32. Knox
32
KNOX
U nder the watchful eye of Starr Girl, I hosted my first service.
I think I did alright. I got to dress up in a suit that I paired with my long sleeve white shirt that had dangling lace sleeves beneath it, giving the outfit a fun touch. I also wore the pearls Beatrix gave me. Wearing them, however, wasn’t because of the service. I haven’t taken them off since she gave them to me. They’re gorgeous, and it doesn’t take a jeweler to tell me that they are expensive.
I adore expensive things.
During the service, no one seemed to spare me more than a glance or two as they sobbed over the child in the fancy box. According to Starr Girl, that was normal. While they mourned, I followed her around as she gave directions. Together we consoled, handed out tissues, and directed people to either the small table of food or the bathroom. The whole time I couldn’t decide if I was enjoying Starr Girl’s presence or if I was so good at pretending to be a friend that I was even fooling myself. I question it so much that, an hour or so through the service, I started feeling a little pissy about the whole thing. Why did I care so much about my feelings toward Starr Girl?
Because you don’t usually feel anything ever other than when you’re around the twins and you can’t help but feel with her , a voice tells me. I grit my teeth, hating that. For the rest of the service, I have to force myself not to glare at Starr Girl as she makes me feel all sorts of weird. My patience wears thin near the end.
“I got this,” I snap at Beatrix as she hands me a fresh tissue box. “I can get my own boxes.”
Rather than take offense at my tone, as I would if the roles were reversed, Starr Girl simply nods and leaves me to it. I hate that I feel guilty as she walks away.
My mood hasn’t improved by the time I join Thatcher by the front doors after the service. The people filing out of the funeral home this afternoon are so grief stricken, no one seems to be curious about Beatrix’s new staff. I’m glad. I can’t seem to fix my attitude no matter how hard I try. Thatcher is the one who ends up handing out condolences and quiet thank yous that are vastly ignored.
I try a few times, knowing that this part of the job will eventually fall completely to my shoulders.
“Thank you for coming. Again, I’m sorry for your loss.” The words fall from my lips with as much emotion as I can muster given I don’t give a fuck about their dead child.
“Hey.” Starr Girl steps up behind me. “You did really well today. Thank you for your help.”
I shrug, annoyed by her presence and pleased with the unexpected compliment. “Of course I did well. I know how to host parties.”
As if it’s hard to put together and set out some finger sandwiches and drinks for people to grab, or to set up flower arrangements. An idiot could do it.
“They’re not parties,” Thatcher chides softly as people pass us to leave. “Remember, we need to be respectful, Knox.”
I roll my eyes. “Is there food? Flowers? And people? Then it’s a party. But sure, let’s call it something else.”
Thatcher shoots me a warning look that I ignore completely.
“So, Knox…” Beatrix starts. “I was wondering if?—”
She cuts herself off with the softest groan of despair I have ever heard. When she says nothing after a moment, both Thatcher and I look over our shoulders. She’s nowhere to be seen. Where the hell did she go? She was just right here.
“What was that about?” I ask Thatcher.
Before he can answer, a guest approaches. The middle-aged man is a simple looking guy. His mousy brown hair is brushed over and his worn sports jacket hangs off his frame, clearly a size too big for him. A hand-me-down perhaps? Or maybe he used to be a bigger guy when he was in his youth?
“Good afternoon, is Beatrix in?” he asks, looking at me then Thatcher, his pupils narrowing. Is that suspicion on this guy’s face? What the hell? What did we do to deserve this response?
It only takes a second to come up with an answer. I forgot about the small-mindedness of people in towns like Chasm where traditional values are upheld above almost everything else. Does he not like the lace dangling from the sleeves of my shirt? Or is it the tinted lipgloss he’s disgusted by?
“I believe you just missed her,” Thatcher says easily. “Can I help you?”
“Ah…” He looks between us, his brows pulling together slightly. “Maybe, but may I ask who you are first? I’ve never seen you here, or around town, before.”
“We just blew in, actually. I'm Thatcher Hunt and this is Knox Keele,” Thatcher says as he offers his hand to the man who takes it with a raised brow.
“Hunt?” he repeats slowly. “Are you by any chance related to a man named Patrick Hunt?”
“The one and the same,” Thatcher says with a well-timed grimace. He’s so good at this. The perfect sociopath. He’s always been able to fit into the world around him—being able to say and do all the right things—and no one's the wiser. I aspire to be like him.
The man blinks, clearly surprised. “Oh, I didn’t realize he had a son.”
