5. Beatrix
5
BEATRIX
T he smell of roses washes over me in subtle waves. There are a dozen black ones at my side in a pretty vase. I don’t know when Sagan had time between yesterday and this morning to pick these up or even where he got them, but they are lovely. Or at least I think they are. I’ve barely spared them a single glance since I arrived and sat down beside them.
Perched on the edge of my desk in the preparation room, I stare at the six square doors that make up the refrigeration system. Four out of the six stations are full. I’ll have to tend to each body eventually.
I catch my reflection rock back and forth in the stainless steel. It’s annoying to watch but I can’t seem to look away. My chest clenches tight, and for the hundredth time since I got up this morning, I feel like I can’t breathe, and the walls are closing in around me. Panic wells up and my rocking increases. My grip on the edge of the desk tightens. A hard tremor runs through me and tears well up.
Stop it, you’re alive ! I squeeze my eyes shut. You’re alive and you’re ok.
But for how long? Until the next punishment or game these guys want to play? A moan slips past my lips. The sound cuts off as the pressure in my chest increases. I thought things were going well with Knox. That I finally had a friend. Of course, I had to go and screw that up and almost end up dead, all because I couldn’t mind my own business. Well lesson learned. Don’t get close to these guys, and keep my head down. Just like how I was living my life before they got here. I jerk my head away from my distorted reflection in the metal and look at the person laying still on the table before me.
Trevor's decomposing body helps to dispel some of the panic.
I've never had any desire to see Trevor Michaels naked. However, I have to admit gray, decaying, and bloated is a good look for him. His insides match his outsides now. There's no golden prodigy to be seen here. I take a small comfort in that.
Around his bent neck is a thick, circular bruise. Using the notes taken by the police left in the body bag with Trevor and my knowledge of how bruises work, it appears the twins had thrown Trevor over the old Hogton Bridge, and let gravity break his neck. Trevor's car was discovered parked along the side of the rusted bridge with the door open and a note on the dash. I wonder what the twins wrote to make it look convincing.
My mouth twitches as a smile comes and goes. As pleased as I am to see the end of Trevor Michaels, I know his death will bring heartache to one of the few people I consider a friend.
“Pastor Michaels wanted to speak to you yesterday about the arrangements for his son. He mentioned a cremation but he didn't go into any service details. He was pretty insistent that it be you to handle everything for this situation,” Thatcher had said as I started out the front door this morning. “I promised him that you would reach out when you could.”
I should call my friend now, but it's still early. Would he even be up? My heart sinks as I dread that conversation. I know how suicide is perceived by his faith and how broken he'll be about all of this. Part of me wishes I could assure him his son hadn't taken his own life—if only to give him that peace of mind. Though I doubt letting him know Trevor was murdered instead would give him the peace I want him to have.
“I hope you're having fun rotting in hell,” I mutter to Trevor as I scoot off the edge of the desk and move around his table.
I’m halfway around when my feet come to an abrupt stop. My gaze lingers on Trevor’s face—something I’ve avoided looking too hard at. I’ve seen it enough while he was alive. Enough to notice that something is off about it now. Frowning, I come around the table to stand beside his head. I stare into his semi-open eyelids, wondering if his eyeballs have sunken into his face.
Quickly, I move around the room to grab disposable gloves. I yank them on and head back over to the body. Reaching over, I open an eyelid. Huh. Trevor is missing his eyes.
I let the lid drop. Where the hell… I start to shake my head as I remember he’s been out in the elements for over a week. Birds could have plucked the eyeballs out. That’s not unheard of. Yet when I study Trevor’s face, there aren’t any signs of scratching from talons or marks from the beak of a bird.
My mind goes to the night Knox flipped out on me, bringing a knife to my throat in a warning to never touch him again. Hadn’t Sagan walked in just moments before with a pair of eyes in a box? What are the odds that those eyes belong to… No, I dismiss the thought before it can solidify. No one in Chasm would find a body, pluck the eyes out of it, and dump them at my doorstep. Those eyes had been from an animal.
