Buried Beneath Sin (Graveyard Games Duet #1)

1. Sagan

1

SAGAN

I dream of different ways to kill my father.

He wasn’t a good man when I knew him. I’m fairly certain he still isn’t. But even if he is a decent fellow now, I don’t give a rat’s ass. The fucker has to die—preferably by my hand.

Sometimes I can still smell his stale breath and feel the ringing in my ears during moments he’d holler in my face—typically to curse my existence and blame me and my twin brother, Thatcher, for ruining my mother’s perfectly tight cunt. A tragedy for him, I’m sure.

For most of my adult years I’ve constantly pushed thoughts of him to the back of my mind. He’s not worth remembering. Despite my efforts, he’ll make an appearance in my dreams from time to time. Vivid nightmares in which the remembered pain of him digging his index finger into each of the cigarette burns he left in my skin jerks me awake and leaves me drenched in sweat at least four or five times a year. As if the scars aren’t enough of a reminder of his cruelty.

I’m not sure why those memories haven’t been chased away by the ones where Thatcher and I sawed off those same fingers with a rusted drywall saw. Now that was a good time which deserves to be played on repeat.

I guess I’m just not that lucky.

But my luck is about to turn around. Patrick Hunt’s death is near—I can feel it as surely as I can the cool October night’s breeze that skims across my face. His flimsy light is about to be snuffed out, and I’ll be the one to do it.

Unfortunately, it won’t happen tonight.

Some disappointment about that bubbled up during my conversation with Thatcher a month ago when we decided I should come pay dear old dad a visit. I didn’t want to wait, but I understood the reasoning for it. While I might not be able to kill him this visit, I’ll be able to soon. I just need to be patient. Things are being set in motion and tonight is the first step in Thatcher’s plan.

Beneath my boots, old leaves crunch and crackle. Twigs snap and creatures scurry away. Usually, I’m quieter than this, and I’ll have to be soon. For now, however, I’m too far from the house to be heard or even seen as I move through the sparse woods on the vast property.

The pale moonlight, just bright enough to pass through the thin clouds overheard, is just enough for me to see by. My flashlight goes unused in my back pocket, but close by as I might need it later. The soft sound of frogs croaking reaches my ears. Good, that means I must be nearing the pond. According to the satellite images of this place, the small body of water, just on the other side of the unused, overgrown graveyard, is my halfway point to the house.

My pace doesn’t quicken despite my eagerness to get this done.

I’m not one to rush a job. Never have been, never will be. Some people can’t handle the anticipation. That simmering of energy in the blood, the drying of the mouth, and racing of the heart? I bottle that shit up, savor the discomfort, and bask in the thrill. The waiting game has always been my thing. I could wait out the second coming of Christ and then some.

Not that I know anything about Christ. The only thing I have in common with that guy is that both his father and mine put us through hell.

The pond comes into view as the woods come to an abrupt stop. I hardly spare the small, algae-ridden, lily-pad-filled body of water a glance. If you’ve seen one pond, you’ve seen them all. As I draw nearer, I can’t help but notice how this one smells particularly foul. The stale water is a breeding ground for mosquitos and horse flies. The corner of my upper lip curls in irritation as they buzz around my face. Thankfully, my hoodie and jeans are enough to protect me from the worst of their bites. The frogs don’t seem to mind my presence. The small slimy creatures continue to sing as I round their home, being extra cautious as I avoid the soft mud.

I don’t want to leave any evidence of my presence.

The graveyard beyond the pond is a pathetic patch of land with maybe two dozen partially visible, moss-covered, crumbling headstones. My eyes land on the few that can actually be seen through the overgrown grass and tangled vines. They’re blank. Whatever words were once inscribed on them have long since faded, and just like the bodies beneath the tombstones, they’ve been forgotten.

I continue my steady progression toward another cluster of trees. Here, the ground begins to elevate. I wouldn’t call it a hill given how slight of an incline there is, but still, there is some elevation. These trees are thinner and there’s an old gravel trail I can just make out that gives me a path to follow without leaving footsteps.

