Page 53 of Entombed In Sin

“Do you think we’ll be smited on the way in?” I ask as we climb out of Knox's sedan and head for the doors of the small church.

The white building has a single steeple. I wonder what will happen to the cross up at the very top when we walk through the large, arched wooden doors. Will a thunderbolt hit it? Will it go up in a spontaneous blaze? I hope both things happen simultaneously. It would make for a good laugh.

Thatcher nudges my side and shoots me a glare. I roll my eyes. We’re the last ones to enter. No one’s going to hear me bitch about this stupid place. He yanks open the door and we step inside. I shoot a mocking glance up to the ceiling. Guessthe big guy doesn’t give a fuck who walks through His doors. Or maybe He’s going to strike us when we walk out of here and He thinks our guard is down.

As we move further into the church, the stifling heat and the smell of moth balls and floral perfume nearly overwhelms me. I hate people. I hate crowds, and Ireallyfucking hate churches.

“We won’t be here long,” Thatcher mutters to me as follow the throng of people into the nave.

There’s a loud hum of conversation as people wait for the service to begin. The few people that notice our arrival shoot us friendly, sad smiles. Thatcher does his best to return them. I, on the other hand, find it annoying to receive these awkward, flat, tight-lipped smiles that Midwesterners seem to give out for no fucking reason. Thatcher is polite enough to nod and even greet a few people who come up to thank us, Bright Starr, for taking such good care of Trevor’s ashes and providing the pastor with a beautiful urn. I stand there, hating every second of this.

Music starts to play, indicating that it’s time to begin. Thatcher and I linger in the back until every church pew is filled and only a few spots in the last row are left. We slip into our seats, and I take a deep breath, gathering up my infinite patience and forcing myself to endure my first church sermon.

At least this one is about death, which is right up my alley.

Pastor Michaels strolls up to the podium at the front of the room. Behind him, sitting on a pedestal, is the blue and white urn he picked out for his son. My throat constricts. My pet had to shove the ashes of that fucker into that thing. I should’ve done it for her, if only so she didn’t have to deal with Trevor anymore. A picture of the kid we killed is blown up and set on a tripod situated beside the urn. Trevor smiles at the congregation.

“Thank you all for coming,” Pastor Michaels starts, his voice carrying around the small church. His voice carries all the way tothe back, where we sit, with ease. Great, I guess tuning him out is going to be harder than expected.

As he talks about the wonderful life his son lived, the members of the congregation speak under their breath around us.

“He had so much potential.”

“—heard Beatrix was trying to seduce him, and when that didn’t work, she went to the police and screamed rape. Some women are just so pathetic.”

“She’s so desperate. Did Trixie really think Trevor could be coaxed into marrying her that way?”

“You think she filed that report to entrap him?”

“Why else?”

“Sounds like Trix picked up her whore ways from her mother.”

“—wonder where Beatrix is? She’s probably too ashamed to show her face, that’s why she’s not here.”

“No doubt Beatrix is working on sinking her claws into Patrick’s boys now. I heard the deed to the house and the funeral home was transferred over officially to the two boys. Courtney at the courthouse told me as much. Beatrix doesn’t belong there anymore, and she knows it.”

“Shush! They’re sitting close by; you don’t want them to overhear you.”

“Why not? Someone should warn them. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

For an hour Thatcher and I are forced to sit there, listening to the filth being spewed by the people around us. I’m not sure what’s more infuriating. Listening to the town of Chasm talk shit about my pet, or the fact that Pastor Michaels keeps looking for signs of her as he continues his sermon about life and how fragile it is.

I watch as his eyes slide over us, then toward the back doors as if he expects her to burst into the church at any moment. My teeth grind together. The fact that he would even think she’d show her face here only pisses me off further.

By the time the service is over, my patience has withered away. As everyone stands and heads for the front to pay their respects, I move toward the door. Thatcher can linger behind, showing face for Bright Starr. If I stay, I’ll kill someone.

“Move faster,” Thatcher grumbles, surprising me as he makes his way toward the exit with me.

Outside, the fresh air helps clear my head of the wrath crawling beneath my skin. Not completely, but enough so I don’t feel like tearing this town apart. We’re nearly to our car when we’re called to halt.

“Mr. Hunts!” a voice calls from behind us.

My muscles bunch as rage pours from my heart. As I turn around, my brother clasps me on the shoulder. To anyone around us, it looks like a friendly gesture. In reality, he’s holding me back as we turn around to face the pastor.

He hurries over to us, ignoring the people watching him scurry after us. I can see the bewildered looks being traded as they spill out after him. They linger behind when they realize he’s not running out of the service, just coming to talk to us.

“Thatcher, Sagan.” He greets us wrongly as he looks between the two of us. “Thank you so much for coming.”

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