“He had two, actually. My brother is around here somewhere, but Sagan doesn’t enjoy crowds, so you’ll have to forgive his absence. We’re here, helping out Beatrix for a bit until things with our father’s will are settled.” Thatcher doesn’t let go of the man’s hand as he talks. “And you are…?”
“Oh, sorry, I’m Ernest Michaels. I’m the pastor of the Protestant church in town and one of Beatrix’s closest friends,” he introduces with a smile.
Beatrix has friends? Since when? I push the thought aside as a nagging memory surfaces. Did he just say he’s a pastor? My mind races. Didn’t the guy we killed, Trevor, say his dad ran the local church? What are the chances that these two are related?
“Pastor Michaels, it is a pleasure to meet you,” Thatcher says, warmth dripping from every word. “I don’t know exactly where Beatrix is, but I can pass along a message for you if you’d like.”
“Yeah, if you could, that would be great. Would you ask her to give me a call if she’s seen Trevor, my son? He and his friend Sebastian haven’t been seen in a few days, and I’m getting worried. Trevor and Beatrix are really close, so I figured she would know where he was.”
Close ? As I can recall, Starr Girl had not been a fan of Trevor. It takes me a second too long to realize this guy doesn’t really know his son. Or, rather, didn't know his son.
“Of course, I’ll let her know,” Thatcher says.
“Great, thanks so much.” The pastor takes a step toward the door but stops. “Maybe I’ll see you on Sunday? My doors are always open.”
Thatcher’s smile doesn’t budge. It doesn’t turn smug, nor does he seem to have to stifle a laugh. “We’ll see, thanks for the invite.”
The man nods, giving us a smile before he slips away. We both watch as he stops to speak to others on the way to his car.
“I’m going to go find Starr Girl to see what she wants.” I take a step back. “Unless you need me to chase the lollygaggers out of here?”
Thatcher shakes his head, his eyes pinned to Pastor Michaels’ back. “Go ahead.”
With his blessing, I take off and head to the back of the funeral home. As I prowl through the hallways, I berate myself. I can tell I care about what’s wrong with Beatrix. Her quick disappearance seems out of character. From what I’ve seen so far, she seems pretty steadfast in dealing with things head on, even if her ‘head on’ is standing there quietly while mine is more like stabbing some shit. So why take off now?
And, more importantly, why do I care?
I don’t want to like Starr Girl. Yet it's hard not to. She makes me laugh, listens to me when I talk, and her occasional gentle teasing is never at my expense. She’s a rare breath of fresh air. Part of me is inclined to trust her and to lean into such an easy friendship. But after tasting her delicious pussy and being wrapped up in her life? I’m afraid. Afraid I might let her in too much. I don’t want that. Letting others in can only lead to pain. My past is the perfect example of that. The only people I can trust are Thatcher and Sagan.
I find Starr Girl behind the desk in the preparation room typing something on the laptop sitting in front of her. She looks up as I enter.
“Oh, Knox. Sorry about running off, I just didn’t know how to handle Pastor Michaels.”
Huh, so that’s what her disappearance was about. That makes a lot of sense. Having to look the murder victim’s father in his face would be hard for anyone who still holds onto a conscience. I let out a mental sigh before I collect myself and wave a hand flippantly.
“It was taken care of,” I assure her. “What did you want?”
For a second, she looks flustered. She shuts the old laptop in front of her and stands. Her eyelashes flutter rapidly, and her cheeks turn pink.
“You mentioned your first night here that you liked to cook with organic ingredients.” She gives me a small, timid smile. “There’s a natural market on the other side of Chasm if you’d like to go check it out now? We need a few things for dinner, so I figured….” She drags in a nervous, shaky breath before pushing on, “The funeral home is only open for a few more hours, but I highly doubt we’ll get any activity. Thatcher seems competent enough to handle any phone calls that come in while I’m gone?—”
I lift a hand to stop her. I’m not in the mood to entertain the lingering strangers from the service, and the thought of cleaning up the mess in the viewing room is enough for me to be game for doing anything else.
“I’m down, Starr Girl, let’s go.”
I gasp as Starr Girl pulls up to the small store. “Who knew you’d find one of these in Indiana? Hell must’ve frozen over.”
“It’s not much,” she says as she turns off the car. I let her borrow mine, there was no way I’d be seen driving around in the funeral van, on the stipulation that I could be the passenger princess for the ride. “But maybe you’ll find a few things here you can use.”
She speaks so softly that I have to strain to hear her. That seems to be her thing. Well, that and not making eye contact. Apparently the ground is much more interesting than the people or things around her.
“You’re a good listener,” I tell her before I climb out of the car and slam the door shut. “I like that. It’s not a trait most people have.”