When the trees break this time, I come to the back of a one-story brick building. The tall, four car garage attached to it is newer than the rest of the building but not by much. I know, thanks to Knox doing some digging online and finding the blueprints, that this is where they keep the cremation furnace and the hearse and company van. From what I can see of it, the place needs some TLC. Bricks are chipped or missing, one window is barred and boarded up, and the back door looks dented and rusted.

So this is Bright Starr Funeral Home—the business my father helps run. Apparently it’s family owned and operated. A family he married into, not one he created. Of course the bastard would find one of the only businesses that can’t go under, at least not without trying really hard to fuck it up. Death is a constant in this world.

There’s probably no one who knows that better than I do.

The night’s breeze picks up for a moment, sending a slight chill down my spine. If I was a superstitious individual, I’d probably be creeped out by the entire estate, but, thankfully, I don’t lack common sense. This place is just a shithole. That’s what gives the whole property a dreary vibe. How do you run a business like this into the ground? You have to be an idiot. Which, given who’s running the funeral home, isn’t all that far from the mark. My gaze traces every inch of the building once more before eyeing the roof. The amount of work it would take to get this place looking acceptable would be enormous and this is just judging it based on the back of the building. What do the front and the inside look like? Have they done any renovations since it opened fifty-odd years ago?

If I had to guess, I’d say probably not.

I’m good with my hands and enjoy a challenge, but this ? Fuck… This will take a lot to bring up to our standards. My back aches just thinking about it. Neither Thatcher nor Knox are too keen on holding any tool besides a knife so it will mostly be me doing the work. I knew it’d be bad, and so did Thatcher; it’s why he sent me to check the place out—so I could be his eyes. Thatcher might be the planner, but between the two of us, I’m the one that tends to put things in motion. And Knox? His ability to come up behind us and put finishing touches on all the things we do is like watching an artist work.

I turn my head to assess the small shed a few yards away. That, too, looks like shit. In fact, given the way the roof is caved in and most of one side is completely missing, I consider it condemnable. At least the rats look fat and happy. I eye the creatures as they dart back and forth out of the shed and into the tall grass. We’ll have to completely demolish that in our takeover. Wonderful, more work. As if the landscaping and revamping the funeral home won’t be enough.

I take mental notes as I start to move again. Slinking through the shadows of the funeral home, I round the building. Rather than head to the front where a small parking lot resides, I head up the only actual hill on the property. I avoid the wide steps built into the hill, keeping to the east side of the tall, three-story house, where there are fewer windows and hardly any light spills out from the ones there are.

The house is in about as bad a shape as the business at the bottom of the hill. As I approach, I note the dilapidation. The paint has faded on most of the siding. Boards are warped and filled with small holes, almost like bullets have flown through them at some point. The windows of the house are filthy, some even cracked. The stairs on the front porch look ready to give way at any second, and the front porch light, a lantern that hangs just above the door, is flickering on and off. This place probably hasn’t seen a single renovation since it was built back in the early nineteen hundreds. In its current state, it looks like it probably houses more ghosts than the graveyard I passed.

For a man that owns a business in death and who should be loaded, it looks like things haven’t been going great for dear old dad.

That brings me a small amount of pleasure.

Creeping around to the back of the house, I find a small porch and a back door. What are the chances it’s open? Given that I’m forty-five minutes southeast of Chicago, in some bumfuck town in Indiana called Chasm, it’s probably pretty high. Midwestern folks in these places sure do trust one another.

Idiots.

I walk up the three cement steps and try the knob. The latch gives way and the door opens. I catch it before it swings too far. Leaning forward, I listen for signs of life. Time ticks on by as I simply stand there and wait.

Patience. I have an abundance of it.

Which is why Thatcher sent me rather than sending Knox or coming himself. They just don’t have what it takes to simply wait .

When I’m sure there’s no one walking around on the first floor, I open the back door just wide enough for me to slide in before shutting it. I’m in a mudroom of sorts where coats hang, dirty shoes are piled on the floor, and the washer and dryer—that look nearly as old as the house—sit. The door to the rest of the house is open. Just outside of it is a long hallway. At the end of the hall and to the left is a room with light flooding from it.

