Entombed In Sin (Graveyard Games Duet #2)

23. Beatrix

23

BEATRIX

I stare up at the ceiling of the room that once belonged to my mother. When was the last time I stared up at the pretty beams that cross the length of the room? I vaguely recall lying on her bed as a child when I was sick. She’d curled up and laid with me for hours while I shivered with a fever. I think that must’ve been the last time. Had I been six? Seven maybe? It was during one of her short stints of being clean. I can remember her arms wrapped around me—her voice in my ear whispering something. The words are muddled due to so much time passing, but I get the sense they were full of love and concern.

My heart clenches at the memory. I miss that woman, that version of my mother. That version of her has been dead to me so long that I don’t know if I actually miss her, or if my body is just so used to missing her that it still reacts to these memories.

I swallow hard. Slowly, I pull my gaze away from the ceiling. It lands on the pretty blond man that’s half-sprawled over my naked body. Knox’s head lies on my stomach, his arm thrown over my waist. One of his legs is draped over both of mine, his semi-hard dick pressed into my hip. The soft sounds of his gentle snores make me smile.

That smile is fleeting, though.

Not for the first time this evening, I’m wondering what’s happening between us. Knox spent the rest of the day with me. Most of it was locked up here in his room. We’d gone downstairs to grab the pizza Knox had delivered to the house, and we had eaten with the twins, but after dinner, Knox pulled me back up here and he’d…

Well, he made sure I was too exhausted to make my way back down the stairs to my own room.

He’d fallen asleep a few hours ago as I lightly ran my fingers down his back. The motion was absentminded on my end. For Knox, he marveled in it. I can still see how he arched his back into it, groaning every now and then between the stories he was sharing with me. It was in the middle of one of those stories that his voice teetered off and he fell asleep. I should be sleeping just as soundly. I’m tired enough that it should be easy. Instead, I find myself alternating between looking at the ceiling and the man laying on top of me instead.

Knox hadn’t snapped at me once after his punishment. He let me touch him. And then, Knox and I had sex like we were animals in heat. What is this? A friendship? Acceptance? My heart flutters a little as I stare down at the top of Knox’s head. His messy blond waves are all I can see from here. It felt like something more transpired between us. A connection cemented in stone.

Doubt caresses that connection, though, testing for any signs of weakness.

It’s like we’ve done a complete 180. I want to believe that everything is ok between us. If the previous relationships in my life are any indication about how this one might go, however, I have to admit tomorrow could look much different from today. What if he has a change of heart when he wakes up? He could go back to hating my guts or giving me the cold shoulder whenever the mood strikes, and I’ll be left back at square one, trying to prove I’m not his enemy.

My mood plummets at the thought.

Can’t I just get some stability in my life? I bite the inside of my cheek as I mentally chastise myself. I do have that now. Thatcher and Sagan have been there for me since the beginning. Sure, there was a moment where I didn’t trust them after Knox buried me alive. I’d been so mad… Then Sagan had gone and given me an outlet for that anger, and Thatcher? He’d been there afterward to take care of me. The twins, as messed up in the head as they are, have been there for me. They gave me strength and power. For someone who’s been beaten down by everyone around them, in every way possible for their entire life, that gift is something I’ll never be able to repay Thatcher and Sagan for.

The sour dip my mood has taken vanishes. In its place, peace settles.

If Knox flips back to his hot and cold self tomorrow, that’s fine. I’ll just have to keep working toward some common ground. I think, if this afternoon and evening are anything to go by, working this out with Knox—finding common ground—could be absolutely worth the bumps in the road. His soul is a beautiful, multi-faceted surface that is woven together with ribbons created from his rough past and painful truths. He’s more than just a pretty face, he's a broken man who built himself up on a pillar of bones and dubbed himself king of his life. My heart swells and I smile.

I hope I can be as strong as Knox one day. With the Hunt twins by my side, I think that’s possible.

As I think of this strange family I’m surrounded by, sleep finally takes over and drags me under.

“Beatrix.”

I jerk awake at the sound of my name, and a door opening. It’s early. I know that much thanks to the darkness I can see through the drapes Knox has up. I can also tell because I’m exhausted . I’ve probably only been asleep for two or three hours. Suddenly, the lights in the room turn on. Blinking away the sleep from my eyes, I turn to find Thatcher strolling toward us. His hair is in disarray but raked out of his face. He’s wearing a sweatshirt and sweatpants, looking as if he’s just rolled out of bed.

