8. Thatcher
8
THATCHER
THREE WEEKS LATER
“ T his better be worth the risk,” I mutter as my brother and I prowl up the sloped backyard toward the giant house. I’d forgotten how cold the midwest can get. It’s mid-January, one of the coldest months of the year. I’ll have to get a better jacket and gloves if I’m going to be able to handle this type of chill.
He says nothing to this. He doesn’t have to. For Sagan to take any type of risk he always weighs the pros and cons. To drag me along this evening is proof that there is definitely something worth me seeing inside the house.
“I’m not changing my mind,” I warn as we approach the back door.
“We’ll see about that.”
I doubt it. Killing our father and his new family has been the end goal for the past few months now—ever since we decided it was time to lay down some roots. Our plan is solid. We just recently conned our dear old dad into signing the new will. That was all Knox. Sauntering into this house, pretending to be his lawyer’s assistant needing an updated signature on a will he wrote. Usually brains and beauty don’t go hand in hand, but for Knox it does. In fact, he’s terribly clever. I’m so glad we didn’t end up killing him.
Sagan reaches for the knob and twists. The door swings open on silent hinges. He was right, they always keep it unlocked.
It’s not that I doubted Sagan, I just know things can change at any minute. Watching, waiting… He’s good at it. The detailed information he can collect in just twenty-four hours is something the FBI could learn a thing or two from. But Sagan has had nearly three months to prowl around this house, watching its inhabitants and learning their behaviors. He knows them well.
As we slip into the dark mudroom, I reach back and gently pull the door shut behind us. The light that slips through the crack of the partially opened door that leads into the rest of the house allows me to see the blood that still stains my jeans. With a grimace, I make a mental note to discard them on our way home.
I thought I’d changed out of everything that had gotten blood on it. Clearly, in my haste, I missed this. No matter, I’ll take care of it in a bit. Besides, having a reminder of what I did is nice. Tonight was a bloody masterpiece. Bunkering down so close to Chicago was one of my more brilliant ideas. With or without killing Patrick, I’m sure we would’ve ended up in an area like this eventually to settle down. With so many nobodies in the city, we have an endless supply of victims at our disposal.
Somewhere in the house, glass shatters. A feminine scream of rage follows right behind it. Sagan and I listen to the shouting that follows. From here I can’t hear what’s being said, but I’d know the baritone bark that follows anywhere. A slow moving, molten rage boils up in the middle of my chest. It slinks through my veins and stiffens my spine. It’s been a long time since I heard my father’s voice.
There’s a heavy thump and something else breaks.
The sounds are so similar to the ones we heard growing up that it feels like I’m listening to the past.
Sagan moves closer to the other door and peers through the crack. I wait for his signal to move. It doesn’t come right away. Time ticks by and my patience begins to wane. When it does come, Sagan opens the door. Following in his footsteps, we take a sharp right rather than head down the hall to the main section of the house, and we immediately enter the conservatory. It was probably a beautiful room once.
The floor-to-ceiling windows that take up three full walls and reach two stories up are covered in a thick film, and given the cold draft, they aren’t very energy efficient. There’s a white wicker couch with a matching chair and coffee table in the room—all of which are sun-bleached and covered in dust and dirt. The cushions are faded and flattened. The only thing in the room that is relatively clean and in sound condition is the tall wardrobe to our left.
What are we doing in here?
I hesitate a moment, afraid that our footprints will be noticeable. Watching carefully, I notice how Sagan steps exactly where other footprints linger. They’re smaller than his foot size but he steps on the balls of his feet to keep from making them any bigger.
I copy him and we move to the other side of the cold, dirty room.
Sagan stops beside the far end of the couch. Crouching down, he grabs something out of sight. When he straightens, there’s a palm-size journal in his hand. It’s nondescript but clearly well used given the creases in the spine and the faded color of the cover. He offers it to me. Plucking it out of his grip, I open the journal and flip the pages haphazardly.
“What am I looking for?” I ask, my voice hardly more than a whisper.
“Last page.”