I tilt my head and listen.

Still, there’s no noise. Cautiously, I take a step further into the house, eyeing the worn wooden floorboards. They don’t creak under my weight. Another four steps and I’m feeling confident that I can move without a sound. Still, I keep to the sides of the hallway rather than walk down the middle of it. I pause when I come to the threshold of the room where the light is coming from. During my trek here the room was silent, leading me to believe there’s no one inside. Still, I peek my head in and allow my gaze to swing around the room.

I freeze when it lands on the woman in the faded wingback chair.

She has thick, kinky hair, which is in disarray, a strong jawline, and is rail thin. Judging by the light snores and her slouch, she’s passed out. There’s a rubber band tied around her arm, and a needle rests in a tray on the small table beside the chair. I stare at my father’s latest wife. He never loved my mother. Zin Zhao had been a first generation immigrant from China, here to plant roots for the rest of her family to settle once she’d gotten the hang of things. Unfortunately for her, my father could smell her vulnerability. He’d taken advantage of a lonely young woman, then accidentally knocked her the fuck up—with twins no less. Since he left her, back when Thatcher and I were thirteen, he's remarried three times. His marriage to Lauren Starr has been his longest since my mother; it’s going on five years now. I suppose if I was forced to marry in order to survive, I’d want someone who’d get high and leave me the hell alone too.

Leaving Lauren to her own devices, I turn and head in another direction. As I move around the first floor, I make a list of the things that need updating—which seems to be everything given how the windows, floors, light fixtures, kitchen appliances, and even the furniture all seem to be original. The longer the mental list gets, the more I’m sure this is a mistake.

Killing Patrick and letting this place rot would be the best bet for all of us.

I peek into an office next. Here, I take my time. I find the keys to the funeral home, take pictures of the poorly kept financial records and the piles of unpaid bills stacked behind a few boxes. Thatcher will need these to see what we’ll be taking on if we decide to move forward with his plan.

When I’m done in the office, I step into the conservatory. The room, made up of three glass walls and a glass ceiling, is filled with pots housing dead plants, dirty glass, and cracked floor tiles. It’s a forgotten space, just like the rest of the house. Just as I turn to leave, my eyes land on something green. I hesitate before stepping further into the room. In the far corner is a cluster of healthy looking plants. Potted in rich, new looking soil, they seem to be thriving. The glass that surrounds that corner has been cleaned so light can shine through.

How odd… Why keep those ones alive?

The question isn’t important and is forgotten the minute I step out of the conservatory. When I come back around, I check on Lauren Starr. She’s still out—having stayed in the exact same position.

Just as I take a step toward the stairs, noise from somewhere on the second or third floor captures my attention. A familiar voice drifts through the house, his favorite curse word on his lips. There’s a thud and then silence.

Emotion stirs in my chest. The hatred I’ve carried for this man trudges up through the dark chasm within my chest and warms my blood. Its presence isn’t surprising. I’ve loathed my father for as long as I can remember. The way he abused us, tortured our mother… It was enough to drive anyone insane.

When Patrick doesn’t come into view, I take the steps two at a time, placing my weight strategically in places where I’m confident the wood won’t creak to give me away. When I get to the second floor, I note that the U-shape hall looks down onto the first floor. Anyone who comes out of the four doors on this floor can peer over to see into the foyer and either entrance to the rooms below.

Good to know for the next time I come visit.

Another set of stairs, narrower than the first, head up to the third floor. There, a door is ajar and light is spilling through. The sound of shuffling footsteps, mumbling, and a thump tell me my father is meandering around up there.

As satisfying as it would be, I promised Thatcher I’d wait until he was with me before we killed him. Besides, there are other pieces of our plan that need to be put into motion before we can kill him.

With that thought, I turn, hooking around the U to my left and slipping into the first door.