“Get up,” he orders.

I attempt to do just that, but when I try, I find Knox still on top of me.

Right, I ended up in Knox’s room. I shift beneath him, and when he only curls around me tighter, I ask, “Knox, can you?—”

Knox groans, cutting me off. His hand comes up to rest at the base of my throat. With just a little pressure, he tries to push me back down.

“Ignore him,” he mutters from between my breasts. “Go back to sleep.”

“Knox, let her up,” Thatcher commands. There’s something in the tone of his voice that has both of us stiffening.

“Thatcher?” I ask as Knox rolls off me. “What’s wrong?”

Thatcher bends down and scoops a shirt off the floor and tosses it to me. As I reach out to grab it out of the air, he answers, “The police are here and want to talk to you.”

Any sleep still clinging to me vanishes. The world drops away from beneath me. Forgetting the shirt, my arms fling out so my hands land on the bed, as if to stop myself from falling. Beside me, Knox sits straight up, immediately alert.

“What?” he asks in disbelief. “Why?”

My lungs seize up as I stare at Thatcher in horror. With a great deal of difficulty, I manage to say, “Thatcher, what did I?—”

My stepbrother shakes his head and holds up a hand. “We don’t know why they’re here. All I know is that they said they needed to talk directly to you about something. Don’t panic. Get dressed and let’s face them together.”

Knox stares anxiously between us but, for once, remains silent.

I grab the shirt and climb out of bed. Slipping it on, I find it only makes it down to my midriff. Crap, this is Knox’s shirt. Whatever, I don’t care. My mind is preoccupied as it races to figure out why the police would show up now. Pants, I need pants. Flustered and terrified, I look around for something to cover myself up. Thatcher is already there, tossing a pair of fuzzy purple pajama shorts at me.

Thatcher’s face screws up as he takes a long look at me. Quickly, he drags his sweatshirt off and tosses at me, leaving his upper half bare.

“No need to give the people of Chasm a view of what belongs solely to us,” he explains grimly when I get him a curious look.

As I pull it over my head, Knox kicks off the covers that have tangled up at his feet and scrambles out of bed.

“Hold on, let me grab something to wear,” he says, already moving toward the closet. His naked body is on full display. If I wasn’t freaking out, I’d probably stand there and gawk. As it is, I’m trying very hard to remember how to breathe as I move toward Thatcher.

“There’s no need. Stay here, Knox,” Thatcher tells Knox as my stepbrother places his hand on my lower back and guides me out of the room.

There’s a scoff before Knox calls back, “I’ll be right there, Beatrix!”

I don’t acknowledge him as Thatcher and I head down the first flight of stairs. With each step, I swear the thundering of my heart grows louder. Is the air thinner in the house tonight? It must be. I can’t seem to catch my breath. At the bottom of the next flight of stairs stands Sagan, his arms crossed over his chest. He’s the most dressed out of all of us, with jeans and a long sleeve shirt on. Through his thick, dark bangs, he watches as we descend the stairs—his mouth pressing into a tight, thin line.

“Don’t offer up any information,” Thatcher coaches in a low voice as we stop beside his brother when we get to the bottom of the stairs. “Let them talk and try not to look too scared. Fear makes you look guilty.”

Don’t look too scared? I’ve killed someone! What if they have something on me? Or what if they have something on the three of them and they’re here to question me about it? I won’t say a word, that much I’m certain of, but crap… This is bad. Really bad.

“Relax, Little Viper,” Sagan adds. “We won’t let anything happen to you.”

“What if they’re here to arrest me?” I whisper anxiously, glancing toward the front door. “Knox said that if we ever got caught, we’d have to?—”

Thatcher’s hand moves from my lower back to grip the back of my neck. The contact is strangely settling.

“Don’t panic, Little Sister. It could be nothing,” he says calmly. “If we were worried, we’d handle this.”

I look from his face to Sagan’s. They both look tense, but not overly concerned. That gives me a little courage to face the cops waiting for me. I give a tight nod.

“Alright, let’s do this,” I mutter. Thatcher’s hand drops from my neck and he follows me as I head for the door.