But I didn’t see them to confirm that, did I? Thatcher tossed them and that had been that.
Unease knots in my gut. Those couldn’t have been Trevor’s eyes… right?
I pull back Trevor’s eyelid again and take a closer look. The optic nerve, or what’s left of it, sits shriveled in the socket. Inspecting it closely, I realize it’s been severed with one clean cut.
“Holy shit…” I let go of Trevor’s eyelid and step away from his body as I try to understand what I’m seeing. Or what I’m not seeing. I need to tell the police.
No, wait, not the police. They’d look too closely into Trevor’s death then. Should I tell the twins? Resentment causes my metaphorical hackles to rise. I don’t want to talk to them. Not right now. Not if I don’t have to. An internal war rages as I contemplate what to do. If I tell them, then what? They’ll just… shrug? Laugh and dismiss me?
“I’ll tell them later,” I grumble to myself. It’s not like anything can be done about it now.
I take a step toward the small storage closet on the other side of the room—determined to use work to distract me from my misery. At the same time, the door to the preparation room opens. Just as I look up, Knox strolls in. Today he’s dressed in a deep burgundy suit and pants combo. Beneath it is a white, skin tight lace top, and under that is a white tank. Around his wrists are all those thin gold bracelets, clustered together, and around his neck are the pearls I gave him.
Like this, it’s hard to see the cruel side of Knox. Visually, he’s flawless. Especially when he shoots me that bright, friendly smile that makes me feel completely at ease in his presence.
But now I know better than to let my guard down around Knox.
The blood drains from my face as panic explodes in my chest. Instinctually, I take a few steps backward before I let out an ear-piercing shriek. The sound is cut off as I, in my haste, trip over my own feet. I yelp as I go down, falling on my butt.
“Hey, hey, hey! Enough of that!” he says. “I’m not here to hurt you. I promise. Your punishment is over, so we can go back to being besties. See? I brought a peace offering.” He lifts a white paper bag in one hand and a tall to-go cup in his other.
I’m immediately embarrassed by my reaction. Of course he’s not going to hurt me. Thatcher and Sagan have stepped in to call a timeout on this stupid game. But for how long? As my breathing returns to normal, I glare up at Knox.
“I don’t want anything from you .” My voice wobbles with a mixture of resentment and fading fear. I climb to my feet slowly, wincing as I use my bandaged hands to push off the ground. “Get out of here.”
“Aw, don’t be like that. I'm sorry about yesterday.” Knox groans dramatically as he saunters over to the desk. “This is my ‘I’m sorry I left you in the ground for too long and almost caused your slow and agonizing death’ meal. I went to that bakery place you took me to for those dessert croissants last week, and I grabbed us some breakfast. Sagan said you liked Earl Grey with some creamer in it, so I got you that too.”
I don't respond. My stomach churns just thinking about eating anything, especially from Knox. In this moment, I loathe him. I wish it was Knox on this table, cold and dead. Being in the room with him awakens all the anger and disgust I'd kept for the special people in my life. People like Patrick Hunt, Trevor Michaels, and Sebastian Heins. At least those three are dead. I still have to put up with this asshole and whatever torment he thinks I’m worthy of next. Being buried alive was never a fear of mine before, but now? I can almost taste the hot stale air as it grew thinner and hear the hum of the horrible silence bearing down on me. Nausea washes over me as I think about what Knox did to me.
To keep from spiraling, I make myself busy. Moving around the room, I head to the small storage unit and grab a flattened human-sized cardboard box. Carrying it over, I place it on the second embalming table—the one beside Trevor—and start to assemble it.
“I got one of those cheesy strudel things and ate it on the way back,” Knox says conversationally. “It was fucking delicious. So, I turned around and went back for three more. I have one left; I'll eat in here to keep you company. I already dropped off the others their breakfast. For future reference, Thatcher likes an everything bagel with jalapeno cream cheese and Sagan likes garlic bagels with plain cream cheese. Make sure to add a stick of gum to their breakfast because those are the smelliest?—”
“I’m not hungry. Now get out, I have work to do,” I cut him off sharply as the cardboard coffin starts to take shape. Once I’m done, I’ll use it to hold Trevor’s body while I roast him.