Too bad the ingredients I’d been talking about that first night didn’t have anything to do with store-bought items. I keep my mouth shut about that now, though. Thatcher’s worried my unique appetite for a particular type of meat might freak her out too much. She’s impressed me so far though but I guess everyone has their limits.
“It’s not hard, you’re interesting.” Starr Girl grabs a cart, and together we walk into the store.
I scoff. “ Interesting ? I’m better than that. I’m fucking titillating and extra?—”
“Beatrix?”
We both look over to find an older woman and her daughter—who must be near Beatrix’s age—staring at us. The older woman is heavy set with early two thousands blonde streaks in her hair. Her original chin is non-existent as it disappears into her second one. That massive two-chin situation quivers as she stares incredulously at Beatrix.
“Darlene, how are you?” Starr Girl says pleasantly.
The woman purses her lips as she looks over Beatrix and then at me. Judging by the flare of her nostrils and the disdain in her expression, she’s not a fan of either of us. Her daughter, on the other hand, shoots me a seductive smile. I wink at her and it earns me a flustered giggle.
“Me? I’m fine. I want to know how you’re doing. The service for Patrick and Lauren was lovely, by the way. I didn’t get a chance to share my condolences, there were just so many people there,” Darlene says. “I’m so sorry you lost both of your parents.”
Beatrix doesn’t reply right away. Her knuckles turn white as her grip tightens around the handle of the cart.
“Thank you,” she mutters. “If you don’t mind, we need to get a few things?—”
“But I must say that this is highly improper, you know,” Darlene says, her tone so condescending that nuns could learn a thing or two from her. “You shouldn’t be out gallivanting around town, nor should you be working. You should’ve closed Bright Starr for at least a week so that you had the time to quietly pray for your mother’s poor soul. By the looks of things, you’re not even grieving properly?—”
“Who says she’s not?” I ask, shooting her my best smile when Darlene looks back at me. “You can’t mourn on an empty stomach though.”
The woman only gives me a dismissive look before her attention returns to Starr Girl. “Who’s your friend here? I haven’t seen him before.”
“ Mom ,” the young woman beside her whispers loudly. “You don’t know if he, I mean if they , use the he or him pronouns. You have to be careful about that type of thing!”
The thinner, younger version of Darlene shoots me an apologetic smile. I want to roll my eyes so badly, but I hold them still. Thatcher would be pissed if I was purposely disrespectful to potential clients.
“My pronouns are whatever you want them to be,” I assure her, forcing myself to hold my smile. “I’m Knox, Beatrix’s new BFF, by the way.”
I might as well have spoken Chinese. Darlene pulls away from us, looking bewildered.
“Well, Beatrix, make sure you make this trip quick. You don’t want people to think you’re not being respectful of your parents, trouncing about town and having fun and all.”
“Right, sure,” Beatrix nods, not bothering to hold eye contact as she stares down at the empty cart. “Let’s go, Knox.”
I step closer to Darlene’s daughter, unable to help myself. I both hate and enjoy the horror on Darlene’s face at my approach. She pulls away as if I’m a contagious disease. I ignore her and reach for her daughter’s hand. She lets me take it as she bats her eyelashes at me.
“It’s not fair that you know my name, but I don’t know yours.” I hold her gaze as I lift her hand to my lips.
The young woman giggles and turns beet red. It’s a blotchy ugly blush that covers her face and neck.
“I’m Becky,” she says.
I lightly brush my lips against the back of her hand, causing another giggle to escape past her lips. “Maybe I’ll see you around, Becky.”
The flirtatious act gets the reaction I’m looking for. Darlene snatches her daughter’s hand away from me before I can let it go.
“I want you nowhere near my daughter!” Darlene snaps and yanks her adult daughter away from me. Becky looks over her shoulder and mouths “I’m sorry” before exiting the store with her mom.
Beatrix doesn’t stick around, she immediately begins to push the cart down the nearest aisle, scurrying away from the confrontation. I follow her.
“God, she seemed like a bitch,” I say, coming up to her side.
Starr Girl says nothing to this. I glance at her face to find it beet red beneath her warm brown skin. Before I can tell her to shake it off, two people round the corner up ahead and stop abruptly at the sight of us. They physically recoil before turning their cart and disappearing.
“Tell me this isn’t a usual day for you,” I beg as Beatrix continues pushing the cart.
The pained look she shoots me confirms that this is definitely not uncommon for her. My stomach drops. I know how it feels to be alienated from your peers. It fucking sucks.
“I’m sorry if it’s uncomfortable,” she mutters. “I can wait out in the car, if you want?”
