Page 111 of Iris' Lying Eyes

I raise my chin and stare into his eyes, committing the fierce expression to memory. His mouth curls, and I pull my lips into a trembling smile. But after searching my gaze, his brow darkens, and he lifts my legs, pounding into me with a ferocity that almost stings.

The desperation leaves me aching, and I squeeze around him, calling out his name, “Bastion.”

With a grunt, he releases while I float back to earth, but when I think he’ll pull me into his arms, he rolls away. Staring at his back, I wipe my leaking eyes. Who knew it would hurt this much?

Chapter Twenty-Three

Bastion’s soft snores follow me as I ease from the bed and pull on my jeans. With a shirt in hand, I close myself in the bathroom and avoid my guilty stare.

This is it. I knew I couldn’t outrun it. But as I grab the phone and slip from the bedroom door, I hesitate, glancing back at B.

If I walk out this door, I can’t come back. Was there ever a choice? Not for me.

The soft light of the bathroom casts a gentle glow on his face, and I trace his features one last time before slipping out and closing the door softly behind me. I can’t think about what I’m leaving behind. I’ll fall apart later.

I have one last thing to do before I go, and clutching the key in my hand, I tiptoe to the door down the hall. I put this off because I wanted to be free for a little while longer, but now I have to arm myself with whatever I can. I’m about to go into battle.

The key does indeed fit the lock, and I slip inside before shutting the door behind me. Only then do I turn on the light and blink against the glare.

At first, it’s just a barrage of colors and words, and I step into the middle of the room, turning in a circle. The space is empty of furniture, but wall to wall, it’s covered in papers, pictures, and drawings. It reminds me of something John would do, and stepping to the first wall, I run my fingers over the list of men I gave to B not so long ago.

Below is a picture of me, doped up and standing next to John. My stomach sours at that because I can see how lost I am. I’ve come a long way since then, but there’s more to do. Will I be this girl when I emerge? Or the new me?

Beside it are pictures of women, and I don’t need to look closely to see they’re some of the many victims in this sordid story.

On the next wall, I pour over maps. The farm. The cabin. Abandoned homes we’ve stayed in. Bending at the waist, I strain to read the words handwritten and now photocopied on paper below.

Names, dates, people I’ve heard about, and people I haven’t.

Harry Parker, Oscar Banks, Razor. I curl my lip at that one, remembering when the group forced me to go down the list of possible suspects in John’s disappearance. All jerks who I fucked or offered to.

Why does B have all this? What does it mean?

Beyond is a wall dedicated to Sam. My skin itches at the pictures, all of them featuring his wide, innocent eyes. In one, he’s scowling as he cries. Next, he’s holding a red lollipop with a wide grin on his cherry-stained lips.

In each image, you can see the progression of his disorder, markers of the genetic anomalies he was born with. To me, he’s perfect, but in John’s sick world, as soon as these anomalies became known, he was no longer useful.

As my eyes rolls over the wall, I scan image after image, grabbing them and dropping them to the floor. Why? What does it mean?

“No. No, no,” I whisper. They’re all of Sam. Laughing gleefully. Raising a hand to the camera. Blowing bubbles.

My Sam. I skim the images with my fingers before stopping on a note, stuck between Sam reaching for something in the distance and another where he’s holding out his hands with a cry.

The note says:Who is Sam? Where is Sam?

Where? Where?!?

“Wh-what?” I whisper, staggering back.

This was before, right? Right? Shit. What if they never had him to begin with?

John.

My throat closes and I back away, fumbling with the door. Am I the biggest fucking fool on the planet?

Whirling, I yank on the wood with such force that it slams against the wall, but I hardly notice because Bastion is standing on the other side.

“Iris,” he says, grabbing my arms, but I flail in his hold, slapping his chest as I scream, “Let me go.”

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