Page 12 of Entombed In Sin

Knox shoves off the wall quickly. “I can do that! Go and take care of the pastor. I got this.”

Both Sagan and I eye him suspiciously. From the dragging of his feet, his constant complaining, and never-ending eye rolls he graces us all with daily whenever he’s asked to do something, it’s clear Knox isn’t a fan of working.At all. For him to leap at the chance to do so now feels disingenuous.

“Fine.” I relent after a moment of consideration. To Sagan, I mutter, “Let's get this over with.”

Sagan backs out of the room, and I follow him. Knox remains behind. I don't know if I should be worried that he's going to do something to Trevor before his father can see him, but I just pray he cares about the success of this business more than playing games.

Our footsteps are silent as I follow Sagan up to the front of the funeral home. My chest constricts as I think about facing my friend. Will I be able to handle his tears? Pastor Michaels has always been so good to me. It should say something about me that I was so heartless when it came to deciding his son's fate. If Pastor Michaels ever found out I had something to do with Trevor's death... Shame cools my blood. My pace slows as I consider the conversation to come.

“Sagan, what am I supposed to say?” I hate that there’s a slight whine to my voice.

Turning to Sagan for advice is the last thing I want to do right now. He can’t be trusted.Noneof them can be trusted. Their back-and-forth between cruel and sweet will break me. I know it. It’s almost more painful than anything Trevor, Sebastian, Patrick, my mother, or any of her other husbands have put me through. These men have gotten under my skin in a new way. A disease that’s altering my mind, confusing me. These men will hurt—maybe evenkill—me if I’m not careful. I should be keeping my guard up and my head down until I know how to handle the three of them. Yet killing and hiding bodies seems to be his expertise. If anyone knows what I should do in this situation, it might be him.

“Whatever you want, Little Viper.”

I stare at his back, using it to center me as the hallway tilts while my anxiety spikes. “How am I supposed to face him?”

Casually, Sagan drops back to walk beside me. When he looks down, the left side of his mouth twitches. Is he thinking about smiling? At a time like this? The twitch doesn’t go anywhere, and his mouth flattens again.

“Are you asking for coaching?” he asks.

Yes. No. Wait, am I? I don’t know. Probably. But my tongue gets stuck in my mouth as I stare up at him anxiously. My heart hammers in my chest. I've been so focused on myself since the twins and Knox’s arrival that I hadn't given any consideration to how to handle this inevitable conversation. And after yesterday, my emotions are so convoluted that I can't seem to settle on one, or even two of them. I think I'm going to be sick.

Sagan must sense my rising panic because he reaches up and grabs the back of my neck. The firm hold is somehow settling.

“Just let him do the talking. Most of the time, people just want to be heard,” he says in his deep, emotionless tone that I'm becoming familiar with.

I swallow before I force myself to nod. Let Pastor Michaels talk, I can do that…

“Before I deal with this, I need to tell you something.” I swallow as I stare up into his incredibly blank face. “Those eyes that you found? I-I’m pretty sure they belonged to Trevor.”

At this, Sagan stiffens. “Why do you think that?”

“I mean… I guess I could be wrong but…” I wring my hands together nervously as I force myself to say, “Trevor’s eyes are missing, and they were deliberately cut out.”

Sagan looks away from me as he considers what I’m saying.Someoneout there knew Trevor was dead, messed with his body, and came back to taunt us with his eyes. Someone knows what we did. But how and who?

“I’ll let Thatcher know,” he mutters darkly. He jerks his head toward the front of the building. “Let’s go. Your friend is waiting for you.”

6

BEATRIX

“Beatrix!”

A hard flinch follows the sound of my name spoken with undeserved relief. I glance up as I enter the office where Thatcher and Pastor Michaels are waiting. Both men rise to their feet, Thatcher slower than Trevor’s father, who comes barreling toward me.

He’s not well. That much is clear. The dark rings under eyes are a stark comparison to his pale complexion. His mouse-brown hair is in disarray, and his clothes look wrinkled as if he’s slept in them. The way his brows pull together and then upward, and the sheer relief mixed with his devastation when he sees me, tugs at my heart.

What have I done to this man?

As the pastor wraps his arms around my shoulders, I look behind him to catch Thatcher’s gaze. While he holds a polite, appropriately professional look of sympathy, his eyes flash in warning. Does he think I’ll blurt out what happened? I’m not sure if I can utter what I’ve done out loud, even if I wanted to. It’s too horrific. My eyes slam shut as Pastor Michaels squeezes me, seeking comfort in who he believes is someone he can trust.

“Oh god, Beatrix! I’m so glad you’re here,” Pastor Michaels says, his voice cracking.

My hands come up as best they can since he’s pinning my arms down, and I try to return the hug.

“I'm so sorry for your loss.” What a lie. Can his god hear my dishonesty? “I wish I could've been here when you stopped by yesterday.”

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