Page 68 of Entombed In Sin

Thatcher bends down and scoops a shirt off the floor and tosses it to me. As I reach out to grab it out of the air, he answers, “The police are here and want to talk to you.”

Any sleep still clinging to me vanishes. The world drops away from beneath me. Forgetting the shirt, my arms fling out so my hands land on the bed, as if to stop myself from falling. Beside me, Knox sits straight up, immediately alert.

“What?” he asks in disbelief. “Why?”

My lungs seize up as I stare at Thatcher in horror. With a great deal of difficulty, I manage to say, “Thatcher, what did I?—”

My stepbrother shakes his head and holds up a hand. “We don’t know why they’re here. All I know is that they said they needed to talk directly to you about something. Don’t panic. Get dressed and let’s face them together.”

Knox stares anxiously between us but, for once, remains silent.

I grab the shirt and climb out of bed. Slipping it on, I find it only makes it down to my midriff. Crap, this is Knox’s shirt. Whatever, I don’t care. My mind is preoccupied as it races to figure out why the police would show up now. Pants, I need pants. Flustered and terrified, I look around for something to cover myself up. Thatcher is already there, tossing a pair of fuzzy purple pajama shorts at me.

Thatcher’s face screws up as he takes a long look at me. Quickly, he drags his sweatshirt off and tosses at me, leaving his upper half bare.

“No need to give the people of Chasm a view of what belongs solely to us,” he explains grimly when I get him a curious look.

As I pull it over my head, Knox kicks off the covers that have tangled up at his feet and scrambles out of bed.

“Hold on, let me grab something to wear,” he says, already moving toward the closet. His naked body is on full display. If I wasn’t freaking out, I’d probably stand there and gawk. As it is, I’m trying very hard to remember how to breathe as I move toward Thatcher.

“There’s no need. Stay here, Knox,” Thatcher tells Knox as my stepbrother places his hand on my lower back and guides me out of the room.

There’s a scoff before Knox calls back, “I’ll be right there, Beatrix!”

I don’t acknowledge him as Thatcher and I head down the first flight of stairs. With each step, I swear the thundering of my heart grows louder. Is the air thinner in the house tonight? It must be. I can’t seem to catch my breath. At the bottom of the next flight of stairs stands Sagan, his arms crossed over his chest. He’s the most dressed out of all of us, with jeans and a long sleeve shirt on. Through his thick, dark bangs, he watches as we descend the stairs—his mouth pressing into a tight, thin line.

“Don’t offer up any information,” Thatcher coaches in a low voice as we stop beside his brother when we get to the bottom of the stairs. “Let them talk andtrynot to look too scared. Fear makes you look guilty.”

Don’t look too scared? I’ve killed someone! What if they have something on me? Or what if they have something on the three of them and they’re here to question me about it? I won’t say a word, that much I’m certain of, but crap… This is bad. Really bad.

“Relax, Little Viper,” Sagan adds. “We won’t let anything happen to you.”

“What if they’re here to arrest me?” I whisper anxiously, glancing toward the front door. “Knox said that if we ever got caught, we’d have to?—”

Thatcher’s hand moves from my lower back to grip the back of my neck. The contact is strangely settling.

“Don’t panic, Little Sister. It could be nothing,” he says calmly. “If we were worried, we’d handle this.”

I look from his face to Sagan’s. They both look tense, but not overly concerned. That gives me a little courage to face the cops waiting for me. I give a tight nod.

“Alright, let’s do this,” I mutter. Thatcher’s hand drops from my neck and he follows me as I head for the door.

Behind me comes the thundering of footsteps. I don’t turn to watch Knox descend the stairs, but with him joining us, I feel a little bit better. Without wasting another second, I grab the knob and open the front door. There, standing on the other side, are Officer Burns and Sheriff Heins. A deep swell of loathing surges forward at the same time disgust and dread fill my heart. Both men have tormented me in the past. As I stare between them, I have to fight the urge to throw up. Officer Burns attempted to rape me. Sheriff Heins covered up Patrick’s crimes when I tried to report them. And Heins’s son? Well, Sebastian did what Officer Burns hadn’t been able to do thanks to Trevor, who held me down for his friend. These men are shit. They don’t deserve to be wearing a badge.

They should both be sporting a knife through the chest. I could do it. Looking between the two of them, I feel that certainty down to my bones. That thought pushes away my lingering trepidation. My fear subsides as my back stiffens and I regard them coolly.

“Can I help you?” I ask, my voice sharper than I intended it to be.

Both men shift uncomfortably. Officer Burns adjusts his utility belt while Sheriff Heins transitions his weight from one foot to another. They exchange looks with one another quickly before returning their attention to me. A small part of me wants to smile. They’re probably not used to me speaking to them this way. They’ve only seen my soft, meek side. But I’m not that woman anymore. I have three men who have my back now, and that’s three more than I’ve ever had in my entire life. What’smore? Thanks to them, I’m strong enough to face these two without quivering.

“Ah, yes. Can you step outside for a moment? We’d like to speak with you privately,” Sheriff Heins asks. He looks a lot like his son, though his red hair is fading and receding. His porkchop sideburns are frizzy and unkempt. The ugly splatter of freckles on his face covers his pale complexion but can’t cover that awful bulging nose.

“Whatever you have to say, it can be said in front of my family,” I tell him.

Again, I take both cops by surprise with the tone of my voice. They trade looks with one another before Officer Burns pulls himself up to his full height, which is shorter than Sagan or Thatcher. His graying goatee and beer belly are prevalent in the yellow porch light. His skin is a few shades darker than my mother's had been when she was alive and healthy, and his eyes are dark as they skim over my face.

“These men aren’t your family, Beatrix,” he corrects darkly. “Theyusedto be your stepbrothers, but even then I’d consider that relationship practically nonexistent since they didn’t show up until after Patrick’s death. Are you sure you want them to be a part of this?”

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