Page 80 of Buried Beneath Sin

“If you needed a hand to move something, you could’ve asked Thatcher. Not only is he probably—” most definitely “—strongerthan me, but I just re-painted my nails before we came down this morning. I’ll chip them.”

I glance at my hand to study the maroon. It’s a nice shade, but for a serial killer, I see this color a lot. I should’ve gone with a fun neon green.

Sagan says nothing to this. He just stomps into the shed and gets to work. I huff as I follow him. I stop before I even get all the way inside. The cobwebs that hang from practically every object in this shack are excessive, like we’re in a Halloween party store or something. The stench in here is awful too. This must be a place where wildlife comes to die. The creatures that aren’t dead scurry beneath Sagan’s booted feet and into the darker corners of the shed.

“We need rat trapsASAP,” I grumble.

“You could run to the store and get me a few now if you want to do that rather than help me here,” Sagan offers.

I make a face. “Naw, make Starr Girl do it.”

Sagan doesn’t say anything to this as he stomps around. He rounds the ancient looking riding mower that takes up most of the room and kicks a few boxes and broken buckets out of his way and makes it to the far wall.

“We’ll start here first,” he says as he reaches up and grabs an old pitchfork that is missing two prongs. “Grab anything that can be removed and toss it into the pile. We’re going to replace everything.”

“You want me to dowhat?” I ask, grimacing.

The Hunt twin continues to work, not bothering to repeat himself. Standing there, I watch as he tosses old tools that hang from the wall into the middle of the shed.

“This thing is going to collapse any minute,” I complain. “We should just kick it down, because that’s probably all it will take to knock this place over, and then set it on fire. We’ll blow away the ashes and put a new shed here.”

“Knox,” Sagan growls.

My sigh turns into a cloud of mist that floats up in front of my face. Fuck, it’s cold out here. I can’t wait until spring comes. I zip up my winter jacket, the one I don’t use for killing, and pout.

“I don’t remember the last time I got a tetanus shot,” I protest. “How about I supervise? I’m really good at that.”

“Do you want to talk about what’s wrong, or do you want to shut up and help me?” Sagan asks, looking over his shoulder at me.

My body goes utterly still under his cold, speculative gaze that he pins me with through his dark bangs. Fuck. Of course Sagan will call me out on my bullshit. There’s no hiding anything from the twins, but especially not Sagan. And now that he’s said something, I have a feeling he brought me out here just to ask me this very question.

But how can I tell him that Starr Girl is getting under my skin when she’s not even doing anything to deliberately bother me? He’ll analyze the situation too much, which, in turn, will make me do the same thing. I don’t want to look too closely at this.

I don’t realize I’m toying with the pearl necklace she gave me until my hand falls away from it. Whether she meant this to be a bribe to get onto my good side or as a gesture of good will, I don’t really care. It’s the prettiest piece of jewelry I own. That’s not saying much since I don’t own much more than a few gold bracelets that are currently dangling from both of my wrists and the pair of diamond stud earrings that sit upstairs in my bedroom.

Thoughtfully, I bite the inside of my cheek. I could lie and say nothing’s wrong. Doing that would only get me punished though, and I’m not mentally prepared to handlethat. Not coming forth with my feelings might get me punished too though.

But Sagan is offering me an out. At least for now. I can speak up or work. I decide on the latter.

With a long, loud, exasperated sigh, I force myself to take a step into the shed. “Alright, alright, don’t get your panties in a wad. I’ll help.”

31

BEATRIX

It’s not cold enough for the rain pelting down onto the windshield to turn to snow, but if it continues after it gets dark, it will. It hasn’t snowed much this year. It would be nice to get a dusting before spring arrives. While the town, and most of Indiana, complains about the snow, I love it. This year, I might get a chance to actually enjoy it. The last time I did, I was a young girl, and I’d built an igloo in the woods out back then camped in it for three days. It had been the best three days ever.

“Why are you smiling?”

I jerk in my seat, my hands tightening around the steering wheel as I’m pulled away from my thoughts. I spare a glance at Thatcher, who’s watching me from the passenger seat of the funeral van—the one we use for death calls like where we’re headed now.

I’ve been actively trying not to think about the Hunt twin beside me. His presence is so intimidating. Not like Sagan’s, whose dark, brooding aura is almost like a living and breathing entity that reaches out to caress me, reminding me that he’s there and of what he can do to me. Thatcher’s presence is much more subtle but certainly noticeable. It kind of reminds me of what it would be like to work directly under the CEO of a largecompany. Where you want to aim to please him in order to not get the boot. There’s an ache to seek out the approval of this stunning, dangerous man.

Thatcher raises a dark brow, the one that sits over his sage-green eye, and his mouth pulls into a half smile. The gesture makes a cheekbone pop and it’s… distracting. My cheeks flame hot as I look away. I swallow hard as I focus on the road of ahead us.

“I was just thinking about how I hope this turns to snow,” I admit softly.

Thatcher chuckles. “Don’t let Knox hear you talk like that. He hates the cold, but he hates snow most of all.”

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