Knox sighs as he perches himself on the edge of the desk where I had been sitting only a few minutes before. He glances at the roses, sparing them a single appraising look before crossing one leg over the other and lifting a brow in my direction.
“Flowers, nice,” he says with approval. “Who was it? Thatcher or Sagan?”
When I don’t answer him, he heaves a heavy sigh.
“You’re seriously still pissed?” Knox tsks. “Come on, don’t be like this. It’s not like Thatcher didn’t warn you that there were rules, and you’d have to learn them the hard way. Now you know the one about privacy.”
“I didn’t realize that I’d have to nearly die to learn your stupid rules!” I hiss furiously between clenched teeth as I keep my eyes locked on my task. It’s better this way. With my eyes averted, Knox can’t see the angry tears welling up in them. “Why are you still here? What part of go away don’t you get?”
There’s a long, frustrated sigh before the rustling of a paper bag.
“I messed up, ok?” The next words are said through a mouth full of pastry. “I didn’t intend to leave you in there that long. I got caught up in my own head and didn’t realize how much time passed. I admit I went a little too far and I take full responsibility. What else do you want from me?”
It takes me a second to work the tension out of my jaw. When I do it’s to growl out, “I just told you what I wanted.”
“ Besides leaving,” Knox objects. “Doesn't a free breakfast sound like a great apology?”
“I don't want an apology. If I’ve learned anything living with an addict, I know words are hollow.” I shoot him a dark glare.
Knox’s eyes roll with exasperation. He opens his mouth to probably attempt to placate me, but I can’t deal with this right now. I just… can’t.
“This all might be a joke to you, or no big deal because—hey I didn't die—but it's a big deal to me , Knox. I've been fighting for so long—” My voice cracks as frustration and weariness combine to beat down on me. “—To just live a life where I'm not constantly looking over my shoulder to avoid being hurt. I thought, naively, that with you guys around it would be different. That I’d have people watching my back, but it looks like I’m back to square one.”
Knox huffs, “Starr Girl, you?—”
“Just shut up for a second, Knox! You just don’t get it, do you? You’re this good looking, friendly, outgoing guy. You were probably the popular kid in school, and now you have two guys that adore you. You’ve probably never been so alone that even mice won’t hang out with you.” I finish stiffly folding the cardboard coffin as I talk. “You probably don’t know what it’s like to be the butt of an entire town’s joke, or the person constantly tormented by—” I wave a hand at Trevor. “—But that’s been my life for as long as I can remember. I thought that was going to change when I reached out to the three of you. But if yesterday is what it's going to be like all the time, I don’t want it.”
With a small degree of difficulty, I transfer Trevor’s body over into the cardboard coffin. When I’m done, I roll his body toward the double door. Knox slides off the desk and hurries over to open the door for me. He shoots me a grin that I ignore while pushing Trevor out into the hallway.
“Am I allowed to talk now?” he asks.
“No, go away.”
Instead of listening, Knox trails behind me toward the cremation chamber. My whole body goes on high alert, stiffening at his proximity and my lack of sight on him. He can do anything right now with my back turned to him. I hold my breath, straining to hear any sort of sign that he's going to jump me from behind.
“You're wrong, you know,” he says, his voice grim, after a few minutes of tense silence as we walk through the halls of Bright Starr. “I grew up in a place like Chasm. Good old Triton, Idaho, with a population of about four hundred and fifty people, and all of them were fucking assholes. As someone who doesn’t fit a certain mold, I drew a lot of judgment from people. Even my parents never understood me.”
We stop in front of the door to the back where the cremation chamber is. I push a button on the wall and the door opens into the vast garage space. With a grunt, I push the rolling table into the room. To my dismay, Knox follows.
“I had bullies just like Trevor and Sebastian,” he admits. “They did, ah, similar things to me that these two did to you.”
