15. Thatcher
15
THATCHER
“ G ood morning.”
I look up from my phone and watch as Beatrix flits into the room with a small, shy smile. Showered, with her hair re-braided, and dressed in a simple back dress, she’s ready for work. I study her face, wondering if she has any regrets from the night before. She looks a little tired—we got home late and now she’s up early as always—but other than that, she looks serene. Our eyes meet before hers dart away.
This seems to be typical behavior for her. She’s a skittish young woman that lacks confidence but there’s something… off this morning.
“Good morning,” I greet, as she moves around the kitchen. There’s a nervous energy about her, making her movements short and jerky. My eyes narrow on her further. She grabs a mug from the cupboard then reaches for the coffee maker. “Sleep well?”
“Yes. My dreams were very colorful though. It was weird, it must’ve been from all the lights at the club or something. I’m so used to—” She chuckles and shakes her head as she cuts herself off.
I lean back in the kitchen chair, watching as she grabs the sugar and pours it into the drink.
“What are you used to, Little Sister?” I probe, honestly curious.
She smiles but this one is distracted. Her eyes dart to the threshold of the kitchen, then to me, then down into her mug.
“My dreams are usually black and white, literally.” She licks her lips, a nervous tick.
“Huh, I’ve never heard of that.” My fingers strum on the tabletop as I study the way her shoulders are slightly hunched and the grip on her cup is tight. “Everything all right?”
Beatrix’s eyes jump up to my face. “Yeah, why wouldn’t it be?”
Her answer pisses me off. Why won’t she just give me a straight answer? It’s been two days since the pastor came and confessed his sins to our sister. And it’s been two days that she’s kept it to herself. I know it must be bothering her. The agony in that recorded scream has been etched into my soul. Pain, of any kind, is a catalyst for trouble. It leads to unpredictability, and we can’t have that. Not with what we do. We always need to be on the same page with one another.
I’ve been trying to be patient, hoping she’ll talk to one of us. My brother, for all his broodiness, is always straightforward with me about his feelings, as I am with him and Knox. And Knox never lets us not know what he’s feeling. When we head out to have a bit of fun, I know where each of their headspaces are. And because I know them so well, and they me, I know what to expect. Always. Beatrix is the unknown in our new dynamics. We need her to confide in us more now than ever.
And she’s failing to do so.
She’s breaking a serious rule.
“I don’t know, you tell me.” I smile but it feels a little tight. “Did Knox kick you in his sleep? He’s annoyingly fidgety after going out dancing.”
I know that’s not it. With how much Knox drank last night, he was probably as still as the dead. But he had insisted that Beatrix come up to his room so he could show her his knife collection once we got home. It didn’t matter that they were both exhausted and intoxicated, Knox wouldn’t be deterred.
Confusion flickers across her pretty face before understanding brightens her eyes. She shakes her head.
“No, I ended up going to sleep in my room. Knox collapsed on the bed and he was out mid-sentence,” she says with a one-shoulder shrug. “I thought about falling asleep up there with him but…” She swallows hard, wincing as she does. “I didn’t want to accidentally touch him while he slept.”
I wave my other hand in the air. “He's a heavy sleeper. If you’re going to touch him, that’s the time to do it.”
Another flicker of guilt crosses her face but she holds my gaze. “Even if that was the case, I didn’t… you know, ask you guys if you would be comfortable with that. With me, um, sharing the same bed with Knox. I mean, we weren’t going to do anything but… I, ah, just wasn’t sure…”
Her response takes me by surprise. Is this why she’s acting funny? I laugh out loud at the absurdity.
“We’re family, Little Sister. If you want to sleep with or fuck our boyfriend, we’re happy to share,” I assure her with a grin.
“Who’s fucking our boyfriend?” Sagan asks, strolling into the room.
“No one!” Beatrix says with a squeak of embarrassment as she whirls around to look at him.
“Our sister was thinking about it,” I correct with another laugh. “She was asking for permission.”
Sagan snorts with amusement before he plucks the coffee cup from Beatrix’s hand and carries it with him over to the table. He sips the hot drink then collapses into the chair across from me.
“Given how bricked up Knox was last night, I’m surprised he didn’t initiate anything,” my brother drawls.
Beatrix sputters with embarrassment. Her hands come up to cup her cheeks, which I’m sure are burning, and then she drops them with a shake of her head.
“Yeah, no that… I doubt that he’d want to… I’m not sure if I…It doesn’t matter,” she huffs as she gives up while Sagan and I both laugh at her discomfort. She moves to leave the kitchen but pauses by the threshold and looks back at me. “Does the name Angel Eyes mean anything to you?”
Beside me, Sagan frowns, his brows coming together before his gaze drops to the cup of coffee. He tilts the cup, teasing the contents of it toward the rim before rotating it so it doesn’t spill.
“He was a serial killer. Why?” he demands.
“ Was ?” she repeats slowly.
I nod. “He was pretty prolific in the mid-nineties in Chicago, but he was shot and killed when the police caught up to him.”
Beatrix nods thoughtfully, her gaze going distant as she turns to leave once more. Sagan looks over his shoulder at her.
“ Why , Little Viper?” His tone catches my attention. I glance at his face, watching his jaw ticking with irritation.
