Page 69 of Buried Beneath Sin

Thatcher took shadowing me literally. He was by my side the entire day. He listened to every phone call, sat with me during several walk-ins, and took notes when the florist came by to discuss updating our partnership. Sagan was around, but mostly he remained out of sight—fixing things here and there like an on-site handyman.

Knox made an appearance later in the afternoon. He carried around a laptop and tried to talk to me about the big renovations he was planning for each part of Bright Starr. A few times he’d tried to get me to sit and discuss them but each time we were interrupted.

“Ugh, this place requires so muchattention. Don’t you get, like, a second to breathe? When is your lunch break?” He demanded after we’d been interrupted a third time.

As I carried an arm full of flowers to the back for tomorrow’s service, I told him, “I don’t usually have time for a break so I don’t tend to take one.”

“That has to be some type of HR violation,” Knox whined as he dragged his feet while walking behind me.

I couldn’t help but laugh at that. If this family business had a Human Resources department, I’m sure me working overtime would be the least of their concerns given what I’ve put up with over the years.

“Well, you’ll have to take it up with them,” I told him.

This response had earned me another heavily exaggerated whine.

Out of the three of them, Knox is the most unusual. Not because he chooses to wear skintight, bleach-splattered women’s high waisted bell bottom jeans, a leather t-shirt, and has his nails painted, but he seems to be the most indifferent to the whole situation.

For the rest of day, Knox took up following me and Thatcher around, but he didn’t seem the least bit interested in taking notes or asking questions, like the Hunt twin. Instead, he flirted with Thatcher, who would occasionally indulge him, and he playfully attempted to ruffle Sagan’s feathers when the second twin would make the rare appearance. Most of the time, Knox isn’t successful in that endeavor. Sagan is a cold, quiet man who allows Knox’s words to roll over him like water.

Sometimes, while one or both of the Hunt twins were around, Knox attempted to banter with me. The minute they’re out of sight, however, his friendly smiles would drop away, and I’d be gifted with looks of disdain. They didn’t particularly bother me. After all, I’m used to that type of reaction by most of the people in Chasm. I mentally make it a point to remind myself that it’s not necessarilymehe hates. The thought of the twins being hurt or betrayed by a stranger is what keeps him from lowering his guard around me. I like that about him, I decide. His unwavering loyalty is so rare that I can’t help but admire Knox for it.

It doesn’t take long to see that these three are perfect for one another. Somehow they all balance each other out. It's strangebeing on the outskirts of such a close-knit group. Thatcher and Sagan claim they want me around, but it’s clear I don’t fit. Not exactly, at least. I’m the odd man out.

When seven o’clock rolls around, and we file out of the building for the day, I’m feeling wholly out of my league. I don’t know how to be around these three. I’m not charming and easy-going like Thatcher, unperturbed and confident like Sagan, nor am I outspoken and vibrant like Knox. I’m just… me. Awkward, easily flustered, and painfully self-aware of my inadequacies. Yet, despite all that, Iwantto make this work. How can I insert myself into their little family? There must be a way to bridge the gap. It’ll be hard. I’ve always had a difficult time connecting with people, but I want what they have so badly that I’ll do anything to find my place amongst the three of them.

Just as I finish locking up for the night, Thatcher takes my hand and pulls me into his side to plant a kiss on the top of my head. I blink in surprise. I’m not used to sweet, gentle touches like this. Is this something I’ll have to get used to? Or is this type of affection a one off from daily interactions?

“Watching you work is a wonder, Little Sister. It’s nice that I won’t have to always be the brains around here,” he says. “When you’re not playing with the bodies that roll in here, I want you in the office with me. I want full access to your mind.”

“I don’t play with the dead,” I mutter as I duck my head, embarrassed by his praise.

“If anyone is touching a body, I assume they’re playing with it since that’s whatI’mdoing when I have one in my possession,” Thatcher shrugs. “There’s nothing wrong with fooling around with the dead… or soon-to-be dead.”

I giggle nervously through my grimace and, without thinking, I reply, “Actually there’s alotwrong with it.”

The minute the words slip past my lips, I instantly regret it.

Crap! Why did I say that? My amusement falls away like a boulder in a rockslide. Horror replaces it, freezing around my heart like a flash frost. My hand moves to slap over my mouth while the rest of my body flinches hard. Thatcher’s brows raise slowly, even as he chuckles. When he doesn’t strike out, my hand falls away from my mouth. It turns to a fist at my side as I brace myself for his retaliation.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that,” I mutter, my gaze dropping to our feet. Thatcher’s shoes, new and leather, shine in the parking lot’s single orange streetlamp.

His hand comes up. I see it move toward me. Even though it comes at me slowly, I can’t stop the sharp recoil that causes me to pull back. Thatcher’s fingers slide beneath my chin and force my head to tilt upward. I meet both brown eye and green with bated breath.

“I am not my father, Little Sister,” he says softly. “I don’t hit people. There’s no need when I have a knife that will make a bolder statement, if I choose to make one. Always speak your mind with me, withus. I enjoy knowing you have a sense of humor.”

The tension in my shoulders eases, and they lower away from my ears. My lips curve upward but the smile feels shaky. Thatcher hasn’t done anything to me that would make me question his sincerity but… heisPatrick’s kid. I have to be wary, at least until I can get a feel for these guys.

“Let’sgo!” Knox calls out.

I jump in surprise, pulling away from Thatcher’s touch. I turn to find Knox and Sagan hanging out by Knox’s little sedan. Knox slaps the top of the vehicle.

“We got places to go! Hurry up!” he urges.

Sagan says something to him, and Knox rolls his eyes and huffs loud enough for us to hear.

“You’re… going out?” I ask.

“No.” Thatcher takes my hand and guides me toward the others. “We’regoing out.”

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