I scowl at her. “You’re not waiting in the fucking car. You and I are going to shop where we want and not give a fuck about what others think about us, alright? Come on, let’s go.”
We make it down three more aisles before we get nearly the same conversation from another couple, a younger one this time. Then, as we checkout, the clerk eyes the both of us with suspicion.
If I thought this trip was going to help ease my bad mood, I was sorely mistaken. Climbing in the passenger seat, I kick my feet up onto the dash and cross my arms over my chest. The one-hour parking sign gets the brunt of my glare as I stare straight ahead. As I seethe, Starr Girl packs the items into the trunk. I catch sight of her in the side mirrors as she grabs the bags from the cart. Her expression is neutral. It baffles me. How can she be so calm? She should be in here seething with me, shit talking the people who accosted us and helping plot murders.
Ok, maybe not the plotting murders part. I can’t imagine she’d have any good ideas about that given she hasn’t really committed one yet. An accomplice doesn’t count in my book.
But still, I’m not sure how she’s managed to keep her mouth shut with each interaction. It’s as if their words no longer faze her. I know that’s not true. I grew up in a place just like this. Never once had I been able to simply just shrug and move on. And never did their words not hurt on some level. Nowadays the rejection and ugly looks I receive don’t bother me as much, but, if I’m being honest with myself, sometimes they still get to me.
Beatrix climbs into the car a few minutes later after returning the cart inside like a good little girl. As she shuts her door, I turn to look at her.
“Ok, if we weren’t bunking down here for the foreseeable future, I would’ve hunted everyone in that store down and killed them,” I snarl.
Starr Girl says nothing to this. She simply turns the car on, backs out of our parking spot, and heads toward the road. For ten minutes, she says nothing. During that time I tell her all the ways I would go about killing them. At first I get no response, but finally, as I tell her about plucking the brains out of Darlene’s skull with chopsticks since the organ would be so small, Beatrix giggles.
“ Finally you react. I was beginning to think you were a robot or something,” I complain with an exasperated sigh.
She shoots me an apologetic glance. “I try to ignore it all.”
“Why?” I demand. “Why not call them out on their shit?”
I just can’t fathom not saying anything . Where I grew up, people finally stopped saying shit to my face because I wasn’t shy nor did I mince my words when I turned shit around on them. Sure, it made people dislike me more, but what did I care? I knew even at a young age I wasn’t ever going to stick around that shithole, and look, I was right.
Beatrix shrugs. “Where would that get me?”
“It would garner some respect for you.” I almost regret the words that slip out my mouth. Especially when she gives the slightest of flinches.
“Maybe,” Beatrix agrees after a second. “Or maybe it would only lead to losing clients who’d rather use a different funeral home the next time someone died in their family simply to be vindictive and hurt my business.”
Oh . Well… I suppose when she puts it like that, I guess I can understand. I glare out the window, pissed off at the town for both of our sakes. It’s annoying that I’m offended on her behalf. The fact that I am tells me that, as hard as I’m trying to keep her from getting under my skin, she might already be there.
Sneaky bitch.
“Knox… are you ok?” she asks after a moment.
I roll my eyes. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
There’s a second where she doesn’t speak. When she does, she says, “Darlene can be cruel. She didn’t… you know, hurt your feelings, did she?”
For a second, I appreciate her asking. I’ve never met someone who seems to be as genuinely kind as Beatrix is. That appreciation is swept away as ugly memories resurface from my past. Of people pretending to be kind, pretending to care even. It was a lie. All of it. A facade to weaken my defenses and hurt me in unspeakable ways. My stomach clenches as anger and distrust well up in my chest.
“You don’t need to look out for me, Starr Girl. The only one without a spine or any amount of self-respect in this car is you,” I sneer. “Prejudices don’t fucking bother me. Now how about you shut your trap and take us home?”
There’s a soft, forlorn sigh then silence. I half-expect her to blow up at me in the seconds that tick by. It would be warranted at this point. Surely being barked at like this, as often as I do it toward her, she’ll eventually crack and show her true colors. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself. When she does speak a few minutes later, it’s not what I expect to hear.
“Do you want to get a rotisserie chicken for dinner tonight and some dessert croissants?”
Food? My glare lessens as we drive by different shops and businesses.
“Can I eat the croissants now?” I ask like a pouty child. “I’m hungry.”
“And fussy,” she adds.
My head whips around to face her. She shoots me a sweet, teasing smile before she faces the road again. The tension in my body lessens.
“I get this way when I’m hangry,” I tell her matter-of-factly. “I need food. Preferably something sweet.”
“Then let’s feed you. I know the perfect little bakery.”