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Jonah is still here, leaning against the fence, a cigarette dangling loosely from his lips like it belongs there.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I hiss, my voice low and sharp.
He shrugs, shoulders lifting beneath his threadbare jacket. “Came to check on you,” he says, casual, though his eyes never quite meet mine. They’re scanning the pigs, the shed, the door I didn’t fully close behind me. “Figured you’d need someone watching your back with that guy sniffing around.”
“I don’t need you.” I step closer. My fists curl at my sides. “You shouldn’t have come.”
He doesn’t flinch. Just takes a slow drag, letting the smoke drape between us. “Maybe not. But you and I both know you’re drawing more attention than you should.”
I glare at him, feel the start of it, the twitch. My right thumb jerking against the side of my index finger, soft and rapid. A habit stitched into me, born from fear.
Jonah notices. Of course he does.
His lips twist into something that might be a smile, if it didn’t make my stomach churn. “Still do that, huh?” he says. “That little twitch. I used to love it. The way you’d do that every time we…” His voice dips, savoring the silence. “It was like a little reminder. A trigger. Proof of how much power we had over you.”
My vision narrows. Blood roars in my ears.
“Say that again,” I whisper.
He shrugs. “Just saying it’s funny what sticks. Makes a man nostalgic.”
“You’re sick, Jonah.”
“Maybe.” He shrugs. “But you aren’t too far behind, huh? You’re taking care of him now. After everything he did to you.” He taps the side of his head. “Seems like something only a person who’s a little sick would do, don’t you agree? You ever feel the urge to wrap your hands around that man’s throat? Huh? Squeeze hard enough to crush the windpipe? I bet you’ve tried already. Tried and failed, just like before.”
I freeze.
He grins wider. “Oh. You haven’t told anyone about that night, have you? That little mess. But I know. You left him breathing when you should’ve left him cold.”
“You don’t know shit.”
“Oh, but I do,” he says, voice low, hungry. “You think your sins are secrets? You think your hands are clean? They’re not. No matter how many times you try to justify it. They’ll never be clean.” He leans in, smoke curling around his mouth. “You’re part of it now. Maybe always have been.”
I squeeze my hands into fists at my sides, my nails biting into my skin.
“And you weren’t the only one, Lydia.”
His words hang there, venomous.
My eyes narrow. I say nothing. He isn’t saying anything I don’t already know.
Jonah blinks once, slow and satisfied. “Oh. So, you know.” He nods, almost impressed. “Digging deeper than I thought you would. Your mother would be proud, if she wasn’t rotting under the floorboards.”
I nearly lunge.
He sees it, and laughs. A sharp, brittle sound. “Touch a nerve?”
“You’re disgusting.”
“I’m honest.” He flicks the end of his cigarette to the ground and watches it burn out. “You think you’re the only one who was hurt? The only one marked? We were all part of the Covenant. Every last one of us. And your daddy? He built it into something real.”
My throat tightens. He’s messing with me.
He tilts his head, studying me. “I don’t regret it,” he says, voice low and flat. “None of it. It’s the past. You should let it go before it drags you to hell faster than you can crawl.”
He flicks a glance toward the shed.
“You might beat your daddy there. That’s if he gets there at all.”