Sagan crouches down again as I flip through the journal full of random notes and scribbles. On the last page is a sketch of a flower, detailed with a blue pen. It’s small, unremarkable, and, quite frankly, poorly drawn. But if Sagan says this is important, then I believe him. He’s not one to exaggerate. So I give the small page my full attention. My eyes scan over the notes scribbled in a pretty cursive handwriting. Most of them aren’t all that interesting. I don’t know much about plants, nor do I care to learn now. But I read it all because Sagan wants me to. Then my eyes drift down to the bottom of the page where a question is written so lightly, I almost miss it.
Can I get away with it?
I reread the sentence.
Does she mean what I think she means? I look over all her notes again, slower this time.
Atropa belladonna.
Easy to grow, needs watering often though.
Both berries & flowers are deadly - careful. Wear gloves
Side effects are similar to OD-ing.
10 oz, 35 oz, 50 oz - maybe? Dry time takes a while. No noticeable smell.
Can I get away with it?
I don’t realize I’m smiling until my mouth pulls wide to its limits. Thoughtfully, I lower the journal as I consider this information.
Our stepsister is a killer just like us. How astonishing.
While Beatrix hasn’t committed to the act yet, she’s planning it. And if she’s capable of this… Well, she belongs with other like-minded individuals. A lion is dangerous on its own, but a pride of them? They’re nearly unstoppable. I shiver as a thrill of excitement zips down my spine. Imagine having a woman on the team and the chaos we can inspire with her around.
This is why Sagan wanted me to come along tonight. He knew this would be my train of thought. This was his way of saving the girl.
Clever bastard.
Sagan says nothing. But he’s not exactly silent. While we don’t have telepathy, I swear I’m on the same frequency as my twin. His thoughts are like a voice trying to come in through the static of an out of tune radio. He’s thinking of her . But that’s nothing new. Since his first visit here, his thoughts have been on Beatrix Starr.
Sagan straightens again, the smallest hint of a smile teasing the corners of his mouth as he holds out his hand. Sitting in his palm is a small baggie of white powder. Ah, it looks like our stepsister has gone from thinking about it to preparing. All she has to do now is actually poison whoever she’s trying to get rid of.
“Who do you think she’s after?” I ask, keeping my voice soft.
“Our father,” Sagan replies confidently. “And probably her cunt of a mother.”
Really? I’d always thought we’d been born this way, as killers. But apparently it’s just Patrick that brings out the murderer in others. This is quite the turn of events. I raise a brow at my brother who pockets the powder.
“You think so?”
Sagan raises a brow and I can almost hear him reply I wouldn’t have wasted the words if I had any doubts.
I look back down at the page, taking in this new information. It’s not every day you run into another killer. This is a new experience, an exciting one at that. Another person whose soul is as black as ours? How wonderfully horrific. I study the handwriting and imagine what Beatrix must’ve been feeling at that moment.
Scared? Relieved? Hopeful?
“Resigned.”
I jerk my head up at Sagan’s answer, only mildly surprised he’d known my train of thoughts. Of course he would know. Was he here, lurking in the shadows while she wrote it? I wouldn’t be surprised. Killer or not, it doesn’t matter to him, he adores our stepsister. His constant disappearances for days at a time to come here and watch her are a testament to his obsession. It’s been a strange shift to see Sagan go from indifferent to obsessed. He never gets attached to anyone or anything. For our stepsister to unknowingly have her claws deep into my brother is amusing.
Up until this point, I’ve dismissed any notion of changing my mind on our well thought out plan. But maybe Beatrix deserves more of my attention.
As I tease the edges of the page, the sound of soft, hurried footsteps captures both of our attention. For half a second, Sagan and I go utterly still with surprise. Then we’re bursting into action. I grab the door of the wardrobe and yank it open. To my relief, there’s nothing inside. I step in and pull the door closed, not shutting it completely so that I can see out. Sagan slides behind the door to the conservatory just as it flings open.
A curvy young woman storms in a half-second later. The cardigan she wears billows behind her as she enters, and the sound of her slippers slapping against the dirty tiles follows her in. She doesn’t go very far, instead stopping abruptly in the middle of the room. At this angle, I can barely make out her profile but I can see her left hand. It trembles while it curls into a tight fist at her side. Tilting her head back, she sucks in a deep, steadying breath.
