At the next block, I slipped off the sidewalk and cut through the graveyard, just to see if I could still make it through in heels without falling.
I did. Not a single scratch.
At the far end, I ducked through the gap in the fence and emerged onto Main, two blocks from home. The house lights were off; Dad was probably still at the church, prepping his sermon about the dangers of temptation.
I smirked, thinking of Tyler, of the look on his face when I rode him like a stolen bike. I kept walking, head held high, like I was the only person in town who knew how to fake it and survive. Because I was, and tomorrow, I’d do it all over again.
4
Darla
The Maple house never slept, even at midnight. When I let myself in, it was like stepping onto the set of a haunted sitcom; every board creaked at a pitch and frequency only my father could hear. The air was a stale soup of lemon Pledge, candle wax, and the lingering ghost of my mother’s White Shoulders perfume. Even after all these years, it stuck to the drapes and carpets, impossible to wash out. Maybe he kept it there on purpose.
I slipped off my shoes in the foyer, tiptoed past the umbrella stand, and held my breath as I inched the coat closet shut. I could hear the muted oooh-oooh of church choir practice drifting from somewhere down the hall, the sopranos shrieking the high notes like they were calling for help. Probably a recording; Dad used them for meditation or punishment, depending on his mood.
The living room was black except for the interrogation lamp over his favorite chair. Reverend Archie Maple, The Shepherd, the man who could silence a megachurch by raising one eyebrow, sat in the recliner with a Bible on his lap and a glass of rye at his elbow. His white dress shirt glowed like a warning flare against the dark. He didn’t look up when I entered, but I could feel his eyes tracking me through the reflection in the TV screen.
I made a show of hanging my coat. The cross necklace, his cross, glinted at my throat. I caught my own reflection in the entryway mirror—hair loose, eyes rimmed in shadow, lips berry-stained and smudged. I looked like the poster child for an anti-drinking PSA. Perfect. I fixed my skirt, straightened the neckline, and waited for the cross-examination.
He waited a full thirty seconds before speaking, just to let me sweat. “Did you enjoy your study group?”
I shrugged, giving him the innocent routine. “It was fine. A little boring, honestly.”
He closed the Bible without a sound, the tissue-thin pages barely whispering. “You work so hard. I worry about you, Darla.”
I could see the set-up coming, but I played along. “You don’t have to. I’m not the one with a whole flock to tend.”
His mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “That’s true. And yet, I find myself more concerned with your soul than with theirs.”
It was almost impressive how he could slide in a guilt trip without breaking stride. I sat on the sofa, careful to fold my hands in my lap, church-girl style. The plastic on the throw pillows stuck to the backs of my thighs, and I pictured the couch swallowing me whole.
He steepled his fingers, the gold signet ring catching the lamp’s light. “Did you know Sister Evelyn called me tonight? She said she saw you leaving the Pink Beaver with some… unsavory company.”
That was new. Usually, he skipped the sources and went straight to the sermon. “Sister Evelyn needs a hobby.”
“She’s a concerned member of the congregation,” he said, voice measured and warm as a snake’s hug. “And you know how people love to talk.”
I snorted. “Since when do you listen to gossip?”
He gave me the look—equal parts disappointment and challenge. “When the reputation of this family is on the line? Always.”
I wanted to say, maybe the family should try having a reputation worth saving, but I bit it back. Instead, I studied the carpet, which was so spotless you could eat off it.
He let the silence build again, the room thick with everything he wasn’t saying. Then, he reached into his shirt pocket and produced a crumpled matchbook. The Pink Beaver logo—two neon legs and a cherry—stared up at me like a mugshot. He set it down on the coffee table, dead center, between us.
I felt the heat crawl up my neck. “You been going through my stuff now?”
His tone never changed. “You left it in your coat. I was looking for your gloves.”
Bullshit. He was looking for ammo. And he’d found it.
He kept going, relentless but so fucking calm. “Darla, do you know how much damage a rumor like this can do? Our church is—”
“I know, Dad,” I snapped, “it’s always about the church.”
His eyes narrowed, but he didn’t raise his voice. “Without this church, we have nothing. You have nothing.”
I flinched. He saw it, of course. “That’s not fair.”
