Page 137 of Secrets (The Sins Trilogy 2)
Chapter Fifty-Three
Iris
Even though I manage a smile for Tony during breakfast, my thoughts are in turmoil. Sam. Dead! I can’t believe it. It hasn’t even been a month since he tricked me into meeting him at Starbucks. He was so alive, his eyes blazing with temper.
I was furious with him for the way he manipulated me, but I never wanted this. He saved me from the water when I had the accident, and kept me safe while I was in my coma. I only wished he’d stay away if he couldn’t be happy for me.
And stop trying to use me to get to Tony.
That poor woman at the party, and now this. Maybe the storm last night really was an omen. When I return to the bedroom, I sit on the bed, pull out my notebook from the drawer and jot down the events in short, succinct sentences. Then I add: Why does this feel like a warning? Or am I being melodramatic? Even though I didn’t know Jill, and Sam and I had problems, their deaths leave such a shadow—an emptiness I can’t quite describe. But what bothers me is that I’m not that sad for Sam. I wasn’t struck by grief over Jill’s death because I didn’t know her. But Sam? Even if I ended up angry with him, shouldn’t I feel more than just a passing melancholy? I feel sorrier for Marty that he lost his dad. What does that say about me?
Tony walks in. “What are you doing?”
“Just making an entry.” I close the journal and put it back in the drawer. He knows I write more or less daily, but I’ve never shown anything to him. He’s never asked, either, probably out of respect for my privacy. “I…I feel awful.” Then I quickly add, “Especially for Sam.”
“You knew him for a long time. It’s only natural.” Tony sits next to me and lends me a shoulder to rest my head.
“I just wish we hadn’t had such an ugly falling out.” I wish he weren’t such an awful person, so that I could experience the grief I’m supposed to, rather than regret over not feeling sad enough. I close my eyes as guilt winds around me like a vine. I shouldn’t think so badly of the dead, even though part of me is wagging a finger, saying it’s all true: he was manipulative and terrible.
“It wasn’t your fault,” Tony says quietly.
I snuggle closer, finding comfort in his words and grateful he’s not judging me for not shedding any tears for Sam. We stay quiet like that for a while. I enjoy the emotional connection, but then doubts start to slither over my head like snakes.
The storm. Two deaths. How they feel like fateful warnings.
“Do you think it’s an omen?” I ask.
“What is?” he asks.
“Last night. Jill and Sam. They both died when we were having our engagement party. The storm, too. I really hate those.”
“It’s not,” Tony says decisively. “Even if it were, I’m not changing anything.”
How can he be so resolute? “But Tony…”
“Do you believe in destiny?”
“Yes, but—”
He places a finger over my lips. “I know exactly what you mean. Now here’s what I mean. If we aren’t fated, then I’ll fight fate for another moment with you.”
Just like that, the darkness that’s been clinging to me since I heard about Sam’s death dissipates. Tony says I’m the sun, moon and stars of his existence, but he’s the light of mine. The one who illuminates the underlying, basic truths of life. It wasn’t until I came to L.A. and met him that I started to remember more of my past, become stronger and more resilient.
We spend the rest of the day together, just the two of us… Well, Bobbi too, but she’s very good at making herself unobtrusive. After lunch, I call Yuna and Julie and Tony’s brothers, making sure they’re all right.
Finally, I stare at Marty’s number. He’s an ass and a horrible misogynist. Regardless, I should call and offer my condolences. He never had a mom growing up, and now he doesn’t have a dad either. I know how painful it is to lose parents.
Inhaling deeply, I hit his number. It rings and rings and forwards me to his voicemail, which is full. Part of me is relieved and grateful. I start to text, then stop. That’s too impersonal and rude. I’ll just have to try again later.
On Monday, when I show up at work with Bobbi like any other day, Elizabeth gives me a concerned look. “Are you all right?”
“I’m okay,” I say, forcing a small smile. Besides, it’s really better if I keep working.
I try calling Marty during lunch, but still no luck. He’s probably just overwhelmed. With his father gone, Peacher & Son is his responsibility now.
On Wednesday, a small but sturdy cardboard box arrives at the office. It’s from an attorney, but I’m not familiar with the name. It’s specifically addressed to me with CONFIDENTIAL: TO BE OPENED BY ADDRESSEE ONLY in bright red.
I hesitate. We normally get letters and documents for the causes the foundation’s working on. This feels personal. Like the blue dress Sam sent. Besides, wouldn’t a lawyer send a letter or manila envelope?
