Page 41 of Forged in Rain

I never got a straight answer from Cyn, and I’m still in the dark about why John had his number and why he seemed so surprised. Of course, all of that was pushed to the background in the face of my supposed betrayal.

I don’t know if I should be flattered or horrified that these dicks think I have that much power or standing.

Backing away, I smile weakly and say, “Nice to meet you.”

Jagger cocks his head to the side but doesn’t comment, and I escape up the stairs to my room. Once inside, I pull up Iris’ number immediately, but she doesn’t answer. Fuck.

I’m shaking so badly. I can’t even text right as I type out a message and stare at the words. Should I tell Cyn?

I don’t trust him, and frankly, with his complete ice out and current suspicions, I’m not sure he cares enough to help, but I need someone to help me figure this out, and if Iris is MIA, then Cyn is my next best bet.

Even Oscar told me to trust him.

I’m in trouble

With trembling fingers, I tap send and wait for an answer.

When Cyn doesn’t answer immediately, I drop to the bed and cover my eyes, fighting back tears because this in and of itself tells me just how much Cyn doesn’t care, and you’d think it wouldn’t be a surprise, but it still guts me.

After a while, I hear Jagger leave and watch through the curtains when he turns back to the house with a smile before getting in his muscle car and pulling away. What a cluster.

With a sigh, I sit down in front of the bed and text Iris, hoping someone will get back to me before I lose my mind.

∞∞∞

After an hour of waiting, I sneak into Iris’ room. I don’t fucking care what Cyn wants, but I need to know what she’s hiding. We’ve surpassed everything, and now we’re looking at life or death shit.

I’m not about to die because Iris can’t stop with the games to save her damn life and mine.

I presume Pam is in her room because the door is closed up tight, so I close Iris’ door, but she has blackout curtains, and I’m afraid to turn on the light. Instead, I shine the flashlight from my phone around the space.

Unfortunately, Iris’ whole eighteen years of life is spread from one end to the other, and it could take me a week to get through it all, but I have to assume if she’s hiding something, it wouldn’t be in plain sight.

Opening her closet doors, I grimace at the mess before moving her shit around delicately, although, with the way everything is spread out, I don’t think she’d notice anyway. With a fatalistic shrug, I start shoving everything around, but there’s nothing here but dirty clothes, coins, receipts, and other stupid shit.

Next, I pull down the boxes on the shelf in her closet, but nothing presents itself except memories of when she was a softer, kinder version of herself.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, but I ignore it as I start searching through her pockets, pulling out lint and more coins before I find something in a jacket that must have fit her when she was ten. Pulling it forward, I see it’s from an amusement park with bright swirls of colors and juvenile images of princesses adorning the front.

I remember when she got this coat. We were visiting for a holiday, and she refused to take it off, even going so far as to wear it to bed. I was so jealous, but I pretended not to care, and she pretended not to notice. We were young and foolish then, but I smile anyway because those are the times I miss the most.

Scrubbing my eyes, I grab the coat and sit on her bed as memories of the Iris before assail me. And staring into space, I remember the days when we were inseparable, and she told me everything.

Now she’s locked up tight, and I can’t reach her.

The sound of Pam’s door creaking open brings me around, and fumbling with the jacket, I search the pockets, pausing when my fingers brush something pointy.

Pulling it out, I stare at a picture of Iris before searching the other faces. My skin prickles with awareness, and I set the damn thing aside before exploring the additional pocket. The following picture makes me pause before I race to her desk and grab up her trash, vomiting up everything in my stomach.

It would seem that Iris is familiar with Jagger because the first picture shows John and Jagger at a family function. There’s a Christmas tree in the background, and Jagger has his customary smirk as they rub shoulders, although John’s smile is much more subdued.

The second image includes Iris with both John and Jagger. They’re engaged in sexual activity, and I’m pretty sure I will never get the image out of my head. Her face is radiant with both pleasure and pain as she’s double-dipped, a position I learned about from Jig not too long ago.

What the actual fuck?

Wearily, I grab the garbage and close myself back in my room, staring at nothing. What the fuck am I going to do? Iris can’t tell the truth to save her life, and I don’t have anyone I can ask or turn to. Unless I go to Oscar, but he’s insisted from the start that I go to Cyn, who currently hates me and appears to be involved if John’s little black book of horrors means anything.

My phone buzzes again, and absently I pull it out, reminded of my text to Cyn earlier when I read his response.

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