Page 84 of Buried Beneath Sin

“We just blew in, actually. I'm Thatcher Hunt and this is Knox Keele,” Thatcher says as he offers his hand to the man who takes it with a raised brow.

“Hunt?” he repeats slowly. “Are you by any chance related to a man named Patrick Hunt?”

“The one and the same,” Thatcher says with a well-timed grimace. He’s so good at this. The perfect sociopath. He’s always been able to fit into the world around him—being able to say and do all the right things—and no one's the wiser. I aspire to be like him.

The man blinks, clearly surprised. “Oh, I didn’t realize he had a son.”

“He had two, actually. My brother is around here somewhere, but Sagan doesn’t enjoy crowds, so you’ll have to forgive his absence. We’re here, helping out Beatrix for a bit until things with our father’s will are settled.” Thatcher doesn’t let go of the man’s hand as he talks. “And you are…?”

“Oh, sorry, I’m Ernest Michaels. I’m the pastor of the Protestant church in town and one of Beatrix’s closest friends,” he introduces with a smile.

Beatrix has friends? Since when? I push the thought aside as a nagging memory surfaces. Did he just say he’s a pastor? My mind races. Didn’t the guy we killed, Trevor, say his dad ran the local church? What are the chances that these two are related?

“Pastor Michaels, it is a pleasure to meet you,” Thatcher says, warmth dripping from every word. “I don’t know exactly where Beatrix is, but I can pass along a message for you if you’d like.”

“Yeah, if you could, that would be great. Would you ask her to give me a call if she’s seen Trevor, my son? He and his friend Sebastian haven’t been seen in a few days, and I’m getting worried. Trevor and Beatrix are really close, so I figured she would know where he was.”

Close? As I can recall, Starr Girl hadnotbeen a fan of Trevor. It takes me a second too long to realize this guy doesn’t really know his son. Or, rather,didn'tknow his son.

“Of course, I’ll let her know,” Thatcher says.

“Great, thanks so much.” The pastor takes a step toward the door but stops. “Maybe I’ll see you on Sunday? My doors are always open.”

Thatcher’s smile doesn’t budge. It doesn’t turn smug, nor does he seem to have to stifle a laugh. “We’ll see, thanks for the invite.”

The man nods, giving us a smile before he slips away. We both watch as he stops to speak to others on the way to his car.

“I’m going to go find Starr Girl to see what she wants.” I take a step back. “Unless you need me to chase the lollygaggers out of here?”

Thatcher shakes his head, his eyes pinned to Pastor Michaels’ back. “Go ahead.”

With his blessing, I take off and head to the back of the funeral home. As I prowl through the hallways, I berate myself. I can tell I care about what’s wrong with Beatrix. Her quick disappearance seems out of character. From what I’ve seen so far, she seems pretty steadfast in dealing with things head on, even if her ‘head on’ is standing there quietly while mine is more like stabbing some shit. So why take off now?

And, more importantly, why do I care?

I don’twantto like Starr Girl. Yet it's hard not to. She makes me laugh, listens to me when I talk, and her occasional gentle teasing is never at my expense. She’s a rare breath of fresh air. Part of me is inclined to trust her and to lean into such an easy friendship. But after tasting her delicious pussy and being wrapped up in her life? I’m afraid. Afraid I might let her intoomuch. I don’t want that. Letting others in can only lead to pain. My past is the perfect example of that. The only people I can trust are Thatcher and Sagan.

I find Starr Girl behind the desk in the preparation room typing something on the laptop sitting in front of her. She looks up as I enter.

“Oh, Knox. Sorry about running off, I just didn’t know how to handle Pastor Michaels.”

Huh, sothat’swhat her disappearance was about. That makes a lot of sense. Having to look the murder victim’s father in his face would be hard for anyone who still holds onto a conscience. I let out a mental sigh before I collect myself and wave a hand flippantly.

“It was taken care of,” I assure her. “What did you want?”

For a second, she looks flustered. She shuts the old laptop in front of her and stands. Her eyelashes flutter rapidly, and her cheeks turn pink.

“You mentioned your first night here that you liked to cook with organic ingredients.” She gives me a small, timid smile. “There’s a natural market on the other side of Chasm if you’d like to go check it out now? We need a few things for dinner, so I figured….” She drags in a nervous, shaky breath before pushing on, “The funeral home is only open for a few more hours, but I highly doubt we’ll get any activity. Thatcher seems competent enough to handle any phone calls that come in while I’m gone?—”

I lift a hand to stop her. I’m not in the mood to entertain the lingering strangers from the service, and the thought of cleaning up the mess in the viewing room is enough for me to be game for doing anything else.

“I’m down, Starr Girl, let’s go.”

I gasp as Starr Girl pulls up to the small store. “Who knew you’d find one of these in Indiana? Hell must’ve frozen over.”

“It’s not much,” she says as she turns off the car. I let her borrow mine, there was no way I’d be seen driving around in the funeral van, on the stipulation that I could be the passenger princess for the ride. “But maybe you’ll find a few things here you can use.”

She speaks so softly that I have to strain to hear her. That seems to be her thing. Well, that and not making eye contact. Apparently the ground is much more interesting than the people or things around her.

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