I roll the window down a crack, then more. The wind grabs my hair and whips it around my face. I stick my hand out, fingers spread wide, and the cool air slips between them.
“You good, Little Horror?” Evander glances at me in the rearview mirror, his eyes searching.
I laugh louder than I expect and shout over the rush of air. “I’m good! I feel free!”
Evander smirks from the passenger seat. “That’s what we wanted to hear.”
Garron leans forward from the back beside me, his arm braced over the seat. His smile is feral. “Well then. Let’s get to our next destination, shall we?”
50
Garron
The church looks smallerat night. A squat box with its crooked steeple pointing into a sky that doesn’t care. The air is crisp, fall biting at the edges of every breath. No sound of sirens in the distance, no engines wailing. That means the house is still burning.
We leave the bag from her parents in the car. That one is used up, dirty and depleted. Corwin pops the trunk and pulls out the other bag, the one we packed for this place.
We walk together, shoes tapping on the cracked church sidewalk. The double doors are tall and dark. As suspected, the doors are locked. Of course they are. Also, as expected the light in Williams’ office is on. It’s the one part of the church I didn’t see upon my visit, but Agatha knew where it was. The corner office upstairs.
I pull my phone out. My fingers are steady, but my chest feels like a drum. I dial the church number and hold it to my ear. It rings three times.
“Christ Redeemer Community Church,” comes his voice, full of performance. “This is Pastor Williams. What can I do to bring you closer to our Lord?”
“It’s Garron,” I say, quick, like I don’t want to be caught. “We met yesterday, downstairs. I—I’m out front.” I let my voice break, shaking it until it sounds like I’m coming apart. “Shit—I mean—shoot, I hope that’s okay. I just…I sinned. I sinned, and I need to tell someone what I’ve done. Oh God, please forgive me.”
I make myself sound small. Panicky. I make myself sound like the sheep he thinks he can lead.
On speaker, they hear it all. Evander raises his brows. Corwin smirks. Agatha presses her lips tight to hide her grin.
“Don’t worry, son,” Williams says. “I’m coming down and we can talk. It’s going to be alright. You’re in the right place.”
The line goes dead.
Corwin and Evander slide to one side of the doors, hiding in the shadows. Agatha moves to the other. She told us earlier she wanted a dramatic entrance.
“I’ll wait for my cue,” she said. And because we’re already whipped, we let her.
The heavy wooden doors crack open. Light spills out. Williams steps forward, a smile plastered on. I don’t give him time to think. My hand shoots out, clamps around his throat. I drive him backward through the doorway, into the glow of his perfect little sanctuary.
“The sinning is just getting started, Pastor.”
His eyes bulge wide. He claws at my wrist, but I shove him harder.
Corwin and Evander slip in behind me. Agatha lingers outside in the shadows, waiting for her grand reveal. Her words, not mine. But I get it. If she wants the spotlight, she’ll have it. Tonight is hers more than it is ours.
Williams gags in my grip. My teeth bare in a smile I don’t feel. Inside, the pews gleam under fluorescent light, the crosses hang heavy on the walls, and the smell of bleach cuts my nose again.
I haul him across the carpet, past rows of polished pews until the moonlight from the stained glass windows slices his face into hard planes. The big gathering room smells like lemons and old hymnals. At the front, bolted like a relic to the wall, is the cross—stout, wood gone gray at the edges, a gap between it and the plaster wide enough to thread rope.
We pull him up, secure him to the cross, back pressed to the wood. The straps cut into his brown button up, the cheap fabric bunching. A strip of duct tape seals his mouth. We work fast, fingers practiced, knots snapping tight. He thrashes, trying to twist away, but Corwin wrenches his wrist up, stretching it to the angle we want. I force the other arm out, levering it until the joint creaks and he has no choice but to keep it there while I bind him. Evander crosses his ankles and wraps them, cinches them so the man can’t shift his feet.
I pick up the Bible resting on the podium. It’s thick, leather swollen from years of hands and hymn marks, corners soft. His Bible. For a second I consider the sermons he used it for. Then I bring it down once, hard, across his cheek. The sound of the smack cracks through the stillness. He jerks, eyes wild and surprised, like a man who thought the book would protect him and instead found it used as a weapon.
“I hate how polite this place smells,” Evander whispers.
Williams hangs there, chest rising and falling, arms spread like a warped crucifix. Suddenly his eyes widen, and he releases a muffled whiny sound. We turn to see what caught his eye, and a grin finds my face.
Agatha steps into the doorway. For a minute she just watches him. Then she starts forward—hips rolling, every step a strutthat owns the aisle. Slow, deliberate, like she’s on a runway no one else was invited to walk. She’s got something in her hands. At first, it looks like a notebook, but then I see it in full.
