is starting to run out of money.” It’s necessary to lay it on a little thick if I want to sell Elizabeth on the idea. She can’t resist helping people down on their luck. More than half the staff here were homeless or pretty close when she hired them. “I want you to give her a job. You have an opening for an admin position. My assistant checked.”
