Page 7 of Buried Beneath Sin

“My mother really knows how to pick them, doesn’t she?” Beatrix whispers. The pain that laces her voice tugs at something in my chest. “You and her previous husbands, you are all the same, and she… she’s… well, just my mother, I guess. When willshelistento me?” She tugs at the bindings around her ankles. Her fingers struggle to loosen the tight knot for a bit before she finally gets herself free. “I can’t keep doing this…” Her voice breaks but she doesn’t start to cry. She sniffles once then rolls her shoulders, straightening them as she spares Patrick a glare. “I took a page out of your book. Maybe you need to keep a closer eye on your drinks from now on.”

A small balloon of pride swells up in my chest. Beatrix struck back. It may not be a killing blow, but it’s all downhill from here. Or uphill, depending on who you’re asking.

Soon she’ll be a killer—just like me.

With a shaky sigh, Beatrix grabs the rope and gag, stands, then strolls out of the room, only stumbling once before she’s out of sight.

I stand there, listening to her climb the steps and head to her room. The rage burning in my chest doesn’t lessen as time ticks by and silence fills the house. Instead, it only grows stronger. I glare at my father’s unconscious form.

At some point during the past few visits to this house, I decided that Beatrix Starr belongs to me. How could I not covet this beautiful enigma? Everything about her calls to me like a woeful song of a siren. She’s lured me in, and now I’m trapped in her snare. Beatrix might not be one of us just yet, but she’s getting there, and I’m excited to see her blossom into the true terror she’ll become.

And, because she’s mine, I ache to claim and protect her. Each time I witnessed a crime against Beatrix Starr, I’ve wanted to step out of the shadows and end her misery. If I could, I would.

But Ican’t.

Thatcher, Knox, and I voted on this weeks ago. The plan was, if we decided that the house and Bright Starr Funeral Home were worth possessing, those who owned it had to die.That includes our father, his wife,andhis stepdaughter. When I returned after my initial visit, I’d given Thatcher and Knox my notes about the state of things here. It took only a few minutes for us all to agree that taking over our father’s home and business and making it our own would not only be easy, but the best thing for us.

For our Pretty Boy, Knox, especially.

That vote should’ve been the end of it.

Yet, not long after that decision was made, I returned here. Something had drawn me back to the young woman with liquid amber eyes. I didn’t know it then, but now I know it’s because of my addiction to Beatrix Starr. It's maddening. Just when I think I’ve had my fill of the young Starr and leave to return to the others, I’m hit with a painful ache to turn around and be in her presence once more.

There is nothing I desire more than to possess the beautifully mysterious woman who houses a soul as dark as any of ours. But Ican’thave her. A vote is a vote. It’s how the three of us make decisions. Once a majority has been reached, whatever has been decided is set into motion. Beatrix Starr can’t be mine because she has to die to make this house, and that funeral home at the bottom of the hill, ours.

That truth doesn’t make mecraveher any less.

I have to figure out a way to keep her. I know if the others could just see the creature lurking behind her eyes, the one coiling and getting ready to strike—like a viper cornered and scared—they’d agree that she belongs with us. I just have to figure out how to convince them Beatrix Starr is worth saving.

Until then, I’ll be here, watching her from the shadows, standing with her in solidarity while she suffers at the hands of the people who can’t, and won’t, appreciate the treasure in their midst.

4

BEATRIX

“There, you’re all ready for tomorrow,” I murmur to the young boy on the stainless steel table. Reaching out, I hold Marco Babble’s hand. “I’ll be with you the whole time, ok? No reason to be scared.”

I reach out to brush a strand of black hair off his forehead and back into place. He shouldn’t be here. At twelve years old, he should be home and tucked into bed right about now, thinking about all the presents that will be under his Christmas tree next week. His body is clean and dressed in the clothes his parents left with me. In the pocket of his little suit is a pocket square with tiny dinosaurs on it. I smile down at them.

The gesture aches a bit but the swelling from Patrick’s punch he’d gotten in two days ago has gone down significantly. I barely had to use any makeup at all today to hide the discoloration.

As I straighten, movement out of the corner of my eye captures my attention. Frowning, I look toward the double doors. Did someone just walk by? I could’ve sworn I saw the back of someone’s head in the small square window. That shouldn’t be possible. The funeral home is closed and locked up. The speaker system built into the ceilings would’ve sounded with a recorded bell if the doors had been opened. Pulling mygloves off, I toss them onto the table beside Marco and move toward the doors of the preparation room.

Pushing one of the double doors open, I step out into the hallway. There, just outside the door and lit up beneath the single emergency light, is a small vase with five beautiful black roses. A white ribbon is tied around the vase, and a white envelope sits beneath it. Rather than acknowledge them right away, I look down either end of the hallway for whoever dropped these off. There’s no one in either direction but the motion-sensor lights are on to my right.

My heart skips a beat.

“Hello?” I call out. “Is someone here?”

Straining, I listen for an answer or the sound of movement. Seconds tick by but the funeral home remains silent. My mouth dries as I take a step in the direction of the lights that are on to my right. Clearlysomeonehas been here. But who? And why? Rather than call out again, I tiptoe toward the front of the business. Just as I get to the end of the hallway where it hooks left, the motion-sensor light flickers out, casting me into darkness.

I blink rapidly, trying to get my eyes to adjust to the darkness. As they acclimate, I swear I see movement further toward the front of the building. My gasp is loud in the silent hallway. Quickly, I wave my hand frantically to get the light to come back on. It flickers to life quickly. Whoever was there is gone now, and I can’t see which way they went. I bite my bottom lip as I consider my options. There aren’t many. Calling the cops is out of the question; most are friends with Patrick and that would get him involved. Ireallydon’t want that. His presence will just make everything so much worse.

So that leaves me with the only other option: take care of the intruder myself. My hands curl at my sides as I turn and headback to the preparation room. Time to go get my scalpel and hunt down whoever is in my funeral home.

I pause as I get to the vase of roses. They’re massive, impossibly so, and absolutely stunning. I wonder if this was supposed to be a morbid gift. If so, whoever left them has missed their mark. Black is my favorite color. Before kneeling down, I check over my shoulder to make sure whoever was here isn’t lurking behind me. The hallway in that direction remains empty. Crouching down, I lift the vase and grab the envelope. On the front are two words written in chicken scratch:Little Viper.

What does that mean?

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