Halfway to the furnace, my footsteps falter. I shouldn’t care. So what if maybe we have something in common? Knox’s sob story won’t justify his actions. Still, I find myself holding my breath as I wait to hear more. Knox leans up against the wall by the door. His gaze drops to the floor while he shoves his hands into his pockets.
“I was an outsider most of my life. I had maybe one friend that I can remember, but he didn’t last long once I hit puberty, and he realized that I wasn’t like him. While I started putting on my mom’s clothes and experimenting with makeup, the rest of the guys my age were playing in the dirt or jerking off to their older brother’s porn stash. I was picked on for it relentlessly. Greg Westfield was one of the worst of them. He would torment me at school in front of everyone whenever he got the chance. From grade school all the way to high school.”
Walking over to the furnace, I turn it on to preheat and then bend into the cardboard coffin to readjust Trevor. At Knox’s lengthy pause, I look up at him. His face is flush as he glares at the floor. There’s a stiffness to his posture that wasn’t there moments ago.
“But then in high school something changed. After school, Greg was different. In those moments, he acted like he wanted to be my friend. At first, I didn't believe him—not with how he treated me any other time. But when he was nice, he was super nice, and I enjoyed the attention from the most popular guy in school. We could talk for hours, and slowly I got to know him, all of him. And that's what I'm into, you know? Complicated personalities are what get my blood going, not necessarily looks, and I was realizing that with Greg.”
I shake my head, not wanting to trade ‘woe is me’ stories. “Knox?—”
“Just… give me a second.” Knox shoots me a frustrated glare before he redirects it to the floor once more. “Eventually we got physical with one another. He was my first everything, and behind closed doors he was really good to me. But his friend, Justin, found us in a compromising situation one day. Greg showed his true colors then. He told Justin that I'd drugged him and forced him to do stuff to me. Justin beat the shit out of me while Greg watched on. But that wasn't enough. They r?—”
Knox’s mouth slams shut as the tendons in his neck pop out as he seems lost in that memory.
After a tense moment of silence, Knox finally shakes his head and pushes on. “Anyway, after some time, they left me there bleeding and in pain. Somehow, after a few hours, I managed to get home, and when I told my parents they… they didn't believe me. They said I must've done what Greg said I did because I allowed Satan to corrupt me. All because I wasn't a ‘normal’ son. They already had the town whispering in their ear about me before everything happened with Greg—about how I was a freak. But then word got around town about what ‘I did’ and after that, things were so, so much worse. I left shortly after graduation a year later. I couldn’t take the constant harassment. I knew I’d find a better life out in the real world—which was both true and not. Because I don’t fit the status quo, I'm deemed a freak in most places, and I’m gawked at a lot . Now, though, I don't mind. I’m comfortable with myself.”
I’m not sure it’s possible to fake the thick bitterness in Knox’s voice. Which means… I’m inclined to believe his story. I stare at Knox, my emotions so conflicted that I'm not quite sure what I'm feeling. This is the first time I've heard him speak solemnly. The thing is, true or not, I can’t be sure if he's telling me this story as a ploy to let my guard down, just like his charming smiles and friendly conversations do, or if he's being sincere.
“Anyway,” Knox clears his throat. “I'm telling you this because?—”
The door opens to the cremation chamber, cutting off whatever Knox is going to say. We both look at Sagan as he joins us. The hard look he splits between the two of us is the most emotion I've seen on his face. His gaze lingers on his boyfriend, who shoots him a sheepish, cheek-dimpling grin. All traces of bitterness and solemnity in Knox’s expression vanish as if they were never there.
“Everything good here?” Sagan asks, his voice carefully void of any emotions.
“Everything is perfect. Me and my bestie were just talking. What’s up?” Knox's smile falters when Sagan dismisses him to look at me.
“Come on, Little Viper, the pastor is here to speak with you.”
The blood drains from my face. “Already? But Bright Starr isn't even open yet.”
How am I supposed to look Pastor Michaels in the eyes? Giving the green light for the guys to kill Trevor isn't something I regret, but still, my stomach churns painfully as I consider what my actions have done to affect others.
Sagan shrugs. “He was waiting out front, I figured we could rip the Band-Aid off quickly.”
