Page 83 of Buried Beneath Sin

Thatcher suddenly breaks the kiss, letting go of my jacket as he does.

“Remember, until the paperwork comes in, you’re still the owner of Bright Starr. I’m just your stepbrother looking to help you run it while we’re in town figuring things out, ok?” he says, reaching down to zip up his jacket.

I nod as I try to gain my bearings.

“I’ll grab the cart from the back.” With that, Thatcher opens his door and slips out into the rain.

32

KNOX

Under the watchful eye of Starr Girl, I hosted my first service.

I think I did alright. I got to dress up in a suit that I paired with my long sleeve white shirt that had dangling lace sleeves beneath it, giving the outfit a fun touch. I also wore the pearls Beatrix gave me. Wearing them, however, wasn’t because of the service. I haven’t taken them off since she gave them to me. They’re gorgeous, and it doesn’t take a jeweler to tell me that they are expensive.

I adore expensive things.

During the service, no one seemed to spare me more than a glance or two as they sobbed over the child in the fancy box. According to Starr Girl, that was normal. While they mourned, I followed her around as she gave directions. Together we consoled, handed out tissues, and directed people to either the small table of food or the bathroom. The whole time I couldn’t decide if I was enjoying Starr Girl’s presence or if I was so good at pretending to be a friend that I was even fooling myself. I question it so much that, an hour or so through the service, I started feeling a little pissy about the whole thing. Why did I care so much about my feelings toward Starr Girl?

Because you don’t usually feel anything ever other than when you’re around the twins and you can’t helpbutfeel with her, a voice tells me. I grit my teeth, hating that. For the rest of the service, I have to force myself not to glare at Starr Girl as she makes me feel all sorts of weird. My patience wears thin near the end.

“I got this,” I snap at Beatrix as she hands me a fresh tissue box. “I can get my own boxes.”

Rather than take offense at my tone, as I would if the roles were reversed, Starr Girl simply nods and leaves me to it. I hate that I feel guilty as she walks away.

My mood hasn’t improved by the time I join Thatcher by the front doors after the service. The people filing out of the funeral home this afternoon are so grief stricken, no one seems to be curious about Beatrix’s new staff. I’m glad. I can’t seem to fix my attitude no matter how hard I try. Thatcher is the one who ends up handing out condolences and quiet thank yous that are vastly ignored.

I try a few times, knowing that this part of the job will eventually fall completely to my shoulders.

“Thank you for coming. Again, I’m sorry for your loss.” The words fall from my lips with as much emotion as I can muster given I don’t give a fuck about their dead child.

“Hey.” Starr Girl steps up behind me. “You did really well today. Thank you for your help.”

I shrug, annoyed by her presence and pleased with the unexpected compliment. “Of course I did well. I know how to host parties.”

As if it’s hard to put together and set out some finger sandwiches and drinks for people to grab, or to set up flower arrangements. An idiot could do it.

“They’re not parties,” Thatcher chides softly as people pass us to leave. “Remember, we need to be respectful, Knox.”

I roll my eyes. “Is there food? Flowers? And people? Then it’s a party. But sure, let’s call it something else.”

Thatcher shoots me a warning look that I ignore completely.

“So, Knox…” Beatrix starts. “I was wondering if?—”

She cuts herself off with the softest groan of despair I have ever heard. When she says nothing after a moment, both Thatcher and I look over our shoulders. She’s nowhere to be seen. Where the hell did she go? She was just right here.

“What was that about?” I ask Thatcher.

Before he can answer, a guest approaches. The middle-aged man is a simple looking guy. His mousy brown hair is brushed over and his worn sports jacket hangs off his frame, clearly a size too big for him. A hand-me-down perhaps? Or maybe he used to be a bigger guy when he was in his youth?

“Good afternoon, is Beatrix in?” he asks, looking at me then Thatcher, his pupils narrowing. Is thatsuspicionon this guy’s face? What the hell? What did we do to deserve this response?

It only takes a second to come up with an answer. I forgot about the small-mindedness of people in towns like Chasm where traditional values are upheld above almost everything else. Does he not like the lace dangling from the sleeves of my shirt? Or is it the tinted lipgloss he’s disgusted by?

“I believe you just missed her,” Thatcher says easily. “Can I help you?”

“Ah…” He looks between us, his brows pulling together slightly. “Maybe, but may I ask who you are first? I’ve never seen you here, or around town, before.”

---