Page 2 of Buried Beneath Sin

That brings me a small amount of pleasure.

Creeping around to the back of the house, I find a small porch and a back door. What are the chances it’s open? Given that I’m forty-five minutes southeast of Chicago, in some bumfuck town in Indiana called Chasm, it’s probably pretty high. Midwestern folks in these places sure do trust one another.

Idiots.

I walk up the three cement steps and try the knob. The latch gives way and the door opens. I catch it before it swings too far. Leaning forward, I listen for signs of life. Time ticks on by as I simply stand there and wait.

Patience. I have an abundance of it.

Which is why Thatcher sent me rather than sending Knox or coming himself. They just don’t have what it takes to simplywait.

When I’m sure there’s no one walking around on the first floor, I open the back door just wide enough for me to slide in before shutting it. I’m in a mudroom of sorts where coats hang, dirty shoes are piled on the floor, and the washer and dryer—that look nearly as old as the house—sit. The door to the rest of the house is open. Just outside of it is a long hallway. At the end of the hall and to the left is a room with light flooding from it.

I tilt my head and listen.

Still, there’s no noise. Cautiously, I take a step further into the house, eyeing the worn wooden floorboards. They don’t creak under my weight. Another four steps and I’m feeling confident that I can move without a sound. Still, I keep to the sides of the hallway rather than walk down the middle of it. I pause when I come to the threshold of the room where the light is coming from. During my trek here the room was silent, leading me to believe there’s no one inside. Still, I peek my head in and allow my gaze to swing around the room.

I freeze when it lands on the woman in the faded wingback chair.

She has thick, kinky hair, which is in disarray, a strong jawline, and is rail thin. Judging by the light snores and her slouch, she’s passed out. There’s a rubber band tied around her arm, and a needle rests in a tray on the small table beside the chair. I stare at my father’s latest wife. He never loved my mother. Zin Zhao had been a first generation immigrant from China, here to plant roots for the rest of her family to settle once she’d gotten the hang of things. Unfortunately for her, my father could smell her vulnerability. He’d taken advantage of a lonely young woman, then accidentally knocked her the fuck up—with twins no less. Since he left her, back when Thatcher and I were thirteen, he's remarried three times. His marriage to Lauren Starr has been his longest since my mother; it’s going on five years now. I suppose if I was forced to marry in order to survive, I’d want someone who’d get high and leave me the hell alone too.

Leaving Lauren to her own devices, I turn and head in another direction. As I move around the first floor, I make a list of the things that need updating—which seems to be everything given how the windows, floors, light fixtures, kitchen appliances, and even the furniture all seem to be original. The longer the mental list gets, the more I’m sure this is a mistake.

Killing Patrick and letting this place rot would be the best bet for all of us.

I peek into an office next. Here, I take my time. I find the keys to the funeral home, take pictures of the poorly kept financial records and the piles of unpaid bills stacked behind a few boxes. Thatcher will need these to see what we’ll be taking on if we decide to move forward with his plan.

When I’m done in the office, I step into the conservatory. The room, made up of three glass walls and a glass ceiling, is filled with pots housing dead plants, dirty glass, and cracked floortiles. It’s a forgotten space, just like the rest of the house. Just as I turn to leave, my eyes land on something green. I hesitate before stepping further into the room. In the far corner is a cluster of healthy looking plants. Potted in rich, new looking soil, they seem to be thriving. The glass that surrounds that corner has been cleaned so light can shine through.

How odd… Why keep those ones alive?

The question isn’t important and is forgotten the minute I step out of the conservatory. When I come back around, I check on Lauren Starr. She’s still out—having stayed in the exact same position.

Just as I take a step toward the stairs, noise from somewhere on the second or third floor captures my attention. A familiar voice drifts through the house, his favorite curse word on his lips. There’s a thud and then silence.

Emotion stirs in my chest. The hatred I’ve carried for this man trudges up through the dark chasm within my chest and warms my blood. Its presence isn’t surprising. I’ve loathed my father for as long as I can remember. The way he abused us, tortured our mother… It was enough to drive anyone insane.

When Patrick doesn’t come into view, I take the steps two at a time, placing my weight strategically in places where I’m confident the wood won’t creak to give me away. When I get to the second floor, I note that the U-shape hall looks down onto the first floor. Anyone who comes out of the four doors on this floor can peer over to see into the foyer and either entrance to the rooms below.

Good to know for the next time I come visit.

Another set of stairs, narrower than the first, head up to the third floor. There, a door is ajar and light is spilling through. The sound of shuffling footsteps, mumbling, and a thump tell me my father is meandering around up there.

As satisfying as it would be, I promised Thatcher I’d wait until he was with me before we killed him. Besides, there are other pieces of our plan that need to be put into motion before we can kill him.

With that thought, I turn, hooking around the U to my left and slipping into the first door.

The room I’ve entered is an unused guestroom. Dust covers every surface, including the comforter and drapes. I hesitate, not going too far. With so much dust on the floor, it’ll show footprints. Maybe next time I come, I’ll clean up a bit so I can move throughout the house without worrying about such things. Quickly, I leave the room. My feet take me to the end of the hallway to the last door. Here, I grab the knob and open the door just enough to make my way inside. I slip in, prepared to find another guest room.

I’m wrong.

My foot freezes mid-stride as I enter. There, laying sprawled out on the floor on her stomach, is a young woman. Her arms are outstretched in front of her. I watch as she struggles to dig her nails into the hardwood floor to give herself some leverage in order to drag herself forward. It works… a little. The half an inch she gains is pathetic though.

Her staccato, ragged breaths are the only sound in the room.

Something stirs in my chest as I stare down at her. It’s not a fully developed emotion, but I’m pretty sure this is the start of curiosity. Huh, interesting. Why is it waking now? I’ve seen women on their stomachs countless times. Hell, I tend to put them there before I plunge a blade through their backs.

Never once have I felt anything other than a mild satisfaction during those moments.

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