Maybe I should have made it quicker, less painful. He deserved punishment, sure, but this might be too much. The smell is the worst part—beneath the scent of the melting plastic and books catching fire, I swear I can smell the acrid stench of burning hair and skin. An image pops unbidden to my mind of his skin turning pink, then blistering in painful burns, then charring black as his consciousness fades.
Bile rises in my throat as I wait. And wait. And wait.
The air around me warms as the fire grows, likely consuming the bookcases and furniture fully by now. I imagine him choking on the thick black smoke, and while part of me is disgusted by what I’ve just done, the other part of me wishes I was there to witness the light leave his eyes.
The screams stop, and after what feels like an eternity, the stone against my chest pulses with energy, and I know he’s dead.
The only sound inside the church is the whoosh and crackle of the growing fire as flames consume the room.
And as I exit the back door and make my way into the weirdly normal afternoon cast in sunlight, I can only hope that whatever deity Ambrose spoke of is more forgiving than the one worshipped within this church.
CHAPTER 24
Imanage to drive home without crashing, though every time I try to move my arm, it feels like a knife is being jabbed into my shoulder. I should probably go to the hospital, but that would open a slew of other issues. My name being registered in a hospital database after I’ve technically gone missing, even though Joel likely still hasn’t reported it; questioning from medical professionals about how I got hurt; the lack of money to cover the copay. It all would have been too much of a hassle, so I’ll deal with the pain for now.
I’m fairly certain my shoulder is dislocated, and I now have the internet at my disposal to learn how to pop it back into place. I’ll figure it out… probably.
Once I’ve parked in front of the house, I make my way up the creaking porch steps, saying a silent prayer that Ambrose is out in the garage or occupied in his study.
My prayer goes unanswered—shocker—as I gingerly shut the front door behind me and spot Ambrose in the living room.
Play it cool,Brielle.
Avoiding eye contact, I hook the keys on the key ring and reach up with one arm to pull the necklace over my head, setting it on the entryway table along with my bag.
The leather cushions creak in the living room as Ambrose stands and approaches me.Shit.
“Brielle, are you okay?” His concern is palpable, but I don’t want to deal with having a conversation right now.
“I’m fine,” I mutter.
I try to brush past him to head upstairs, but he grabs my good arm to stop me.
“Look at me.”
“No.” The adrenaline rush I’d had earlier is dropping dramatically, and I can’t get the screams of the pastor out of my head no matter how hard I try. One minute, I’m a woman dead set on vengeance, and the next, I’m overwhelmed with guilt at the monster I’ve become. What the hell is wrong with me? I fight back tears as they brim in my eyes, staring at the floor as I refuse to make eye contact with Ambrose.
“Brielle,” he says my name with more force this time, but not unkindly. “What the hell happened to you?”
I inhale a shaky breath and meet his worried gaze. “It’s nothing. Just a little accident.”
His eyebrows shoot up, and when he speaks, he’s seething with anger. “A little accident? You’re covered in blood and can’t move your arm. Who did this to you?”
I shake my head as if to say, “Don’t worry about it,” but I can’t speak. I know that as soon as I do, I’ll break.
“Come here.” Ambrose gently guides me to the couch, though I can feel the rage pouring off of him. I sink onto the cushion, and he disappears to the kitchen before returning with a damp, warm washcloth.
He kneels on the ground before me and begins to dab at the dried blood on my cheek. His face is so close to mine, andI gaze into his deep, dark brown eyes that are zeroed in on my wounds.
“I think my shoulder is dislocated,” I announce.
Ambrose takes a slow breath to calm himself and nods. “I figured as much. I can help you pop it back into place in just a second. Unless something is broken.”
“Okay.”
He closes his eyes for a couple of seconds before he speaks again, attempting to conceal the anger lingering beneath the surface. “I’m going to ask you again. Who did this to you?”
“A pastor. I read about some awful things he had done and picked him as my next target, so I drove up to his church this morning, and things got a little messier than I would have liked. I had a better plan this time and everything.”