Swallowing hard, I nod.
“I can throw this guy into the fire if you want,” Knox offers quickly.
I chew the inside of my cheek for a moment as I consider what to do with Trevor. As much as I’d like to just toss him into the retort and be done with him, like I intended to do, I reconsider. This isn’t about me right now. Trevor is a family member of a client. Their wants and needs supersede mine.
“Actually,” I grimace, hating to have to hang on to Trevor any longer. “I should roll him back into the preparation room. Pastor Michaels might … he might want to say goodbye.”
Knox shoves off the wall quickly. “I can do that! Go and take care of the pastor. I got this.”
Both Sagan and I eye him suspiciously. From the dragging of his feet, his constant complaining, and never-ending eye rolls he graces us all with daily whenever he’s asked to do something, it’s clear Knox isn’t a fan of working. At all . For him to leap at the chance to do so now feels disingenuous.
“Fine.” I relent after a moment of consideration. To Sagan, I mutter, “Let's get this over with.”
Sagan backs out of the room, and I follow him. Knox remains behind. I don't know if I should be worried that he's going to do something to Trevor before his father can see him, but I just pray he cares about the success of this business more than playing games.
Our footsteps are silent as I follow Sagan up to the front of the funeral home. My chest constricts as I think about facing my friend. Will I be able to handle his tears? Pastor Michaels has always been so good to me. It should say something about me that I was so heartless when it came to deciding his son's fate. If Pastor Michaels ever found out I had something to do with Trevor's death... Shame cools my blood. My pace slows as I consider the conversation to come.
“Sagan, what am I supposed to say?” I hate that there’s a slight whine to my voice.
Turning to Sagan for advice is the last thing I want to do right now. He can’t be trusted. None of them can be trusted. Their back-and-forth between cruel and sweet will break me. I know it. It’s almost more painful than anything Trevor, Sebastian, Patrick, my mother, or any of her other husbands have put me through. These men have gotten under my skin in a new way. A disease that’s altering my mind, confusing me. These men will hurt—maybe even kill— me if I’m not careful. I should be keeping my guard up and my head down until I know how to handle the three of them. Yet killing and hiding bodies seems to be his expertise. If anyone knows what I should do in this situation, it might be him.
“Whatever you want, Little Viper.”
I stare at his back, using it to center me as the hallway tilts while my anxiety spikes. “How am I supposed to face him?”
Casually, Sagan drops back to walk beside me. When he looks down, the left side of his mouth twitches. Is he thinking about smiling? At a time like this? The twitch doesn’t go anywhere, and his mouth flattens again.
“Are you asking for coaching?” he asks.
Yes. No. Wait, am I? I don’t know. Probably. But my tongue gets stuck in my mouth as I stare up at him anxiously. My heart hammers in my chest. I've been so focused on myself since the twins and Knox’s arrival that I hadn't given any consideration to how to handle this inevitable conversation. And after yesterday, my emotions are so convoluted that I can't seem to settle on one, or even two of them. I think I'm going to be sick.
Sagan must sense my rising panic because he reaches up and grabs the back of my neck. The firm hold is somehow settling.
“Just let him do the talking. Most of the time, people just want to be heard,” he says in his deep, emotionless tone that I'm becoming familiar with.
I swallow before I force myself to nod. Let Pastor Michaels talk, I can do that…
“Before I deal with this, I need to tell you something.” I swallow as I stare up into his incredibly blank face. “Those eyes that you found? I-I’m pretty sure they belonged to Trevor.”
At this, Sagan stiffens. “Why do you think that?”
“I mean… I guess I could be wrong but…” I wring my hands together nervously as I force myself to say, “Trevor’s eyes are missing, and they were deliberately cut out.”
Sagan looks away from me as he considers what I’m saying. Someone out there knew Trevor was dead, messed with his body, and came back to taunt us with his eyes. Someone knows what we did. But how and who?
“I’ll let Thatcher know,” he mutters darkly. He jerks his head toward the front of the building. “Let’s go. Your friend is waiting for you.”