“ Beatrix Rosemary Starr !”
My stepsister flinches at the sound of her name on her mother’s lips. It’s her only reaction. She doesn’t turn around nor does she reply. Beatrix simply stands there, breathing evenly. A thundering of angry footsteps starts up and draws near.
“You are a rotten, worthless child! I should’ve aborted you. For the moment you came into my life, it’s been miserable, and now look. I didn’t think it could get worse, but here I am suffering from my affliction because my daughter hates me!” The screaming draws closer.
Still Beatrix doesn’t respond.
“That man in there loves me. He understands my illness and helps me. All you do is ruin me!” The shrill voice is nearly at the door. A second later, a frail, angry woman flies into the room with her fists raised. “I’m talking to you, Trixie!”
Beatrix whirls around at the last minute, her hands coming up and catching her mother’s wrists before they can strike her. I choke on my gasp. As Beatrix stares coldly into her mother’s face while the woman screeches and howls like a wounded cat, I get a full view of my stepsister.
I’ve seen pictures of her from afar and while she sleeps, thanks to Sagan. I’ve even seen pictures of her when she was much younger—in her early teens. None of them do Beatrix any justice. My sister is beautiful. Her brown skin is flawless, her nose is small and pointed, and her lips are full and tempting. Her oval-shaped face gives her a natural look of innocence but the arched brows, flashing eyes, and the way she tilts her chin in a challenge give Beatrix a slight edge. The fresh split lip and bruised right eye add to her darker side.
My cock stirs.
A potential killer and she’s striking? I know what this combination can do. We have Knox as proof that the two can go hand in hand quite well. As I stare into Beatrix’s lovely face, I watch as she shutters her expression until her face becomes unreadable.
“I’m sorry I’m such a disappointment,” she replies.
Oh my … Beatrix’s voice is deep and smooth. Like a radio host, seducing their listeners to stay tuned for the latest R&B tune. A shiver works its way down my spine at the sound.
“And I’m sorry I haven’t been able to turn a blind eye to your afflictions or to how abusive your husband is to you. It pains me to watch you suffer, Mom. I just want it to stop. I wish you wanted that for yourself.”
“Then fucking kill yourself already, or at the very least, get the hell out of my house!” Lauren Starr screeches.
Beatrix sighs, her shoulders sagging while her face hardens. “The minute I try to leave, you always call me back.”
“I won’t, not this time!” her mother vows before spitting at her daughter. The wad of spit falls to the ground before it can hit my stepsister. “Patrick might not be perfect, but at least he’s not you ! Better yet, he sees the real you! Don’t think the two of us are stupid. He tells me how you bat your eyes at him, that you spread your legs and beg for his attention. You’re trying to steal the best thing that’s ever happened to me! I won’t let you, you filthy whore!”
My stepsister stiffens at the same time a sizzling heat ripples through the connection with my brother.
“I would never come on to Patrick,” Beatrix promises darkly.
“Liar! I’ve seen it for myself—the way you flirt with him when you think I’m not looking,” Lauren hisses.
“Your happy life, the love you have for that man—those are the only lies in this room,” Beatrix says, her voice void of any emotion. “I told you what he did to me. What he’s been doing to me, Mom. He’s a horrible human being who doesn’t care about the business or?—”
Lauren yanks a wrist free only to backhand her daughter. Beatrix’s face jerks to the side. Then, to my surprise, Lauren Starr throws back her head and laughs. My stepsister turns her head to face her mother once again. The blank expression on her face hides any of her true emotional responses to her mother’s words and actions.
“You really think he raped you? In what world do you think you’re worth the trouble? You’re pathetic, trying to get me to hate a man who only wants to see me happy. Well it’s not going to work, Trixie.”
If I thought Sagan’s reaction earlier was heated, the blaze of his fury now is hotter than I’ve ever felt before. Goosebumps trail down my arms as I try to let his intense, unexpected, murderous rage wash over me while staying unaffected.
I stare at the older Starr, understanding why my father stayed with her so long. She’s cruel, just like him. He must be attracted to her unrelenting mean streak. In relationships, I’ve been told that opposites tend to attract, but clearly the ability to hate and destroy the people around them has brought Lauren and Patrick together in an unfathomable way.
