14. Thatcher
14
THATCHER
I t’s been three days since Beatrix gave the signal for us to act.
Now, after impatiently waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike, it finally arrives.
The three of us stare at the ambulance as it sits in the middle of the empty parking lot of the Bright Starr Funeral Home. The back doors to the vehicle are open but the paramedics are out of sight—having wheeled two bodies through the front doors of the building just a few moments ago. Where we stand, across the street and just beyond the treeline, we remain out of sight. Still, the flashing red and white lights manage to reach us.
“Ready?” I ask my brother and Knox.
“I've been ready,” my Pretty Boy replies immediately. His impatience is almost palpable as it beats at me. At his sides, his hands curl and relax then curl once more. After the other night's sulking, he seems to be in better spirits.
Quite frankly, I've been a little impatient myself. Though I think I've held it together a lot better than he has. But it's finally time. We've covered our bases, and once we're through here, the house, the business—will be ours.
What's even better: my plan now includes a pretty little mortician.
“Beatrix will be busy handling this call,” Sagan says softly. “If we’re going to do this, we need to move now.”
I glance over at him. His expression is blank, like always. But I know better. While his face rarely ever gives anything away, with our connection, I can feel the rare storm of emotions brewing beneath his skin. He’s just as excited about this as me and Knox.
“Then let's go,” I urge.
We move then. Like the perfect unit that we are, we adjust our positions accordingly. Sagan takes the lead, knowing the layout of the property better than either me or Knox. I fall in at his left, and Knox, snickering, strolls beside Sagan at his right. We stick to the trees and come up behind the house, just like Sagan and I had done a few weeks ago.
And just like before, the backdoor is unlocked.
My heart races as we slip into the mudroom. As much as I would love to charge forward, we can't be rash. This can't be like all of our other kills—bloody and violent. No. We have to take care in how we approach this.
The three of us linger in the mudroom, listening for signs of life in the house. We don't have to wait long.
“You fucking asshole!” Lauren screeches. Her voice drifts from upstairs. “I told you I needed more than last time. This isn't enough!”
“You got what you got. Now be grateful, bitch, and go shoot up.”
My teeth gnash together at my father's voice. God I hate this man. My loathing feels echoed in my chest as the same emotion seems to overpower the rest of what Sagan is feeling. We exchange glances.
Soon , I promise mentally. I'm not sure if he gets it, we're not telepathic, but he must feel the determination because he nods as if he can.
I look over at Knox. He flashes me a wide grin that I can see through the light trickling in from the cracked door that leads to the rest of the house.
“You know what to do?” I ask him, my words barely audible.
“Yup.”
“Remember, no?—”
“No knives, got it,” he waves me off and pushes past the both of us. “I'll join you guys in a bit.”
With that, Knox walks out and strolls down the hallway toward the front of the house as if he's been here a hundred times. Given that he's been studying the blueprints for months as he planned how he would design it, I'm not surprised. Sagan and I follow behind him. None of us bother to soften our footsteps. We don’t need stealth for this mission. Beneath our weight, the wooden floorboards creak and groan.
“Stay upstairs and leave me be, woman!” Dad shouts. It sounds like he's in the kitchen.
“I am upstairs, you dumb pig!”
Knox grabs the banister at the foot of the steps then swings around it before taking the stairs two at a time. Rather than watch him, Sagan and I stop in the foyer and face the kitchen. Our dad's back is facing us as he rummages through the cabinets. He mutters something under his breath. Beatrix's name is followed by a curse, but I can't tell what her crime is as he continues mumbling.
Sagan leans against the wall and crosses his arms over his chest. I stroll further into the kitchen and pull out a seat at the table. My dad sighs loudly and turns.
“What the fuck did I just tell you?—”
“Your request to stay upstairs was for your wife, not me,” I interrupt just as Dad’s gaze lands on me.
I don't know what I expected. Maybe the towering man from my childhood. The one with a terrifying scowl and meaty fists. But looking at my father now, it seems time has weathered away anything truly menacing about the man. Hard lines have permanently etched themselves on my dad's face, and his nose has grown and has hair springing from the tip. There's a slouch to his shoulders now. I can't tell if it's due to the heavy beer gut or simply from age. Other than his protruding stomach, he looks rather thin.
His eyes bulge from their sockets as he recognizes me. I bask in his shock, chuckling when he begins to sputter. When he doesn't manage to get anything out, I sigh and take a seat in the chair I'd pulled out.
“Hey, Dad, it’s been a long time, hasn’t it? How's life been without us? Fulfilling?” I ask conversationally.
I watch as his gaze tears away from me to search for my brother. His eyes pop out even further when they land on Sagan. The blood visibly drains from his face, leaving him even paler than before.
“W-What are you doing here?” he manages to sputter after a moment. “Get the fuck out of my house!”
I glance at my brother who looks bored. “We don't even get a hello, Sagan. Isn't that rude?”
“It kind of hurts my feelings,” he deadpans.
I snicker. Looking back at Dad, I smile. “We'll let that go for now. Anyway, take a seat. We want to catch up with you.”
“No. You fucking lunatics aren't allowed near me. Get the fuck out or I'll call the cops!” Dad roars, drawing himself up to his full height. Has he shrunk a bit? Maybe he just seemed taller when I was thirteen.
Leaning back in my seat, I twist to brace my forearm on the back of it and then cross my leg over my knee.
“Do you think you'd make it to the phone?” I ask, genuinely curious.
Dad looks at the corded house phone hanging on the wall next to Sagan’s head. I can see when it clicks that, no, he wouldn’t make it. His hand goes to his pocket. Sagan pushes off the wall as Dad pulls out his cellphone. With his trembling hands, he can't even unlock the device. My smile widens as I note how he uses his middle finger.
