Page 21 of Secrets (The Sins Trilogy 2)
Chapter Nine
Anthony
I sluice the chlorine off with soap and hot water, dry myself with one of the towels my housekeeper keeps on the racks in the pool shower and put on a change of clothes from the drawer—a Lakers shirt and denim shorts.
Morning exercise is usually invigorating, but not today. Iris’s determination is killing me. I understand her desire not to be helpless anymore. But her resolute stance isn’t just from a need to be more self-sufficient and capable. She’s too driven, almost like she’s possessed. It reminds me of myself seven years ago when I decided I didn’t want to be a nobody anymore. I did things I would never consider now—reckless investments with huge risks (but a crazy-high payoff), working day and night until my system just shut down to force me to sleep…
I wonder if Iris is also struggling with the girl in the blue dress—who she was, what she meant, what she represented. Iris might not recall that the girl drowned, but that doesn’t mean she’s completely free of the emotional trauma of the night. And she doesn’t have to bring it up again for me to know she hasn’t entirely given up on the idea of finding the girl. Despite her softness and sweetness, Iris is a fighter underneath, with more steel than most men.
I go to the kitchen, pick up my phone on the breakfast counter and text Jill Edelstein, my PI. She hasn’t yet sent me a progress report, but she can look into this, too. I don’t trust the Tempérane cops with the information, and most of them are already overworked and cynical enough that they wouldn’t take me or Iris seriously. As far as they’re concerned, the case was closed years ago—move along, nothing to see here.
Additional assignment: Find any missing women between 15 and 40, spring or summer nine years ago, in a 40-mile radius of Tempérane, Louisiana. Thanks.
It’s a long shot. There might be a lot of women who went missing. The girl found in the Lexus could’ve run away ten, eleven years ago…or might not even be from Louisiana. But it’s a starting point.
Iris’s phone is lying on the counter. I don’t remember seeing her charging it. Sure enough, it only has twenty-some percent battery left. Just as I start to plug it into the charge port, it rings.
Marty Peacher.
What the fuck? What does that son of a bitch want?
I drag my finger along the green button. The last thing she needs is to deal with this subhuman trash.
Before I can say anything, the bastard starts mouthing off. “You fucking cunt, what the hell did you do? You owe everything to Dad! Why you gotta be a bitch about it? He was so traumatized after your attack yesterday, he’s lying in bed! You ungrateful cunt! He should’ve let you die!”
If the motherfucker were here in front of me, I’d break his face with his phone, then stomp him like the cockroach he is. He keeps on ranting, not pausing to take a breath. If I let him continue, will he keel over from asphyxiation?
I hate men like Marty, who think it’s their right to abuse weaker people. My contempt goes up another notch when they can’t even get creative with their raving. You can’t recycle “fuck,” “cunt” and “bitch” over and over again if you have any pride in yourself. But most importantly, nobody talks to Iris this way.
“Marty, how delightful to hear from you.”
His rant dies. “Who is this?” Something rustles on the line. “Wait. Is this Iris Smith’s phone?”
“Why, yes, it is. And this is her boyfriend, Anthony Blackwood, speaking.”
“Oh. Uh, hi, Anthony. I didn’t know you were with her.” His voice is significantly subdued. Actually civil.
Loser. Calling him a cockroach would be insulting all the upstanding roaches of the world. He’s a gnat on a cockroach’s ass.
“Where would I be except by my girlfriend’s side?” I can almost hear him swallow. “If Sam has a problem with how I treated him, he’s welcome to call. I’m sure his tongue’s still functional, despite the trauma of trying to drown his niece and getting caught.”
“He didn’t try to do that. He was trying to help her,” Marty says hurriedly.
How the hell can Sam lie like this when there are witnesses to call him on it? “I’m sure everything he did was for her own good, not his.” My sarcasm vanishes from my tone as I deliver the most important part. “Oh, and if you ever talk to Iris again, I’ll make sure you sit in a wheelchair for the rest of your life.”
“You can’t threaten me like that!”
“But I just did. So go ahead. Try me.”
“Asshole,” he says, then hangs up.
Pathetic. Does he think he won because he had the last word? I plug the charger into Iris’s phone and look in the fridge, thinking about lunch. I didn’t buy anything for the weekend, figuring we’d be in Napa Valley. Maybe delivery will do.
The intercom buzzes. “Yes?” I say to the speaker in the kitchen.
“A Miss Julie Pearce is here to see Miss Smith,” says the concierge.
Ah. Took her long enough. I would have sworn she’d find a reason to visit Iris before now to check me out, to make sure I’m not a serial killer or something. Harry told me once that’s what girls do for their friends. I take his word for that sort of stuff, since I’ve rarely been in a relationship serious enough for that kind of intrusion. “Send her up. Thanks.”