Beatrix shrugs nonchalantly. “Last night, while I was waiting for you guys, someone pulled up beside me and told me about him. I was just curious.”
My heart skips a beat as my phone drops to the table with a loud clatter. “You were approached?”
At my stepsister’s nod, the muscles in my chest tighten. Shit, she could’ve been hurt and we hadn’t been there. The blood drains from my face. When we pulled up to find her pinned to the sidewalk, I hadn’t even considered that it could have been her second time being accosted. My eyes slide over her body. She didn't walk into the kitchen this morning with a limp, and I don’t see any visible bumps or bruises. There are shallow scrapes on her palms, but other than that, there are no signs of injury.
“He didn’t try to hurt you, did he?” I ask softly, feeling the heavy weight of shame nestle in the middle of my chest. We promised her we’d be there to look out for her. Of course we could never have predicted we’d get held up by a bunch of wannabe thugs. Still, I’m a man of my word, and my stepsister could’ve been seriously injured.
“No. He was just warning me to be careful… I think.” Her brows furrow, and I don’t miss the way she shudders. Before I can press her on it, she shifts gears. “Today looks like it’s going to be relatively quiet at work; anything that comes up you’d be able to handle so, ah, would you mind if I take some time to myself?”
I raise a brow as I study her again. This question feels odd. I’m not quite sure why. Maybe it’s not the question but the body language that comes with it. Beatrix practically holds her breath while she struggles to meet my gaze. The floorboard creaks under her feet. The soft sound gives away the fact she’s subtly shifting her weight from foot to foot.
Something’s going on.
Anger rises in my chest, swift and hot. Secrets? Under this roof? Between us? Un-fucking-acceptable. She’ll be punished for this. Severely. Let’s just see how deeply she’ll dig her own hole.
I hold my smile and her gaze as I say, “Of course. Have anything special planned?”
She shakes her head but her gaze falls everywhere except on me. “No… I just wanted to relax. I have a body I need to embalm, but after that, maybe I could just come up here and work on rearranging the conservatory.”
Liar. Fucking liar . The guilt is written all over her face. Curiosity laces with my fury. What is my stepsister up to that she doesn’t want us to know about? I’ll find out eventually.
“That sounds nice. You probably haven’t had a day off in a long time,” I say, making sure to hide behind a mask of indifference. “When we get back, we’ll hold down the fort.”
“Back? Back from where?” Beatrix asks.
“The pastor called yesterday morning and invited us to his son’s funeral today,” I tell her, keeping my voice even despite the storm brewing in my gut. “I forgot to mention it; sorry about that. Would you like to come? I’m sure Knox is capable of answering phones and taking messages for us while we’re out.”
Beatrix flinches hard. Her face scrunches up into agony—an expression my victims typically wear. She hides her pain quickly before her shoulders raise as she takes a deep, steadying breath. Beatrix looks from me to the back of Sagan’s head then back at me. Her mask doesn’t hold. Fear and pain shine bright in her eyes. Her bottom lip wobbles once before she can control it.
Her hurt only fuels my rage. If she told us what was wrong, we could find a way to make it better. To comfort her at the very least. I’ve not consoled many people in my life, but I’d try for her.
Beatrix’s mouth opens, and for a second, I think she’s going to tell me the truth. That her friend wants her to lie to his entire congregation, and the town, in an attempt to downplay the crimes his son had committed against her. That the pastor wants her to carry around the stigma of a liar around town, all because he’s too ashamed to admit he raised an asshole.
“Ah, no, I’m not sure it’s a good idea for me to go. Pretending that it was a suicide when I know the truth… I don’t know, it feels like a situation where I might accidentally slip up and say the wrong thing. I’ll give the pastor a call later to give him my condolences,” she stammers out. “You guys don’t really have to go either. You didn’t know Trevor and given that you… ah?—”
“Killed him?” I supply, keeping a firm grasp of my nonchalance despite the fact that Beatrix has just hammered the last nail of her coffin in.
“Yeah, that.”
“That doesn’t bother either of us in the least,” Sagan says with a shrug and a hard half smile. “In fact, it’ll be fun to see others’ pain. We don’t get to see this side of our kills often.”
“Oh…” Beatrix takes a step out of the room. “Well, in that case have fun, I guess?”
My brother laughs darkly. “Oh, I will.”
“I’ll go get Knox up so he can help you down at Bright Starr,” I offer, holding onto my smile. “When we get back, you can have the rest of the day off.”
She takes another step out of the room. “Alright, well… I’ll see you guys in a bit.”
I watch as she scurries out of the room. My brother chuckles darkly before he mutters, “I’m looking forward to showing Beatrix what a proper punishment is like.”
At this, I smile. “Me too.”
Sagan stands but pauses before leaving the table to ask, “When was the last time you heard the name Angel Eyes?”
It takes me a second to flip through my memories before I answer, “I think we watched a documentary about him in one of the motels we stayed at a few years back. Why?”
“I don’t know,” Sagan admits with a shrug. “It’s weird someone would bring him up with Beatrix. He’s an old school serial killer, like Ramirez or Bundy. Think they were trying to scare her?”
“Who knows?” I reply.
Sagan says nothing more. He simply stomps over to the sink, dumps the last bit of coffee down the drain before placing the cup down, and then slips out without another word. I stare after him, wondering what he could be thinking.