But it wasn’t just Memphis’s company Preacher enjoyed. He would be lying if he said he hadn’t enjoyed reading to Knox. There was something powerful in knowing Knox felt safer with Preacher nearby. To Knox, Preacher was the good guy, the safe bet. If only he could get Memphis to see him the same way. Which clearly wasn’t the case.
It had to be the scars. Anytime Preacher touched them, Memphis shut down. The thing was, Preacher would forget about them entirely until he touched them, and when he did, he wasn’t turned off or disgusted. They were just a part of Memphis. If anything, Preacher tried not to think about them because when he did, it pissed him off to the point of wanting to find Keith Camden and set him on fire. But it didn’t change his attraction to Memphis.
Preacher understood what it was like to be ashamed, to hate yourself. But there was nothing about Memphis he found ugly. Hell, the scars Preacher had were ugly, only they were all on the inside. Maybe that was why Preacher was so determined to watch over Knox and Memphis. He knew what it was like to be violated.
In Preacher’s periphery, he caught the light in Knox’s room go on. He turned to see Memphis leaning over the boy, brushing his hair off his face, before turning the light out once more. Memphis was right. The boy was probably too old to be read to, but it had soothed him, gave him something to focus on other than the fear and the dread. In the end, he’d fallen asleep without the help of the sedatives the hospital had given them.
When Preacher was a kid, some part of him had always believed he’d get married, have kids of his own. Do better raising them than his father had him. But then he’d gone to prison and all talk of a normal life went up in flames along with his dreams of being something more than an ex-con.
The snapping of a twig to his left caught his attention. He gazed into the pines that bordered the property, listening intently. It was most likely an animal. It wasn’t uncommon to find cougars or coyotes, sometimes even the occasional bear, even with the fence. Still, he stood, narrowing his eyes, looking to see if he could find any discernible shapes in the pitch black of the woods.
Nothing. But the feeling of eyes on him remained. He flicked his gaze back to the window before walking to the front door and opening it. He whistled softly, hoping Memphis hadn’t closed Knox’s door when he left it. He relaxed when he heard the boys trotting towards him. Until he saw Memphis was with them. He was still wearing Preacher’s flannel, and the thought of that gave him a small flicker of…something.
“What’s wrong?” Memphis asked, anxiety giving an edge to his words.
“Likely nothing. I just heard something in the woods. Probably a coyote or a fox.” He looked to the dogs. “Perimeter. Go.”
They took off into the night. When they disappeared from sight, Memphis said, “Nash has found us already. I should probably take Knox and go.”
He didn’t sound scared, just resigned, like the outcome was already written and the bad things running through his mind were inevitable. “We don’t know that. There’s no way we were followed from the hospital. I would have noticed a tail. But if you don’t feel safe, I’ll talk to Cy and Nicky tomorrow and we’ll find a place where nobody can get to you.”
“For how long? Forever?” Memphis asked.
“Until we find a way to put your brother and his crew in prison for good.”
“That won’t stop them,” Memphis said, like it was gospel.
Preacher walked into the house and pulled open a drawer just inside the door. He pulled out the Browning 9mm he’d found in the closet months ago, thumbing off the safety. Memphis followed him like a shadow, even returning back outside with him. Preacher flipped off the porch light, blanketing them in darkness, before sitting on the front porch steps. Memphis dropped down beside him.
Preacher didn’t know how to ease Memphis’s mind, but he could at least try to make him understand that nobody was infallible. “Look, I know what it’s like to realize a person you’re supposed to trust is a monster. I know what it’s like to feel like you’ll never escape them, no matter how fast or how far you run. I know that, sometimes, the only way to get a good night’s sleep is to know they have a bullet in their head.”
Memphis watched him in the darkness. “The man you killed… Who was it?”
“My father.”
“Your father abused you, too?” Memphis asked, sounding like he didn’t quite believe him.
Preacher looked at Memphis, taking another slow sip from his beer bottle. He tried not to smile when he saw Memphis watching his throat as he swallowed. “No. Not me. My mother.”
Memphis’s tongue darted out to lick over his lower lip, his gaze soft, like he felt for Preacher’s mother. “He beat her?”
“No. Well, maybe. I never saw him lay a hand on her, but what he did was worse. I wish I’d noticed it sooner. Maybe I could have done something about it.”
“What’s worse than beating somebody?” Memphis asked.
“My parents were the perfect couple. My dad was a construction foreman, made good money, was a deacon in our church, was at every one of my little league games. He was perfect. My mom was a mess. She said so all the time. She was stupid. She was fat. She was useless. Couldn’t cook. Couldn’t clean. Never wanted to leave the house. My dad said we had to educate her. Correct her mistakes. Said she needed to learn how to be a better wife, a better mother.”
“Jesus,” Memphis muttered.
“When I was younger, I hated my mom. My dad was my hero. I thought he was so patient with her. If my mom was such a shit person, why didn’t he just leave her? It was only when I got old enough to really understand how truly fucking depraved my father was that I realized my mother was never the problem.”
“How old were you?”
Preacher shrugged, tipping the bottle back against his lips only to realize it was empty. He sighed and set it beside him. “Twelve. Thirteen, maybe? Before my father was a construction worker, he was military. He always told me the military made him a man. That they broke you down to build you into a soldier. That’s what he did to my mother, only he never had any intention of building her back up. Over their fifteen year marriage, he’d brainwashed my mother into believing she was lucky to have him. She believed every horrible thing he said about her until he didn’t even have to say it out loud anymore. A glance. A gesture. His silence. That was all it took to send my mother down a rabbit hole of self-loathing. He broke her in a way that no physical pain ever could.”
“But…you killed him.”
“I did,” he confirmed.
