Page 81 of Buried Beneath Sin

I bite the side of my cheek to hold back my knee-jerk response.

“What?” Thatcher urges. “Go on, say it.”

Shoot, he must still be watching my face. My chest constricts in a momentary bout of panic. He told me I can say what I want, that he’s not his father. So far, he’s proven that. Over the past few days, I’ve never once heard him raise his voice or a hand or utter a cruel word toward anyone. Not to me, or to the others. Until he gives me a reason to not trust him…

“I was going to say that, um, Knox seems to hate a lot of things.”

Thatcher laughs warmly. “He’s quite opinionated, isn’t he?”

Nodding, I bite my bottom lip to try to keep from smiling, but I fail. Deciding that it’s ok to speak, I add, “But I like it. It’s nice knowing where he stands rather than having to wonder.”

“It’s refreshing once you get used to it,” Thatcher agrees.

I think I already am, though I don’t say this part out loud.

Knox is a bit of a wild card. Compared to Thatcher who’s laid back and easy-going, cunning and watchful, or Sagan whose ominous energy is something I can’t quite get a read on, Knox is both sunshine and a thunderstorm all rolled into one. You neverknow if you’re going to get his breathtaking smile or get snapped at. When he’s in a good mood, I really enjoy his presence. He gives off this innocent, boyish mischievous energy mixed with sass and a confidence I could never replicate.

“Just wait until he really starts to open up, it’ll get insufferable,” Thatcher warns with a chuckle. “Oh, and if he does get there, watch out. It means he likes you, and at that point, he’ll demand a pound of flesh from you.”

My mind gets snagged on that if. Knox doesn’t like me? I knew he was wary of me, and rightly so I supposed given our current situation, but… The fact that he simply doesn’t like me is disappointing. I shake away that thought. It’s ok if he doesn’t. He wouldn’t be the first person who finds me difficult to be around. I choke down that bitter pill and focus on the rest of what Thatcher said.

“What does a pound of flesh mean?” I ask.

My stepbrother laughs. “He’s taken a toe from both me and Sagan. He managed to talk me into it when I realized he wasn’t joking. You should ask Sagan about how Knox got his pound of flesh from him. It's a fun story.”

A squeak of terror slips out before I can censor myself. I risk shooting a glance at Thatcher’s face to see if he’s joking. He sees me checking his expression and laughs.

“I’ll show you my right foot if you want,” he offers.

I shake my head, not needing to see proof. I’ve seen what these three are capable of.

“What do you like about the snow?” Thatcher asks, redirecting the conversation.

I shrug. “The woods behind the house get super quiet and still. It turns into a wonderland that I enjoy spending time in.”

“You didn’t get a lot of that, did you?”

Frowning, I look over at Thatcher. “What do you mean?”

“Silence,” he explains with a knowing smile. “Patrick liked the sound of his own voice. And, from what I’ve overheard during an evening visit, I know Lauren wasn’t shy about speaking up.”

My whole body tenses at the sound of his father’s and my mother’s names. A well of loathing boils up. It scalds my insides and leaves me breathless. The two most wretched people in my life are gone, dead, yet just their names still cause a visceral reaction.

Suddenly Thatcher’s hand comes up. He caresses my cheek with his knuckles, and I flinch at the contact. It’s not the first time he’s touched me today, or since the night they killed that innocent woman, but I’m not used to contact that doesn’t come with pain. I don’t know if I ever will be.

“No,” I manage to choke out. “I didn’t get a lot of that.”

Thatcher nods as his hand falls away. I can see the movement out of the corner of my eye, but I stare straight ahead, trying hard to shove my resentment back into its box. To help squash the fiery emotions, I try to conjure up the better times.

“When I was young,” I start slowly, my hands loosening around the steering wheel. “I built a fort in the snow. It had three sides and was as tall as I was, which I don’t think was very tall looking back on it now—but back then? I really thought it was impenetrable.” I smile as I think about how rudimentary it had been. “My mother was working, and she’d given me the day off, so I’d put a lot of time into it.”

“How young is young?” Thatcher interrupts curiously.

I shrug. “I was seven? Maybe eight?”

“And she made you work?”

“It was a family business.” I shrug, trying to not let it bother me that Bright Starr has changed owners. My ancestors are probably rolling over in their graves. “We all had to pull our weight.”

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