The Sinners of Saint Amos - Logan Fox Page 0,95

and my skin prickles hot and cold. I move my hands to her shoulders, and she tenses under my hands when I grip her tight.

Her lips move like she’s biting the inside of her cheek.

I want to kiss her, which is weirder than fucked up because I never want to kiss anyone.

“The basement was in my house.”

Her lips move, but no sound comes out.

“My parents were the Keepers.” I try to swallow, but I can’t. I try to keep quiet, but it’s as if she’s pulling the words from me. “Gabriel paid them to look after the boys. The Ghosts would arrange times with them. They kept it all a secret, but I started noticing things when I got older. Tracks in the driveway. Strange smells.”

Trinity scans my face and presses her hands against my bare chest as if she wants to feel my heart beating.

She won’t, though.

“I stole their keys one day. Said I was going to a sleepover. They drove me to my friend’s house, but I came back, and I waited until it was dark. Until they were asleep.

“They found me down there in the basement. A silent alarm had gone off. I should have run away, but I couldn’t just leave them there.” My voice trails away, thickening. I doubt she hears me when I add, “I couldn’t leave my brothers there.”

Her fingertips dimple my flesh. Still searching for that elusive heartbeat?

No, Trinity. There’s nothing for you to feel.

My black heart stopped beating a long, long time ago.

Chapter Nineteen

Trinity

I’m already awake when the bell for Sunday service rings, but I lie there for a few seconds before getting up. Tomorrow it will be a week since I arrived in Saint Amos. After almost eighteen years living a life where nothing ever happened, these last few weeks are ridiculous in comparison.

I like to think that I’d have preferred to live a boring life, but then I wouldn’t have met the Brotherhood. They’re the most interesting people I’ve ever met but they’re also the most fucked up people I’ve ever met.

I stifle a yawn.

Guess I’ll have to take the good with the bad.

Jasper pushes into a sit and presses the heels of his palms into his eye sockets.

When he gets up, I stare up at him in astonishment. “You’re going to mass?”

“Why wouldn’t I? You’re going. Rutherford’s going. Everyone’s going.”

Because your ass probably hurts worse than mine and those pews are fuck hard?

I frown at him as he grabs his clothes and exits the room. I’m starting to think he’s becoming a little obsessed with Zachary. I get being pissed off with him, but this?

Screw it.

My mind’s way too fucked up to figure out what Jasper’s up to.

I grab one of the two dresses I used to wear to church on Sundays and head to the restroom to wash my face.

Jasper’s sitting on the edge of his bed lacing up his shoes when I get back. Guess he didn’t bother showering again. I can’t blame him—I wouldn’t want the other kids seeing my bruised butt either.

I took a quick peek at my ass in the restroom mirror after making sure there wasn’t anyone else in one of the stalls. Surprisingly, it isn’t as bruised as it feels. Was it because Zachary kept massaging it while—?

Oh no, Trinity. Hell no. Your thoughts will remain pure as freshly fallen snow today.

“Want to walk together?” Jasper asks.

“Uh…sure,” I manage while battling my shock. Dear Lord, I don’t think I can take any more surprises today. I already feel like I’m walking a razor’s edge.

Jasper stands, wincing faintly, and then sticks out his hand.

“What?”

He glares at me.

I cringe back when he darts forward and tries to grab my hand. “What are you doing?”

“I’m not going to rape you,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Just…give me your fucking hand.”

As soon as I give it to him, he hauls me up from the bed.

Halfway down the hall I eventually find my voice. “What’s up, Jasper?” I try for casual, but I have no idea if he falls for it.

“Shut up and look like you’re in love with me or something.”

I barely suppress a snort. Everyone in Saint Amos is on the fucking spectrum. Must be the stuffy air in this place.

Jasper’s palm sweats against mine, and he keeps shifting his grip as if he’s not sure if he’s holding my hand right. We draw more than a few eyes on our way down to the church, and no wonder. He’s wearing a thousand-yard-glare that