Page 42

I don’t believe for a second that those deposits came from the congregation, or had anything to do with the church.

Her scrolling slows. Her eyes stick to something on the screen, brow pulling tight. “You know, your mother was never removed from the accounts.”

The name hits me like a slap. No one ever mentions my mother anymore. My throat tightens, a hard lump rising, but I force my face to stay neutral, shaping my mouth into a small, polite smile. “Really?”

Mrs. Perry nods, her voice dipping with gentle reproach. “Yes. It’s risky, leaving an ex-spouse on accounts like this, especially given how she left. She could’ve drained everything if she wanted to.”

I let out a slow breath, feeling Mrs. Perry’s words settle over me like a stone. “I suppose my father didn’t think it was necessary,” I say, my voice calm, steady, at least on the surface.

Mrs. Perry tilts her head slightly, her eyes narrowing with faint curiosity. “I always thought it was strange, the way she left,” she muses. “Eleanor was such a devoted woman. Not just to the church, but to you and your father. I can’t imagine her walking away without a word.”

She clicks through another screen, oblivious to the storm tightening behind the mask I’m holding in place. “It’s odd, isn’t it?” she adds lightly. “That he’d keep her name on here all these years.”

Odd? No. Not odd at all.

It was deliberate. My father’s grip stretched far beyond the pulpit, weaving into every corner of our lives, every quiet absence, every locked door. Even my mother’s leaving wasn’t an escape, it was just another thread he kept tight in his fist, his way of keeping her tethered, even in the emptiness she left behind.

I nod again, letting Mrs. Perry’s words drift over me like background noise, while just under the surface, old memories ripple and stir.

She frowns, her brow pulling tight, lips thinning as if she’s weighing her next words carefully.

“He always seemed… meticulous. Maybe even too meticulous, if I’m honest,” she says quietly, her eyes flicking to the screen like it might reveal something only she can see. “Such a strange detail for him to miss. Letting her stay on the accounts, giving her access to his finances. It’s just… completely unlike him, if you ask me. It’s like he knew she wouldn’t have access to it.”

Her voice trails off, the faintest thread of curiosity winding through her tone, soft, but sharp enough to graze the edges of something deeper.

I don’t offer her an answer. No excuses, no justifications, just the truth, locked away where no one in this town would ever dare to look. It presses against my chest, heavier than the silence I leave hanging between us. She watches me, waiting for something, an explanation, an excuse, a crack in my façade, cruel and sharp, like a blade resting against my throat. It feels like an accusation, and yet, I refuse to let it break me. Let her wonder. Let her craft her own story. Whatever she imagines will be easier to swallow than the nightmare I carry.

She clears her throat, breaking the spell. “I’ll get these details printed for you,” she says softly, her voice gentle but laced with an undercurrent of curiosity. Her hand brushes mine briefly, a gesture meant to comfort, but it feels like an anchor dragging me deeper. “Lydia, if you ever need anything, anything at all, please let me know. I know how hard this must be.”

Hard. She has no idea.

I nod stiffly, jerking my hand back before her kindness can pry open the walls I’ve so carefully built. “Thank you,” I murmur, my voice brittle as glass.

When I step outside, the sunlight is blinding, too bright, too sharp, like an interrogation light focused solely on me. I clutch the folder of printed statements to my chest, the paper crinkling under the pressure of my trembling hands.

For a moment, I stand there, staring at the parking lot as if the answer to all of this might be hidden somewhere in the cracked asphalt. But there are no answers, only shadows, memories, and the relentless echo of her words.

I know how hard this must be.

She doesn’t know. She can’t. And God, I pray she never will.

I turn away, heading toward my truck, the folder clutched tight in my hands. With every step, it feels heavier, like everything I’ve tried to bury, my past, my guilt, the shadows I can’t outrun, pressing down, demanding to be carried, demanding to be faced.

CHAPTER

TWENTY-FOUR

The driveway stretches out in front of me, longer than I remember, wrapped in that strange, heavy stillness that almost feels like it’s watching. My hands tighten around the steering wheel as the tires crunch over the asphalt, every sound sharp and too loud in the thick quiet.

Through the trees, I catch sight of the house, its white paint peeling in long strips, like a snake shedding old skin.

It looks smaller now, somehow tired, sagging under years left unattended. The columns that once stood straight and proud are cracked and crumbling, sinking unevenly into the dirt.

I turn off the engine but stay in the truck, hands resting in my lap. My heart pounds so hard it fills my ears, drowning out even the stillness pressing in around me.

This house isn’t just wood and walls. It’s a monument to everything I’ve spent these past seven years trying to bury.

My fingers fumble with the keys as I force myself to step out of the truck. The air hits cooler here, sharper, edged with the faint smell of mildew and damp wood. My boots scrape against the sidewalk as I walk to the porch. Every creak under my weight feels too loud, each groan of the old boards sharp and accusing.