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“Let me try this again.” He leans over and grabs the pictures lying next to Mrs. Lewis and holds them up, crumpling them in his fist. “What are you doing here, Lydia?” he asks, his voice low and dangerous.

Sarah opens her mouth, but no sound comes out. Her hands tremble in her lap.

“Answer me,” he snaps, his voice cutting through the room.

“I–”

“She’s just visiting mother. She’s already told you that.” Clyde’s demeanor instantly changes toward his father. Did he see the pictures?

Mr. Lewis turns his gaze on his son, his mouth twisting. “You think she’s here for pleasantries, boy? After all these years?”

Clyde’s jaw flexes, but he doesn’t back down. “Why else would she be here?” he asks through gritted teeth.

I take a step back toward the door, never turning my back on them.

“We’ll talk again, Sarah,” I say, voice steady.

Sarah doesn’t answer. Only the glisten of tears in her eyes tells me she heard.

As I slip out into the cold, the door closes behind me with a hollow thud.

CHAPTER

FIFTY-TWO

The cold air outside feels sharper now, biting against my face as I step off the porch. I don’t look back. My boots hit the gravel harder than they need to. Each step feels like a purge, like if I just walk fast enough, I can shake off the rot clinging to my skin. I thought I felt evil being around my father, but it doesn’t compare to the evil that follows Warren Lewis.

My breath clouds the air, ragged from something deeper than cold, anger, grief, a pulse that won’t settle. The wind picks up, catching the edges of my coat and pulling at my hair, but I don’t stop. I cross the yard like it’s enemy ground, keys already in my hand, fingers trembling as they close around the metal.

When I reach the truck, I yank the door open and slide inside, slamming it shut behind me like I can seal him out. My hands won’t steady; not yet. I grip the wheel, knuckles white, throat burning with everything I didn’t say.

Only when the engine roars to life do I let myself glance at the house.

Just once.

One last look at the place that swallowed so many truths, and the man still rotting inside it.

Then I shift into gear, and I drive.

Clyde’s father’s voice still echoes in my ears, smooth and practiced, his words curling like smoke. “He gave you such a rich, godly life?” He was taunting me. He knows exactly what happened to me at the hands of my father and his followers.

I’ve been too focused on the obvious monsters to notice the ones hiding in plain sight.

Clyde’s father.

I can still see his face, the sharpness in his eyes, the way his presence had smothered Mrs. Lewis like a shadow she couldn’t escape. She completely changed after he entered the room, her body shrinking into the chair like a child caught in a lie.

The thought of him makes my skin crawl.

How far was Warren Lewis involved in everything? That’s what I can’t figure out.

The possibilities turn over in my mind as I make my way home, the headlights carving a narrow tunnel through the dark, the heater ticking against the cold outside. There isn’t anyone else I can speak with to figure things out. The people involved are either dead, or untrustworthy. Clyde’s patience seems to be on the short end when it comes to his father. Maybe he’s someone I can talk to. Would he be truthful? Does he have the answers that I’m seeking? No, Clyde can’t help me. There’s no way he would go against his father. The road stretches ahead, empty and endless, but the tension in my chest doesn’t ease. I need to figure it out.

My father’s house looks the same as I left it, dark, quiet, unassuming. The stark yellow glow from the porch light pools against the ground, barely reaching the edges of the yard.

I step out of the truck, the faint crunch of gravel under my boots amplified in the stillness of the night. The cold air wraps around me, sharp and biting, but there’s something else, a heaviness that prickles against my skin.

That’s when I see it.