Page 72 of Buried Beneath Sin

“Walk the perimeter of the park. By the time you get back here, walk across the street to the house with the pink door. It’ll be open, just walk straight in,” he orders quietly, letting his arm drop away. To my surprise, he bends down and kisses my cheek.

An inappropriate heat floods my face. He’s about to kill someone, and yet here I am, blushing! What’s wrong with me? I can’t stop my hand from reaching up to touch where his lips had been.

Sagan steps away and adds, “We’ll see you shortly, Little Viper.”

With that, he turns and heads toward the house he just described. Rather than stand there and watch him leave, I shove both hands into my pockets and take off. My footsteps are quick—my nerves getting the best of me. My conscience wars with rationality. What am Idoing? Shouldn’t I be calling the cops? Maybe I should’ve begged for these men to reconsider doing this. Is it possible to warn the woman inside this house that trouble is coming? I doubt that. Not without the others seeingor hearing me. The blood leeches out of my face as I walk. I shouldn’t be here.

Yet I can’t think of anywhere Ishouldbe.

I’m shivering by the time I return to the spot where Sagan left me. I focus on the cold rather than my footsteps as I step out onto the crosswalk and make myself walk toward the small two-story house. The houses on either side are empty. One has a for sale sign in the front yard. The other has no car in the driveway or lights on in the house. The walkway up to the house is cracked and dead weeds have grown and withered between them. The steps don’t look that much better.

When I stop in front of the pink door, I notice it’s cracked open.

My heart thunders in my chest. A roaring in my ears overpowers the small voice that tells me not to do this.

With a shaking hand, I push open the door. The hinges don’t creek or groan to announce my presence as I expected. And when the door shuts behind me, the soft click doesn’t seem so loud in the quiet house. I stop just inside and look around. I’m standing in a family room. Across the space is a set of stairs, and beyond that looks like a kitchen, though it’s dark now. The small family room has a paisley patterned couch, a well-worn wooden rocking chair, and a coffee table. On it sits a bowl of popcorn, an open can of pop, and a cellphone. On the other side of the small room sits one of the first versions of a flat screen tv on a side table. The cartoons that play are from the nineties. I recognize the purple dog and it’s two elderly owners that appear on the screen.

A short scream of terror coming from upstairs jerks my attention away from the cartoon.

My heart skips a beat before it starts to race. The scream is followed by the pounding of hurried footsteps and a heavy sob.There’s a laugh that follows the footsteps. That’s definitely Knox. Rooted to the spot, I listen as his laughter dies off.

The house goes silent.

I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until another scream erupts. Sobs and pleas for mercy follow. There’s a scuffling of footsteps and something breaks. A lamp maybe? Too scared to move from my spot, I just stand there listening as another scream pierces the silence. There’s a thump and then more running. Suddenly, someone’s coming down the stairs. Judging by the heavy, broken gasps, it's the babysitter.

I watch as she appears at the foot of the steps. To my surprise, the babysitter is an older woman. I don’t know why I expected a teenager, but the blonde woman is in her mid-forties. Her hair is down and in disarray, but I catch sight of her blotchy red face and the tears that stream down her cheeks before she hooks a sharp right and disappears into the kitchen, having not seen me in her haste.

There’s a twist of guilt in my gut that makes me nauseous. What did this woman do to deserve this? To be terrorized and tormented in such a manner?

Behind her, Thatcher descends the stairs. His jacket and hat are missing now, though he still wears the gloves he shoved on earlier. My stepbrother’s steps are soft, slow, and deliberate—like the beat of a metronome. In his hand, a knife just like Knox’s glints in the soft, warm yellow light. I can see blood on the blade. He’s so handsome it hurts. With a chiseled jawline, dark black brows that sit over and emphasize dual-colored eyes, and a lean body that moves lithely like a jungle cat—everything about him is striking. Thatcher is void of any physical flaws and radiates an unshakable confidence.

The smile on his face, given at any other time, wouldn’t be considered menacing. But right now, it gives him an almost demonic look. Especially as he reaches up to smooth his jetblack hair back out of his face and into place, streaking it with the babysitter’s blood. Before Thatcher gets to the bottom of the stairs, the babysitter makes a reappearance. She scrambles backward out of the kitchen. Her hands are up in front of her as she pants and sobs.

“Please, stop this!” she cries out between heavy sobs. “Leave me alone!”

Sagan emerges from the kitchen, like a devil emerging from a black hole. His dark hair drapes over his eyes, his ball cap helping shield the rest of his face. My stepbrother’s presence shifts the very energy in the room. Like a thick, dark, ominous cloud—darkness unfolds and crawls toward every corner of the family room.

I shudder. But not with fear.

Sagan’s presence might spell death and pain for this babysitter, but for me—there’s something inexplicably thrilling about standing before him. It brings attention to a soft hum of energy coursing over my body that he seems to be the cause of.

In a move so fast I hardly manage to catch it, Sagan snatches her wrist and yanks her toward his chest. Swiftly, he bends and plants two kisses—one on either check—before his blade slices through the air. I gape as two thin slashes land where his lips had been seconds ago. Sagan lets her go and Thatcher laughs lightly as the babysitter stumbles back with a screech.

Through the guilt and fear, something ugly tightens in my gut. I don’t want to examine too closely why I might be feeling jealous right now. There’s nothing about this woman’s situation that I envy. Not even Sagan’s lips on her.

Right?

The babysitter screeches again as she backs away from Sagan. I can see the clean tears through her shirt and the blood that stains it. More blood stains her sweatpants as it drips from the wounds on the back of her thighs and across a calf. Hersocked feet are soaked in her own blood, causing her to slip around on the wood floor. As her hands come up to protect her face, I notice that blood covers her palms.

“Take the kids. I don’t even fucking like them!” she pleads. “Just let me go!”

I watch as she realizes that Thatcher is to her right as she passes the stairs. She flinches away before her backtracking gets faster. She knocks over a small table and all the family photos on it. She trips over the area rug. It takes her to her butt, but the babysitter doesn’t stop scrambling, crawling backward away from both twins.

Thatcher steps down off the last stair and stands shoulder to shoulder with his brother. Staring at them is like staring at a yin and yang. Sagan’s expression is unreadable and hard, his eyes dark and his body tense. Each step he takes is thought out and heavy. Thatcher, on the other hand, smiles brightly. His shoulders are relaxed, and his stroll is almost jaunty. His expression is warm, inviting even. His eyes are a little wider and his grin may be just a bit too manic, but for all intents and purposes, Thatcher looks like he could be her best friend.

Even while he holds a blade covered in the woman’s blood.

As the twins stalk her progress, Knox comes down the stairs riding the banister that wobbles violently under his slight weight.

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