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He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move. Just stares like a corpse that forgot to stop breathing.

“Look at me!” I snap.

His eyes lift slowly, unfocused at first, then sharpening just enough to see me standing there, my fists trembling, my chest heaving with every shallow breath. I close the door behind me. The click of the latch is final, like the toll of a bell.

I approach, lifting the photograph, holding it inches from his face. “Do you recognize this? Of course you do. You’re in it.” I tap my finger hard against the image of him, of the man beside him, the sound sharp and loud in the quiet room. “Who is he? Who is this man?”

He stares at the picture, his expression empty, like he’s trying to pretend he doesn’t see it.

But he does. I know he does.

“Blink once for yes,” I hiss, my jaw clenched so tight it aches. “Is this Clyde and Cindy Lewis’s uncle?”

His eyes meet mine, then he blinks twice.

My stomach drops. He knows. He’s always known.

“Were you the reason she killed herself? Did you get your hands on her? Was it him?” I hurl questions like stones, knowing none will land the way I need them to.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. That could mean anything. Either he doesn’t know… or he won’t tell me.

“I found the picture of Cindy in your stash. I know she was involved. Was it you who hurt her? Or did you let someone else touch her?”

I pace back a step, the photograph still clutched tight. My voice wavers, but I don’t stop. I can’t stop.

“This isn’t everything, is it? There’s more, isn’t there? More faces. More names. You kept it all, didn’t you? I don’t believe for one second your secrets ended with that box. I feel it in my bones. There’s more.”

I want him to deny it. I want him to try.

I lean closer, the words spilling from me like poison, my voice a razor’s edge. “How many others? How many children? You sat there every Sunday pretending to be a man of God. Preaching forgiveness, preaching love. And then you came home and locked that office door. How many lives did you ruin?”

A grunt escapes him, a low, guttural sound as his throat strains, his lips parting just enough to release the noise. His hand twitches against the armrest, weak fingers curling and uncurling like dying spiders. His eyes fall to the floor again.

“Trying to say something?” I sneer. “Go ahead. Say it.”

He tries again, his face reddening with the effort, veins standing out against his papery skin. The sound he makes isn’t a word, just a ragged, gurgling noise that makes my skin crawl.

“Pathetic,” I spit.

He jerks in his chair, his chest rising and falling faster, but I don’t let up. I lean closer, my voice a venomous whisper, the kind that cuts deeper than any blade.

“You’re not a man. You’re a disease, a rot that festers in the darkest corners where no one dares to look. You hid behind that pulpit, behind those empty words, spewing scripture like it might save you from the filth that stains your soul.”

He grunts, his lips trembling like he’s fighting to form one last lie. But I don’t give him the chance.

“You think you were chosen? That God’s love justified the vile things you did? There is no God, not for you. If He existed, He’d have ripped you apart limb by limb and fed what was left to the crows. You’re nothing but a blight on this earth. A coward wrapped in holy lies and flesh that doesn’t deserve to breathe.”

I step closer, towering over him now, watching the flicker of fear dance across his face like a dying ember.

“The blood of Christ doesn’t flow through your veins. Nothing pure could survive inside you. You’re hollow. A shell of a man with maggots writhing where your heart should be. The Devil wouldn’t even claim you as his own, because even Hell has standards. And you’re not worth the fire beneath its gates.”

His hands twitch against the armrests. A wet, rasping noise escapes his throat. His lips shape the air like he’s summoning salvation.

But there’s nothing left to save.

“You’re not God’s servant,” I whisper, every word sharpened to a blade. “You’re His failure. The Devil’s flunky? No. You’re something lower. Even he wouldn’t waste his pity on a nothing like you.”

The room goes still, just the wet rattle in his throat, and the fire burning between us.