Page 130 of Mercy (The Sins Trilogy 3)
For once, I’m somewhat relieved that no snippets of memories are floating up to haunt me. I can’t imagine my time here being particularly happy or fulfilling, not based on my impression of Margot.
“She got rid of all tiger lilies,” Tony murmurs.
“Huh?”
“She used to grow them for you.”
I look back at the garden and wonder if it’s too different from how it was before to trigger any old memories. Couldn’t Margot stand the reminder?
If I hadn’t met her, I might’ve softened, thinking it was due to grief. But I know better. She hated me, what I mean to Tony and the happiness we shared. This invitation is a trap, and if Tony and I didn’t need to confront her, I wouldn’t let us be here.
“I bet she doesn’t have any inside, either,” he says.
“It isn’t important.” The flowers Margot decides to have in her home are none of my business, and I’m not going to let it bother me. It’s actually a relief she isn’t faking an affection she doesn’t feel, like she did earlier when she tried to get me to let her help plan the wedding. She doesn’t even lie that well anyway.
“That’s a big house,” Bobbi mutters. “Lots of places to hide.”
For a moment, I stare in confusion. Then it hits me she’s referring to the recording—that Caleb guy. I start to tell her I doubt Margot has the killer tucked inside her home, not with her husband and the two sons she hasn’t yet disowned, but I don’t get a chance.
The door opens, revealing a silver-haired man standing straight with his shoulders pulled back. His black and white formal suit is starched and impeccable. For a second I wonder if this is Tony’s dad, then change my mind. The man’s too old, his skin parchment-thin.
“Welcome home, Master Tony. Miss Ivy.”
I will myself to remember, but draw a frustrating blank.
He nods regally at Bobbi. “Miss Bobbi.”
She makes a weird face. “Bobbi is fine. I don’t do ‘miss.’”
“As you wish.”
“Jonas, are my parents here?” Tony asks.
“They are already in attendance. Master Edgar and Master Harry as well.”
We step inside. It’s just as grand and old-money as the exterior—polished antiques, gleaming wood, ornately framed paintings. Chandeliers over us drip fat crystals, and I look up at the high ceiling, noting the intricate murals of scenes from Louisiana—the bayous, wild animals and plants, its people.
Unlike our place or Ryder’s mansion in L.A., this place doesn’t say home or comfort. A thin fog of vague unhappiness seems to permeate everything. Not even the aroma of fresh orchids can hide the scent of oppressive misery.
Was it like this when I was here? If so, maybe it’s better that I can’t recall anything. The place is already showing me what my years here were like, and I don’t need specifics to distract me when I need to focus on the confrontation to come.
As Jonas leads us deeper into the home, I lean toward Tony. “Who’s that?”
“Jonas, the family butler. He’s been with us before Edgar was born.”
I wouldn’t have guessed that was his position. My real life dealing with a butler is Sam’s, and this Jonas is nothing like that man. Quietly dignified underneath the starched exterior.
Jonas stops at a lounging room. It’s attached to the formal dining room through an open arched doorway. The place is impeccably decorated with antique furniture, beautifully upholstered leather chairs and couches plush enough to sink into. I’m sure I must have been here before if I lived with the Blackwoods, but again, nothing comes to mind.
I exhale a breath I’ve been holding. A tiny bit of disappointment unfurls, but I ruthlessly suppress it. My past here isn’t important right now.
I spot Edgar and Harry first, decked out in perfect suits. Both make striking figures. Harry’s suit makes him look older and more mature, until he winks at me.
He isn’t stupid, so he has to know why his mother wants to host the dinner, even though he’s making an effort to turn this into a normal event where family just gets together to eat, relax and catch up with one another. I can respect him for trying, so I flash him a smile that probably doesn’t reach my eyes.
Margot is in a long blue gown with sapphires around her neck and on her ears. When I saw her in L.A., she seemed brittle and cold. Here, she wears tragic frailty like a designer dress, a hint of sadness in her green and blue eyes as they skim over me, Tony and Bobbi.
So this is how she holds court in Tempérane. Derision makes me want to snort, but I catch myself. I haven’t forgotten how forceful and awful she was at the Italian restaurant. She can fake weakness and melancholy all she wants, but she can’t fool me.
