Page 139 of Secrets (The Sins Trilogy 2)
Chapter Fifty-Four
Iris
Sam’s funeral is an odd mixture of somber and sham.
Everything’s proper—from the white roses to the chokingly delivered eulogies. Marty looks almost dashing in a conservative black suit and slicked-back dark hair, although his hooded blue eyes, which normally hold vague dissatisfaction, are bloodshot. But except for him, nobody seems to be grieving for real. There’s some sniffling, and some of the women even dab at their eyes. But there are no tears or any air of sadness over the attendants, just the avid alertness of wild animals scenting fresh blood.
Tony, seated next to me, isn’t bothering with a display of grief. His face is hard and watchful. He’s only here because of me.
“Thank you for coming,” I whisper into his ear. I know Tony thinks very badly of Sam, and he’s been busy at work. Bobbi could sit with me here, while Tony got caught up on his projects. But instead, both are here, one on each side of me.
He squeezes my hand. “It’s for my peace of mind.”
I don’t bother to argue. Ever since the engagement party, he’s been impossibly protective. Something about Jill’s and Sam’s deaths really shook him up, and somehow he’s connecting them to my safety—or lack thereof. I don’t get his logic, because Jill had a heart attack, and Sam was a combination of bad luck plus some horrible hit-and-run human being who didn’t think to stop and call 911. But it’s hard to listen to logic when strong emotions are overwhelming you. I just wish I could reassure Tony that I’m not going to keel over. Our lives are just beginning, and there are so many things I want to do together.
The back of my neck prickles, and I glance over my shoulder. My gaze collides with a fifty-something blond woman. She’s sitting a few pews back. The black veil from her hat covers half her face, so I can’t really make out her features, but what I can see is fine and delicate. A simple, chic dress covers her slim, almost frail-looking shoulders. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her before, although something about her feels just a tad familiar. Maybe Sam’s lover?
No. Her mouth is off. It isn’t set in a flat, pressed line of barely contained grief. It’s… It strikes me that she’s smiling, ever so faintly. Good riddance, it seems to be saying.
The fine hair on my neck bristles, and I feel cold fingers of apprehension gliding up my back.
Do you think he’ll shed a single tear when you die? Do you think you’re special enough to make him cry?
A woman’s voice I’ve never heard before rages in my head. I inhale sharply, my insides twisting at the palpable fury in each word. Is it the blue-dress girl’s mom? Am I finally remembering her now?
But that can’t be right. She wouldn’t be talking about this “he” or the weird thing about “crying.”
“Are you okay?” Tony whispers.
“What? Oh, yeah. I was just thinking.” After a few moments, I surreptitiously look back again, but the woman’s gone.
I blink a few times, then turn my attention back to the funeral. I must’ve imagined it. What kind of person comes to a funeral with a “good riddance” smirk? The snippet of memory that popped up must’ve distracted me and made me see things.
How weird. I’ve never remembered just words without any visual to go with them.
As soon as the service is over, we stand. Tony glances around and takes my elbow. “We should leave before it gets too crazy outside.”
“I need to have a word with Marty.”
“For what?”
“I haven’t been able to get in touch with him all week.” I feel like I should express my condolences. Even a jerk deserves a few kind words when he must be reeling from the abrupt death of his dad. Besides, this is a good opportunity for a clean break. I don’t plan to see him or speak to him again. “It won’t take long.”
Tony’s eyebrows pinch together. “That little shit’s been snubbing you. Like he matters anymore. Without his daddy, he’s nothing.”
It’s like him to think the worst of Marty. Not that it isn’t deserved. “Sam was my uncle, and he kept me on life support for a year.”
Tony sighs. “Okay. Let’s go find him.”
“Thanks.” I squeeze his hand.
The line of people wanting to talk to Marty isn’t that long. Sam was the face and brains of Peacher & Son, but it’s obvious from the mildly amused way people regard Marty that nobody considers him a serious successor.
When the three people in front of us murmur a few things and disappear, Tony and I step up. “Marty,” I say. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
He gives me a sharp look, his eyes bloodshot and slightly glassy. He shoots a sneer in Tony’s direction. “Here with your fiancé?”
Oh crap. I hope Marty doesn’t make a scene. He helped Sam manage Peacher & Son, so he must also believe Tony’s the one behind making all the investors pull out. And unlike Sam, Marty has very little filter between his mouth and brain. “Yes. He decided to join me to pay final respects.”