Behind me comes the thundering of footsteps. I don’t turn to watch Knox descend the stairs, but with him joining us, I feel a little bit better. Without wasting another second, I grab the knob and open the front door. There, standing on the other side, are Officer Burns and Sheriff Heins. A deep swell of loathing surges forward at the same time disgust and dread fill my heart. Both men have tormented me in the past. As I stare between them, I have to fight the urge to throw up. Officer Burns attempted to rape me. Sheriff Heins covered up Patrick’s crimes when I tried to report them. And Heins’s son? Well, Sebastian did what Officer Burns hadn’t been able to do thanks to Trevor, who held me down for his friend. These men are shit. They don’t deserve to be wearing a badge.

They should both be sporting a knife through the chest. I could do it. Looking between the two of them, I feel that certainty down to my bones. That thought pushes away my lingering trepidation. My fear subsides as my back stiffens and I regard them coolly.

“Can I help you?” I ask, my voice sharper than I intended it to be.

Both men shift uncomfortably. Officer Burns adjusts his utility belt while Sheriff Heins transitions his weight from one foot to another. They exchange looks with one another quickly before returning their attention to me. A small part of me wants to smile. They’re probably not used to me speaking to them this way. They’ve only seen my soft, meek side. But I’m not that woman anymore. I have three men who have my back now, and that’s three more than I’ve ever had in my entire life. What’s more? Thanks to them, I’m strong enough to face these two without quivering.

“Ah, yes. Can you step outside for a moment? We’d like to speak with you privately,” Sheriff Heins asks. He looks a lot like his son, though his red hair is fading and receding. His porkchop sideburns are frizzy and unkempt. The ugly splatter of freckles on his face covers his pale complexion but can’t cover that awful bulging nose.

“Whatever you have to say, it can be said in front of my family,” I tell him.

Again, I take both cops by surprise with the tone of my voice. They trade looks with one another before Officer Burns pulls himself up to his full height, which is shorter than Sagan or Thatcher. His graying goatee and beer belly are prevalent in the yellow porch light. His skin is a few shades darker than my mother's had been when she was alive and healthy, and his eyes are dark as they skim over my face.

“These men aren’t your family, Beatrix,” he corrects darkly. “They used to be your stepbrothers, but even then I’d consider that relationship practically nonexistent since they didn’t show up until after Patrick’s death. Are you sure you want them to be a part of this?”

I hold his cold gaze as I shove my hands into the front pocket of Thatcher’s sweatshirt. It smells like my stepbrother. The subtle sweetness mixed with hints of leather and sandalwood anchors me to the present. “I don’t know what time it is, but I’m exhausted, so can we please get to the reason for your late-night visit?”

Sheriff Heins glares at me but caves with a sigh. “Pastor Michaels was found dead in his home tonight.”

His words hang between us for a second, but I can’t quite grasp the meaning of them. I try to wrap my head around the conflicting emotions that bubble up in the middle of my chest. Pastor Michaels was my friend for so long. He was there for me during some of my mother’s worst episodes, and when he couldn’t be there for me, I at least knew I had someone out there who understood what I was going through. Who I thought cared about me. If his son hadn’t been so terrible, I probably would’ve spent more time around him—even if that meant going to church.

Then again, this was the same man who covered up his son’s crimes against me and who begged me to keep up the charade that Trevor had been some amazing person. He wanted to discredit me. Make me a liar in front of the whole town.

My mouth opens and closes as I try to process the news. Satisfaction takes root and pushes out any lingering fondness I’d held onto for the old man. Licking my dry lips, I managed to ask, “What happened?”

“It was suicide,” Officer Burns answers, his voice gruff. “He called Sheriff Heins and left a message letting him know he needed to atone for his sins.”

“I found him about forty-five minutes ago.”

I glance at Sebastian’s father. “Wow, I didn’t think he would ever do something like that.”

“Yeah, me neither,” he says, his eyes narrowing on my face. “Which is why we wanted to come talk to you.”

My brows furrow as I stare at the police officers in confusion. “Me?”

“Yeah, you. Did you send your two new friends, sorry stepbrothers , here to harass the pastor enough to drive him into taking his own life?” Sheriff Heins demands.

I blink rapidly, trying to dispel the shock that whips through me. “I’m sorry, what ?”

“Don’t play dumb, Trix,” Officer Burns replies coolly. “Your absence was noticed today at Trevor’s funeral, and there were several witnesses that put two out of the three guys living under this roof in the parking lot of the church, after the service, where they were seen arguing with Pastor Michaels. Given what you wanted people to believe around here and how the pastor refused to lower himself enough to acknowledge the baseless accusations against his son, maybe you wanted to send your new friends over to shake him up a bit.”