The room I’ve entered is an unused guestroom. Dust covers every surface, including the comforter and drapes. I hesitate, not going too far. With so much dust on the floor, it’ll show footprints. Maybe next time I come, I’ll clean up a bit so I can move throughout the house without worrying about such things. Quickly, I leave the room. My feet take me to the end of the hallway to the last door. Here, I grab the knob and open the door just enough to make my way inside. I slip in, prepared to find another guest room.

I’m wrong.

My foot freezes mid-stride as I enter. There, laying sprawled out on the floor on her stomach, is a young woman. Her arms are outstretched in front of her. I watch as she struggles to dig her nails into the hardwood floor to give herself some leverage in order to drag herself forward. It works… a little. The half an inch she gains is pathetic though.

Her staccato, ragged breaths are the only sound in the room.

Something stirs in my chest as I stare down at her. It’s not a fully developed emotion, but I’m pretty sure this is the start of curiosity. Huh, interesting. Why is it waking now? I’ve seen women on their stomachs countless times. Hell, I tend to put them there before I plunge a blade through their backs.

Never once have I felt anything other than a mild satisfaction during those moments.

So why am I intrigued now?

I take my time drinking in her short legs, thick thighs, wide hips, and plump ass. My eyes linger on her ass a moment longer, appreciating it like a fine painting. The clothes she wears are unextraordinary—her pajama shorts have holes, and the color of her tank top has faded away to a color somewhere between purple and gray.

She lets out a soft whimper that breaks halfway through to turn into a sob. A hard tremor races through her.

If Lauren is downstairs, then this must be her daughter, Beatrix Starr. From what Knox unearthed from the sparse information online about her, she’s twenty-two, just graduated from college with a bachelor’s degree in mortuary science, and is home now to help run Bright Starr. Unlike her mother, Beatrix’s warm brown skin has a healthy glow to it, albeit marred with a few bruises here and there. Her hair, a few shades lighter than her mother's, is parted down the middle and kept in tight braids. And judging by the dramatic feminine curves that create a mouthwatering silhouette, she’s not a junkie.

The young woman tries to pull herself across the floor again. Her attempt this time is even more feeble and less successful than the last. Where is she going? I follow the direction she’s headed and eye a small, antique vanity. Sitting on top of it is a phone.

Is she trying to call for help? Why doesn’t she just call out?

The near silence in the room is interrupted by the thundering of footsteps coming down stairs. Beatrix whimpers—the noise desperate and frightened now rather than simply distressed. It's a sound I know only too well.

The footsteps stop on the second landing then start this way. Shit, I need to get moving. I’m careful as I step over Lauren’s daughter and grab the handle of the folding door to her closet. I pull it open and step inside. Just as I pull it shut, the bedroom door bangs open the rest of the way.

There’s a scoff. I lean ever so slightly to the side to peer through the slats of the door. There, standing in all his six foot, four inch glory, is my father. My insides riot at the sight of him—a momentary explosion of pure rage. It’s crazy that I came from this bastard. Other than inheriting his height, I never once believed we were related. The differences between us are even more pronounced now since he’s aged quite a bit. With wispy hair that he’s combed over a near-bald head, a beer belly that hangs off a thin frame, and clothes stained with food, he’s really let himself go.

What hasn’t changed is that sneer he’s currently hosting. It’s the same one he would wear just when he was about to dole out a special type of punishment. Fear and anguish are like ghostly fingertips skimming across my chest, causing it to tighten for just a second before they disappear and I relax.

“You fucking bitch,” Patrick hisses as he steps forward to straddle the young woman. “You really thought you could convince your mother to leave me?”

He crouches down, grabbing her two braids and yanking up her head. She lets out a soft gasp.

“Well, you heard her. She needs me. This business needs me. How else would Bright Starr have survived this long? I have put blood, sweat, and tears into that place! And the shit I have to deal with from your mother—it’s enough to drive a man mad. But I do it because I know what’s best for her and us. We were happy without you !”

He slams her face down onto the floor. Her answering whimper is soft.

