Page 71 of Buried Beneath Sin

“You… you’re going to kill someone?” I ask softly.

“Well, yeah, why else—oh, yeah, I guess I should explain the rules of the game since you’ve never played. Sorry, didn’t think of that,” Knox hits his forehead with the heel of his palm. Shooting me a rueful smile, he continues, “The game is to get the babysitter away from the kid, or kids, and to kiss her before we kill her. It can be a peck, a make out session, or whatever, but you got to plant your lips on her skin before you draw blood. If she escapes before you make her bleed, you have to kiss her again. With four of us in the house though, she doesn’t have a lot of chances to escape, so now we’re going to have to do it twice before we can actually kill her.”

He wants me to dowhat? This sounds psychotic. Why in heaven's name would I want to participate in this?

Because if you don’t, you’ll be left behind.

The thought comes swiftly, and with it comes a wave of loneliness. It’s followed by a whisper of guilt. Am I really so desperate to feel a part of something that I would participate in a murderous game just to feel included? So I’m not left out on their next adventures? I have a sinking suspicion that the answer to that might be yes.

But can I kill someone in cold blood?

“No,” I whisper my answer out loud.

“What? Never kiss a girl before?” Knox asks, curiously. He starts walking, and I follow, though my footsteps feel heavy. “That’s fine. There’s a first time for everything. You never know, you might like it.” He pauses before his dark blond brows smash together. “Wait, don’t tell me. You’re not a homoph?—”

“I’m not!” I cut him off as I choke my alarm down. “I don’t care about that part.”

Knox let’s out a soft laugh. “Oh good. I got worried for a second. We’re a pretty fluid bunch, so if you’re not good with sharing then?—”

“Knox,” I cut him off, my voice a little screechy. I look from him to the back of the twins’ heads as we round the corner and emerge from the alley. “C-can I not play?”

Knox scoffs as he reaches behind him and beneath his jacket. A moment later, he pulls the sharpest, cleanest knife I have ever seen into view. The blade is about eight inches long and curves slightly at the tip. And… is that a jagged edge? My gasp doesn’t fill my suddenly empty lungs.

“I mean, if you want to just watch, that's fine. Are you a visual learner or something?”

Before I can tell him that I’m not capable of such a gruesome game, Thatcher looks over his shoulder at us. “That’s probably for the best. You’ll find your groove with us eventually, but watching might be the best way to start.”

Relief makes each footstep lighter as I follow the group down the street.

“You can watch, Starr Girl,” Knox agrees. He leans in and adds in a voice so low only I can hear it, “But don’t think for a second I won’tliterallythrow you under a bus if you decide to grow a conscience and tattle to the police about our game.”

Our eyes meet, and I will him to see that I wouldneverdo that. Even if this whole arrangement went south for some reason, going to the police would never be an option. I’m not sure if he sees the resolve or not, but I nod just to emphasize the point before I look straight ahead again.

I watch as both twins pull a black ball cap from the inside of their jackets and shove them on. The visor covers their faces almost completely. Then they each reach into various pockets and pull out leather gloves, similar to Knox’s, they’re almost in sync as they pull them on.

Looking away from the men preparing to do something horrible, I look around us. There’s hardly anyone out now, but that’s no surprise. It’s nearing ten thirty. The neighborhood weenter about five minutes later is quaint. They aren’t big homes, and some aren’t in the best condition. But there aren’t any bars on windows or boarded up buildings. It’s relatively nice, which almost makes this worse. None of the residents here expect people like Thatcher, Sagan, and Knox to swoop in and ravage them.

Sagan suddenly drops back and drapes an arm around my shoulders.

“Knox, go with Thatcher,” he orders before he slows his gait, which forces me to slow as well.

“See you inside,” Knox says, winking at me before trotting up to Thatcher’s side. They take a sharp right to head down another street.

Sagan and I keep straight, but I watch the other two as they disappear.

“Why are we splitting up?” I ask him after a moment.

He doesn’t answer. When I look up at his face, I find his gaze lazily sweeping over the houses we pass. To anyone watching us, we would probably look like a couple out on a nightly stroll. Is that why he has his arm around my shoulders? Should I do something too? I consider putting my arm around his waist. The thought is appealing. Iwantto touch Sagan, as terrifying as he is. But I don’t know how he would react, and I’m not positive the arm around my shoulder is for appearance or for another purpose. Indecisiveness and a longing for a connection to the man beside me finally lead me to reach out and hook my index finger through his belt loop. Sagan’s head jerks down to look at my hand. I hold my breath. What will he say to this?

When he looks up and continues to look around, I let go of my breath. Apparently, this is fine.

“It would look odd if four people approached a house at once,” Sagan’s words break the silence between us.

I nod even as my stomach knots. How often have they done this?Whydo they feel the need to kill? Thatcher seemingly drove around this neighborhood without purpose—but clearly I was wrong. He was hunting for a mark. Is this how they do things? Pick someone at random like this? Do they haveanyboundaries or is nothing off the table for them?

I long to open my mouth and ask Sagan the questions that build up in my throat.

But now isn’t the time. One, because I don’t think Sagan would waste his breath answering. He is definitely not a talker. Two, because I think we’re nearly there—whereverthereis. We cross a street where a small open space is located. It’s only about a block wide and consists of mostly grass, a few trees, a bench each of the four sides, and a rickety old swing set in the middle.

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