Again, I can’t quite wrap my head around what is happening or what I’m being accused of. They have to be insane. This is insanity. An incredulously sharp laugh slips past my lips before I can stop it.

“I didn’t go to the funeral because I was busy,” I tell them once I’ve gathered my thoughts. “But even if I wasn’t, I wouldn’t have gone. My respect for that man is as dead as he is now.” Both officers recoil at the heat in my voice. Ignoring their reactions, I press on, “The only reason Thatcher and Sagan went to the service was to keep the relationship open between Bright Starr and the church. I didn’t send them. And if there were words traded between the three of them, harsh enough to lead the pastor to kill himself, then maybe Pastor Michaels was a weak man.”

“With how kind Pastor Michaels was to not bring your name up during the service, I would think you would want to be a bit more gracious toward him,” Sheriff Heins points out coldly.

I shrug but refuse to rise to the bait. These men in front of me are no better than Pastor Michaels or my stepfather, Patrick. There’s no need to elaborate or explain myself. They don’t care about me or the truth or any type of justice.

“If that’s it, officers, I kindly ask that you’ll leave now,” Thatcher says from behind me.

Both men look over my head at him. I can see the suspicion in their eyes and the way tension gathers in their bodies, causing both middle-aged men to stiffen.

Officer Burns looks back down at me. “Actually, there is one thing. Pastor Michaels left this on the dining room table.”

He reaches back and pulls an envelope out. He hands it to me. There, on the front of it, is my name. I feel nothing at the sight of it. Not caring about privacy, I immediately rip it open and pull a folded piece of paper out. The envelope falls to the ground while I unfold the note and read it.

Beatrix, as I stared out into the sea of faces today and allowed the people of Chasm to believe the worst of you, I began to realize what I was doing was wrong. That what I did was wrong. Then I spoke to your brothers and realized that, while I thought I had your best interests at heart, it’s nothing compared to how they feel about you. I hope your brothers will always be there to look after you. Please forgive me.

-E. Michaels

My eyes linger on the note for a moment longer after I’m done reading it. Time ticks by as I wonder what Pastor Michaels saw when he looked at the Hunt twins and what was said. It doesn’t matter, really, but having someone else see that I’m no longer facing the world alone… I feel validated in giving my heart and trust to the Hunt twins.

One of the cops clears his throat. I give them my attention, though that’s waning swiftly. I’m ready to head back to bed.

“We’ll bring Pastor Michaels’s body here since we already have?—”

“ No ,” Thatcher cuts Officer Burns off sharply. “Take his body somewhere else. You come here accusing us of forcing this man to take his life and then expect us to care for his body? Absolutely not.”

Both officers look from him to me.

“Thatcher and Sagan own Bright Starr now,” I explain indifferently with a single shoulder shrug. “The decision is up to them, and it sounds like it’s been made.”

Thatcher’s hand wraps around my bicep then, and he pulls me back to him.

“Good night, gentlemen,” my stepbrother says dismissively.

Without waiting for a response, he shuts the door in their faces.

“Fuck those guys!” Knox snaps immediately as Thatcher and I turn around. “How dare they wake us up to…”

Knox’s words are muffled as I throw my arms around Thatcher’s waist. My stepbrother stiffens, but I don’t acknowledge his surprise. I bury my face against his bare chest and squeeze my eyes shut. For a second, I bask in the sound of his heart beating, knowing that a part of me is in there. This man holds me in enough regard to defend me, even when I’m not around. There’s no way Thatcher and Sagan would’ve known what Pastor Michaels did to me, but they must’ve picked up on something while at the funeral. Maybe they overheard gossip or maybe the pastor hinted at what transpired between me and his son during their altercation, but it doesn’t matter. Thatcher and Sagan were there for me, sticking up for me .

Thatcher’s arms start to come up to hold me, but I know if I let them come around me, I’ll break down into grateful tears I won’t be able to explain. I don’t want to talk about Trevor, and I don’t want to talk about what the pastor did. I simply want it all to be over. So, before my stepbrother’s arms wrap around me, I let go of him and step back. I choke back the tears that want to spill over and move away from him.

“What the hell happened, anyway?” Knox is asking Sagan as I step up to my other stepbrother.

I roll onto my tiptoes and kiss Sagan’s chin. Before he can react, I turn and head upstairs. Rather than go back to Knox’s room, I head back to mine. There, I flop onto my bed, close my eyes, and fall asleep with a smile on my face.