Page 20 of Buried Beneath Sin

When I get home, I find the house quiet.

A smidgen of guilt beats at me as I unpack the groceries. The sedative I gave my mother before I slipped out this morning will keep her down for most of the day. It’s better this way. Despite the guilt I feel, I’ll take this over the bitter loathing I have for her when she’s awake.

Upstairs, I can hear the faint creaking and groans of the floorboards coming from the third floor. Patrick must be finally waking up. I glance at the clock. Up before noon? There must be something important on Patrick’s schedule for him to drag hislazy ass out of bed at this hour. A few moments later, the pipes in the wall rattle and hiss as he turns on his shower.

I have a few more minutes of silence before I have to deal with him.

As quickly as I can, I finish putting away the groceries. For a second, I consider hurrying down to the funeral home. He doesn’t come down there anymore; neither does my mother. I run it better than either of them ever could and they know it. So rather than chase off customers, they wait until I’m here to let their crazy out on me.

But this ismyhome. I shouldn’t have to run. And if Patrick is out of his drugs, he’ll be more pressed to go find some rather than bother me. Fingers crossed that he heads straight out of here once he’s done showering.

Speaking of showers… I go in search of my mother.

I find her right where I left her, sitting in the living room in her favorite wingback chair that faces the television. The coffee cup I’d slipped the sedative in now rests on its side beside the chair, the last of the coffee having soaked into the area rug. I make a mental note to grab something to clean that up with as I come to stand in front of my mother. Snoring softly with her head resting on her chest, she looks peaceful. Her thick, kinky, unkempt hair is a matted mess, and her shirt is stained with sweat, food, and now coffee. I can’t remember the last time she changed her outfit.

With her out like a rock, I probably could slip some clean clothes on her.

What she really needs is a bath though. I frown as I take in her too-thin arms, her bony shoulders, and the way her cheekbones jut out from her face. Most of the corpses I tend to look better than she does. Can I carry her up the stairs? With a twisted ankle, I doubt it.

Even if I wasn’t injured, does shedeservethe energy I would have to spend on getting her up the two flights of stairs to her bathroom? I search for any lingering empathy or love I might have for the woman before me. If I find any, I’ll try to move her.

I come up empty handed.

When was the last time I felt love for my mother? It had to have been recently. She’s why I came back to Chasm after college in the first place. While I was away, she called me, begging me to save her from Patrick and promising she’d do better by me. I knew it was a lie then. She just missed someone to berate and belittle when Patrick got fed up and left her ass at home to go drink down at the local bars. But the calls continued throughout my entire time away at college. The consistency, the promises, the walks down memory lane she’d bring up—of the good times between us—had worked their magic.

How could I let my mom suffer when she so desperately wanted to get better? And my momlovesme, how can I possibly leave her to this miserable fate?

Except this is the life my mom wants. She enjoys the strife and gets off on dragging people into her personal hell. And as much as she says otherwise, she adores Patrick. He feeds into her madness, and she loves it. And Patrick? He loves that he has power over someone. It was easier to love this woman in front of me when it was from a distance. But standing here before her, staring at the woman she’s become? I just… I feel so hollow.

My bottom lip trembles as helplessness clamps down like a vice around my heart. This is exhausting. I hate this life I’ve been sucked into. Somehow, I have to break the endless cycle of violence and rage under this roof.

My gaze flickers to the hallway. My imagination takes me the rest of the way to the conservatory where my journal sits, hidden beneath the wicker couch, and to the offer written on the lastpage. The rose that waited for me between the pages is dried now, but it’s even more beautiful in its brittle state.

Don’t even consider that option, my conscience screams.Taking a life iswrong.You were just angry that night you ground up that poison. You weren’t really going to do it.

But they could kill you in one of their rages,a small voice in my head counters, as it has been for the past week.

They wouldn’t care if you died.

How many times have they mentioned they wished you were dead?

You’re the one with the future, not?—

The smell of smoke pulls me out of my internal moral dilemma. What the hell? I run out of the living room and begin to cross the foyer toward the kitchen but stop at the sight of smoke billowing over the railing above me.

Smoke coming from the direction of my room.

Rerouting, I take the stairs two at a time—ignoring the pain in my ankle. I get to the top and start to turn the corner but stop abruptly. Patrick leans against my door frame, facing me with a cigarette in his mouth.

“Might want to put that out before the whole house goes up,” he says, pushing away from my door. “Then, when you’re done, I suggest you take whatever isn’t burned down to the funeral home. I don’t think I want you living under my roof anymore.”

“It’s notyourroof, it’s my mom’s,” I hiss as I hurry toward him and my bedroom. He steps aside as I enter. I gape at the sight of my bed completely up in flames. “What is wrong with you? Are you a psychopath?”

“Hurry up before the walls catch,” he urges as he strolls back down the hall. “And just so you know, my attorney’s assistant came by a month ago to make sure my will was up to date, and I made some changes. Lauren did too. The house is inmyname now, we got the deed and title changed and everything. Thebusiness and this house no longer belong to a Starr. You have to listen to what I say, and I say you got to get your shit and move out.”

I hear him, but I don’t have time to respond. Diving into the bathroom, I grab a bucket under the bathroom sink and turn the shower on. While it fills, I take the cup that holds my toothbrush off the counter and fill it with water from the faucet.

It takes ten minutes to put out the fire. By the time it’s out, the mattress and my vanity, where the fire managed to spread, are ruined. I stare at their charred remains. The rest of the room is covered in smoke and stinks. It’ll take forever to air it out. And I’ll have to wash all my clothes if I don’t want them smelling like a house fire. I don’t even have the time to start cleaning up the water and soot. I have a client coming to Bright Starr in less than an hour.

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