“You listen to me good, Beatrix,” he snarls. “You got bold while you were away at college. Did you really think you could just storm back through those doors with divorce papers in hand and try to plant lies about me in your mother’s ear? You’re fucking pathetic. Don’t you get that by now? Lauren loathes you. Your constant nagging and pushing her to do things—she can’t stand you. I’m the one she wants around, not you. Luckily for me, you still love her. So here’s my proposition: from now on, you start listening to me and doing as I say. If you don’t, I’ll kill that bitch downstairs and then I’ll come for you.”

Patrick’s snicker is the same one that chases me in my nightmares. My hand reaches for the knife sheathed on my belt. I catch myself in the act. With a great deal of effort, I force myself to hold still.

“Up and at ’em,” my dad says gleefully.

He stands, yanking the woman up by her hair and dragging her limp body over to the twin bed. She doesn’t fight him. I don’t know if she can at this point. Clearly she’s been incapacitated. I can’t tell if it’s self-inflicted like Lauren downstairs or otherwise.

Patrick throws the young woman onto the bed and flips her onto her back. She tries to reach up—whether it’s to push him away or claw at his face, I’m not sure—but Dad just slaps her hands away and slams a fist against her cheek. Her head flops to the side, facing me. Her mouth hangs open, her eyes half-drooped.

“You can’t fight me ,” he snarls before laughing. “That sedative is kicking in nicely. Soon all you’ll be able to do is lay there and feel me.”

When my father flicks on the lamp that sits on the vanity, light floods the room and allows me a clear view of my stepsister’s face. Her brown skin is lighter than her mother’s by several shades; her lips are fuller too. As my father rips open her top, large tits spill out. He groans. While they are nice, I’m unimpressed by the overall package. She’s just another body we’ll have to dispose of later.

We can’t have her inheriting this place once her mother and my dad are dead.

That’s if we want this place. I’m not convinced inheriting any of this would be in our best interest.

I glance around the room. Unlike the rest of the house, this room is immaculate. I’m almost positive there’s not a speck of dust anywhere. It’s also the most updated, though that’s not saying a lot. The furniture has been purchased within the last decade, at least. Items on her dresser are neatly organized, her windows are clean—unlike the film that covers the rest that I’ve seen—and there’s a pile of neatly folded clothes sitting in a basket by the foot of the bed. By the windowsill, there’s a small potted plant. Even from here I can tell the soil is damp and new. Whatever she’s cultivating is still young, just a single leaf that has yet to unravel.

“You know what the people around here call you?” Patrick asks, unbuckling his pants. He chucks them off with a grunt. When his belt hits the floor, he straddles his stepdaughter. “A weirdo, freak , the Starr with a fat ass but no brains. And you know what I say when I hear them? I agree. You are a freak, and I’m disgusted I can get my cock up for you. But you’ll take care of it, won’t you?”

He yanks down her pajama bottoms.

“You won’t make a sound now, will you Beatrix?” he asks, leaning over her as he grabs his dick and positions it between her legs. He chuckles darkly. “No, no, I don’t think you will. Not that you do much talking anyway.”

As he snaps his hips forward, his stepdaughter lets out the softest of whimpers. My gaze falls back to her face just in time for the light to catch in her eyes.

I stifle a grunt as the floor beneath me drops away—my stomach going with it.

Those eyes… Holy shit. Like liquid amber, the rich molten color is as striking as it is unusual. From here, they almost look like they’re glowing. I’ve never seen anything like them. My lungs expand, searching for air to fill them, but I can’t seem to take a full breath. The longer I stare, the more I feel like I’m slowly melting into them—sinking into their abyss.

But it’s not just the color that has my world tilting on its axis.

In that gaze trained on the closet where I hide is a familiar flame. Though slightly glazed over, there’s no softening the utter loathing that shines through. It’s twisted though. She may despise the man fucking her like a stiff mule, but there’s something more there. A poisonous vein of retribution and malice punctures through the hatred and is changing something inside of her.

What that something is, I’m not sure. I’m certain, however, that I’m staring at a woman who has the makings of something incredible.

Maybe there is something here worth investing in here after all.