I’ve been imagining this from the moment Barry fled my house. As I stood in the shower washing the mud off, on the walk through the ghostly town square. I know I must remain calm and composed. I cannot allow him to wound me, make me panic and lose control.
“I know what you did,” I say.
“Let me guess.” He steps languidly down the last stairs. “You’re here to complain about my treatment of your friend—is that it? The Devil will have far worse punishments waiting for him in Hell.”
I ignore him, press forward. “It took me too long to see it, especially since I was so close. But I see now, Dad. You’re the missing ingredient. It’s been you from the beginning.”
“I can’t imagine what you’re talking about.” He stands a foot away in the gleaming white foyer, towering above me. “And frankly, I don’t have time to guess. It’s a big day.” His small, satisfied smile reappears. “You’ll find out soon enough.”
This is meant to be an interrogation, but he’s not complying. “Do you deny being friends with Killian Duncan?”
“Killian?” My mother emerges from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. Her blond hair lays in a perfect bob, the ends brushing the Louisiana pearls she wears whenever company’s over. “Why would you accuse your father of such a thing?”
I slide the folded paper out of my dress. “Explain this, then.” I step forward, holding it so they can both see John Abraham’s damning photograph.
My mother squints. “What does this prove? Killian Duncan was a degenerate in need of counsel. Your father was probably shepherding him. That’s his obligation.”
“Where’d you find this?” The reverend’s voice is quiet and controlled, but red patches have appeared on his neck. A telltale sign of anger.
“You may have destroyed all the physical copies, but you forgot about the microfilm.” I take a deep breath. “Pity you were too busy banning books from the library to spare a moment to learn how it works.” My heart hammers with adrenaline. I have no idea where this bravado is coming from.
“I did no such thing. And I won’t stand here listening to vile accusations from my own daughter.” He rips the paper out of my hand and tears it. The pieces fall like ashes to the floor.
“I told you.” My mother takes a step toward me. She and my father have always had this habit of edging closer to me as they talk when I’m in trouble, as if they are large cats hunting me. “First she refused to believe the sheriff and sided with a killer. Now she’s making up lies about you. She needs an intervention.”
“Lookat this!” Using their closeness as an advantage, I seize my father’s shirt and tear it open with both hands. Buttons fly as his chest is revealed. And there it is, above his heart: the tattoo. Just as John Abraham promised.
My mother gasps in outrage. I jab my finger at his chest. “You see? Your mighty reverend has a pagan symbol on his skin.”
My father’s face is beet red. “Howdareyou?” he seethes, trying to pull the halves of his shirt together and button what’s left.
I stare at my mother, waiting for her shock and indignation. But her gaze remains cold.
“Do you think,” she says, each word sharp enough to cut, “that I don’t know my own husband’s body?”
Her words chill me. Why did I assume she didn’t know? It’s one thing to hide a tattoo from your child, but your wife? The implications flood me. My holier-than-thou mother is in on it.
I step back, looking between them. “I know you carved the wards in the trees. You, Augustus, Fred, and the sheriff, who had to pretend he’d never seen them before.” It was the only thing that made sense—outside of Ever, they were the only people who knew about the symbols, believed in them.
“That’s absurd,” my mother snaps. “His tattoo is private, from an ancient biblical language. It means chosen by God.”
My father and I stare at each other. I can practically feel the heat emanating from him. He lied to her. And what a lie.
“I know it was you,” I say softly.
“James?” My mother looks at him. For once, she sounds unsure.
He clutches his shirt tighter and twists away from us. “It was aprecaution,” he growls, striding into the dark-paneled living room. As if he can run from me.
“You were scared of the Low Man,” I say, quick on his heels. Moments ago, they were cornering me. But now, the tables have turned.
He circles his armchair and stops, using it as a barrier between us. I’ve never seen him so disheveled. “The Devil takes many names and many faces. We were protecting ourselves.”
His confession causes warm satisfaction to seep through me. I wasright. “How did you even find out about the Le Culte de la Lune?”
“You’re speaking gibberish.”
“The symbol, Dad. The one on your chest, on the trees. You and I both know it’s not really from the Bible. How’d you find it?”
