Page 13 of Buried Beneath Sin

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.

Thisis 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 ofher. 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?”

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