“You fucking wish he’d fuck you. He’s a real man, something you’ll never have, what with your uppity airs about you,” she mocks, still laughing. “You want his cock, but you wouldn’t know what to do with it even if he turned his attention to you.”
I admire the way Beatrix can stand there without lashing out or raising her voice. There’s a grace to her that keeps her rigid but collected.
“There’s still blood on the area rug in the office. My blood. I can show it to you if you want,” Beatrix replies, just as calm and cool as ever as she stares into her mother’s eyes.
There’s no love to be found anywhere in my stepsister’s expression. If she felt that way once toward her mother, it’s been snuffed out. Did this happen recently? Or has Beatrix hated her mother for a long time? The notes in her journal make sense now. Living under this roof with that woman and my father would drive me to a murderous intent too.
“Do you hear yourself, child?” Lauren demands. “You’re fucking nuts. Just leave me and Patrick alone. Let him take care of me and stop throwing away my medicine .”
“No. I don’t want heroin or other drugs in this house. If I find any, I’m getting rid of it,” Beatrix states with a heavy sigh. When she’s expelled all the air from her lungs she adds, “Let's get you to bed.”
“No, no, no, no! I need my medicine, Trixie! I hate you!” Lauren continues her screeching as Beatrix takes a step forward, snatching her mother’s free hand then using both of Lauren’s wrists to force her backward. Together, they walk like that out of the room and down the hallway. All the while, Lauren berates her daughter.
I listen to the fading footsteps. My father bellows something, and the sound of a fist making its way through a wall follows. It seems some things never change. Neither Sagan nor I move. Not at the sound of footsteps heading up stairs, not when the yelling finally stops, and not even when there’s a soft sob coming from somewhere else in the house. We both wait, unmoving, until the house finally goes quiet.
It’s nearly dawn by then.
As I step out of my hiding spot and Sagan re-emerges, I’ve made a decision on the matter.
“We can’t let her kill them this way.” I hold up her journal. “It’s messy, and trying to take over the family business while the police conduct their investigation won’t be as easy as if they died naturally.”
Sagan nods once in agreement. “Patrick is ours to kill anyway.”
Very true. If anyone deserves to kill the bastard, it's us. But he’s not the only one we planned to kill.
“Beatrix isn’t one of us, not yet anyway.” Just because she’s thought about murder and has the weapon to commit it, it’s not the same as actually doing it. “If you can prove she’s like us, I’ll change my vote. We’ll let her live.”
Sagan tilts his head and strokes his chin thoughtfully. “What if we let her live and we keep her?”
I chuckle darkly. “I thought that part was obvious.”
A single brow raises and a hint of a smug smile pulls at his lips again. Without even voicing the words, I can practically hear him gloat I told you I could change your mind .
Before I can tell him unnecessarily to shut up, Sagan holds out his hand. Without hesitation, I give him back the journal. He flips to the damning page and rips the sheet straight out.
“ Sagan —”
He holds up a finger and I shut up. Reaching into his back pocket, he pulls out a pen. Has he been carrying that around this whole time? I wait as he scribbles something on the next empty page. When he’s done, Sagan hands me the book and slips the pen back into his pocket. I glance down at what he’s written:
You’re coiled tight enough, Little Viper. When you’re ready for your suffering to be over, hang something red from your window so I know it’s time to strike.
Sagan gives me a pointed look before he says, “If she reaches out, she’s one of us.”
“Fine. This way we’ll still be able to end Dad ourselves.” I frown, tilting my head to consider this new development. “What if she doesn’t see your note?”
“She will.”
His confidence isn’t cocky. Sagan knows Beatrix’s habits. Of course he would know if she came in here frequently to write in her notebook.
“Do you think she’ll actually consider this? Who would listen to a note from a stranger?”
Sagan’s smile is slow in coming and twisted with glee. Instead of answering right away, he reaches back and pulls out a black rose. He snaps the stem off and presses the flower between the pages before closing the journal and slipping it back under the wicker couch.
When he stands, he says softly, “My Little Viper has been waiting for this for a long time. She won’t disappoint us.”