Marry Screw Kill(61)

“Wow,” I say in stunned shock. I spin around on my toes and view the room large enough to land a plane in.

James never called it a penthouse, just his condo by The Clinic. Jeez. I envisioned a small, single bedroom apartment resembling more of a crash pad. I figured it wasn’t up to par since he never brought me down here, but I realize that’s not true.

I thought his house was over the top without a penny being spared for its furnishings. This place resembles a modern museum.

“Sinclair,” a man calls from deeper inside the apartment, or more like the mausoleum, since a soulless aura permeates the air. I try to imagine actually living here and shiver from a chill.

“Hey, Kurt.” Sin takes my hand as my shock begins to wear off.

“You’ll wanna come back here ASAP,” Kurt answers through the walls and open doors.

Sin quickens his step as we follow the sound of Kurt’s voice, tightening his grip on my hands. He gives me a reassuring smile as I follow him down a wide hallway.

We enter a bedroom with papers and a cardboard box scattered across the bed.

I glance up above the bed and stop dead in my tracks. A painting hangs on the wall. Another cold chill creeps over my skin and goose bumps rise in its wake.

“That’s me?” I whisper while glancing at Sin in confusion. He is at my side, embracing me before I can say a word.

“God, I should’ve warned you about the painting. I’m sorry.”

Sin holds me a little tighter and I remain stunned. “When did he do this?”

“I asked, and he said the painting was commissioned before you met him.” Sin runs his eyes over my face as the truth hits me.

James stalked me.

I grab Sin as the world around me swirls. My instincts were right. Yesterday at brunch, he knew the story of how I was named. Somehow, he knew my mother—and me …

My chills turn into a cold sweat as my palms perspire and stomach rolls with waves of nausea.

“It’s okay, Harlow,” Sin says, but he sounds like he is miles away. I’m grounded in his arms, but the room still spins around me.

“Is she all right? Looks like she saw a ghost,” Kurt says somewhere near me, but my eyes stay glued on the painting. Even though the head in the picture is facing away, I know it’s me. I am the ghost.

“When was this painted?” I ask Sin, afraid to find out the answer.

“Sometime last year.” Sin’s arms tighten around me.

“He knew my mother,” I whisper, wondering how well. The sick feeling I’m fighting wins.

I run toward what I hope is the master bath and make it to the toilet before getting sick. Sin is right there with me, holding back my hair and running a soothing hand over my back.

“It will be okay, Harlow. He’ll never bother you again. I promise.” His words spin in my head. As long as I stay here in Rochester, I’ll never be free from him. He doesn’t love me. I am his sick obsession.

When nothing else is left in my stomach, I stand up on weak knees with Sin’s help. His arms secure me while I catch my balance.

“I’m here for you, baby.” Picking me up and cradling me in his arms, Sin carries me across the shiny white tile to the sink and sets me on the counter. He wets a washcloth, wipes around my lips, and smoothes the hair from my face. He cares for me with such tenderness, it almost makes me forget the horror that brought me into this room.

“This has all been some crazy plan of his,” I whisper. The words are hard enough to think, let alone say.

“I have my suspicions. Do you feel better? I need to see what Kurt discovered. We may have very little time.” Sin gives me a soft, comforting smile while holding my hands in his own.

“I’m good.” It’s a lie, but I don’t want to hold Sin up and keep him in here nursing me. I have a feeling James will get here sooner rather than later. It’s how he operates, and I have no desire to be standing around when he walks through the door.

Sin helps me off the counter and we walk back into the bedroom.

“What’s all this on the bed?” I ask.

“Kurt has taken everything out of the safe. I need to go through it and see what James hid.” Sin walks over to the cardboard box sitting on the bed and his eyes go wide.

“Holy shit,” he exclaims, turning the box to face me. On the front in large, black letters is one word: HARLOW.

“I knew it.” The words tumble from my lips. So many odd moments come to my memory. The time he slipped and mentioned my high school English class and how I loved my teacher. She encouraged me to write poetry, telling me to practice my God-given gift, but I never told him about her. He said I had, but couldn’t remember. Now, all the weird little quirks that made me doubt my own memory make sense. He played me from the start.

Sin lifts the top off the box and I fear the contents while dying to know what’s inside. My life. My past. My future.

I peer over the top of the box and see papers mixed with photographs, files without marked tabs.

“What the f*ck?” Sin mutters under his breath as he shuffles through the top layers and pulls out a few items.

One of them is a photograph of me reading in my hiding place at the club. I haven’t read there for over a year. Another chill runs down my spine. From the looks of the setting and the shorter length of my hair, the photo had to have been taken a year ago, maybe longer.