“Looks like the hospital didn't manage to put your fingers back on,” I say. “I was sure I'd see those things Frankensteined back into place. Since you never came back after the night we cut them off, I've been left to wonder all these years.”
Sagan plucks Dad's phone out his hand and chucks it into the sink. “You don't need that. Sit down.”
Dad looks at him, then back to me again. I grin and wait. He has no choice, and he knows it. Swallowing hard, he shuffles forward and takes the chair opposite me. Sagan comes to stand behind him and places both hands on Dad’s shoulders.
“What do you two want?” he snarls, glaring at me. “Money? I don't got any. What little we make from the funeral home is just enough to keep it up and running. We're practically broke.”
“You’re not practically broke, you are broke,” Sagan corrects darkly. “We checked your finances.”
My dad glares at him over his shoulder. “Fine, I'm fucking broke. All that means is I don't got anything to give ya.”
“What makes you think we want anything?” I raise a brow at him as I wait for an answer.
“Why else would you be here?” he demands. He spits, actually spits, on the table and glowers at me. “And don't give me any shit like ya missed me or anything. You know I hated you just as much as you hated me.”
I nod slowly. “You also hated Mom. Did you know she's dead now?”
“Oh yeah? How’d that slut go?” Dad scoffs, completely unfazed by the news of his first wife’s death.
“She ended up hanging herself in the closet,” I shrug. “It was a shame. Depression can be a bitch, can't it?”
Patrick actually laughs. “That whore threatened to do it for years. Glad she finally followed through with something for once in her life.”
His indifference toward his ex-wife doesn’t bother me. She wasn’t a very good mother, always moping around and crying. It was pathetic.
“Let’s go back to something real quick. You said ‘what little we make from the funeral home’,” I repeat curiously. “But you don’t do anything for that business, do you?”
Dad’s scowl grows more impressive. “What are you talking about? It’s because of me that place is even running!”
“I’m not sure that’s true.” I look around with faux interest at the outdated kitchen as I consider my next words. “The year you married Lauren was the year the funeral home started hemorrhaging money. And it wasn’t until recently that it’s finally started seeing some profits again.”
“How do you know that?” he asks, his pupils narrowing on my face.
“Because before our acquisition, we wanted to make sure that Bright Starr Funeral Home would be a good investment.” I nudge my head toward Sagan. “Am I wrong about the state of things under Dad’s management?”
Sagan shakes his head. “No.”
“You see? I do my homework, not that you would know since you never helped with it while we were growing up.” I sigh. “In any case, what I’m trying to say is that your business management skills suck. But you know who does have impressive skills? Your stepdaughter.”
Dad’s brows fly upward and he lets out a laugh of disbelief. “ Beatrix ? You think that bitch— Ah !”
Sagan’s hands dig into my father’s shoulders so hard I can see the veins pop up in the back of his hands.
“Careful how you speak about our sister,” he growls.
“Your sister…?” Dad’s voice trails off as he looks between us, baffled. He blinks then shakes his head. “Wait, d-did she put you up to this?”
“No… and yes,” I hedge with a shrug. “It’s complicated.”
“That fucking cunning bitch. I’ll kill her,” he snarls. His face reddens as his anger surges forward. “Look, whatever she offered you, it’s not worth shit. That filthy hussy is nothing but a?—”
“I said watch how you talk about our sister,” Sagan snarls.
Dad laughs incredulously, the sound a bit stilted. “You two have always been too wild for your own good, but I’ll give you some advice. Get out of here and save yourself. Anyone that gets involved with the Starrs ends up a deadbeat.”
I stand slowly and reach into my pocket as Sagan replies, “We won’t be taking advice from you.”
“Here’s what’s going to happen, Dad,” I start, coming around the table. “Our plan is to take everything of yours and make it ours and make it better . And while we do that, we’re going to do what we do best.”
“And what’s that? Ruin lives?” he jeers up at me.
It’s like he doesn’t see the end coming. He keeps taunting, stupidly poking the bear.
“We do more than ruin lives,” I assure him as I come to stand beside him. “We take lives, Dad. We went from sawing off fingers to cutting off arms, legs, and even heads. It’s been pretty exciting to discover what we’re capable of.”
Dad tries to stand then, his eyes widening in horror as the gravity of this situation begins to dawn on him. He lets out a pathetic gasp. Sagan lets him up, and we watch as his hands slap against the table while he bares his teeth at me. Maybe if I was still a child I’d cower away. But now, I just stare into the flat eyes of a man whose time has come and gone.
When I don’t react, Dad’s bravado melts away. The red of his face vanishes as anger turns to fear.
“Look, I know I wasn’t the greatest dad, but it could’ve been worse, right?” He tries to laugh but the sound is hysterical. “I’m just a man. I got flaws. I-I’ll turn things around. Why don’t you guys stay here for a bit, and we can work something out?”
I look at my brother and ask him, “Sound like something you want to do?”
“Nope.”
“Thatcher, Sagan, my boys, please. You don’t have to do this,” Dad whimpers. “I can be better.”
I pull my hand, and the needle I’ve grabbed a hold of, out of my pocket. Lifting it up to my face, I tap it to mix together the ingredients inside. When I’m done, I look at Dad.
“The only thing we want is you dead and gone.”
“You can thank your lucky stars this has to look natural,” Sagan growls, grabbing the back of his shirt as Dad tries to make a run for it. It’s a poor effort. With Sagan’s hold on him, he’s not going anywhere. As I step up and pop the top off the needle, I smile and say, “Tell the devil we say hi.”