My father stomped all over any humanly possible lines. He knew exactly what he was doing and didn’t give a damn. There’s nothing left to excuse it.
I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel about it. Everyone expects shock or even denial. Something clean or acceptable.
But that’s not what’s there.
And the worst part is that when Adam talks about killing him, I don’t feel guilt.
I don’t want him dead—I think—but I don’t want him alive, either. Not like this. Not knowing what he’s done and what he’d do again if he had the chance.
I don’t say any of this out loud. I don’t even let myself think about it in full sentences, because once I do, I won’t be able to pretend I’m better than him. Or that I still believe some lines shouldn’t be crossed.
Adam opens the office’s heavy, wooden door and paces inside.
The room is dark and meticulously clean, cared for more than it needs to be. Black tones dominate the space, matching the rest of the house. On the desk, files, papers, and folders sit in precise stacks beside a closed laptop and a solved Rubik’s Cube.
“What is it again?” Adam jeers. “Brighten my day.”
Grayson walks closer, his hands folded in front of his lower abdomen, eyes tight with worry behind his glasses.
“We need to talk,” he says solemnly.
Adam lets out a bitter chuckle and shakes his head, eyes fixed on the floor as if he already understands what it’s about.
“Save it, old man.” His eyes snap up to meet Grayson’s. “We’ll be gone by sunrise.”
My stomach tightens. I don’t know how to feel about that. Here, I finally feel safe, but for how long? I know the truth; I’m just not ready to face it yet.
“I can’t help you right now, Adam,” Grayson says quietly. “They’ll find you soon. You’re in danger.”
Adam shrugs. “I don’t need any help. I’m in Cain’s house. This place is basically a fortress.”
“Cain can’t help you now,” Grayson says, his voice composed, yet I can still hear the edge in it. “He’s a damn fugitive.”
Adam exhales, unbothered. “And I said I don’t need any help.”
“Yes. You do,” he says sharply, the way a parent scolds a stubborn child. “That’s why I calledhim.”
“You called who?” Adam asks, scrunching his face.
A man dressed entirely in black moves closer to us, his footsteps slow and measured. His eyes are dark and intense.
Black shirt, black slacks, and … a white collar?
“Hello, cousin.”
Adam
Judas fucking Manson…
My beloved ex-military cousin, hiding behind a white collar like it scrubs the blood off him. Playing clean. Pretending he’s some fucking saint. That piece of shit is what hell coughs up when it wants to pretend it’s human.
Cousin … well, that’s what everyone else thinks, right? Easier that way. Not fucked up.
But I know. I fucking know. Me and him came from the same dirt, same filth, same sickness rotting us from the inside out. Same blood, same fucked-up wiring.
We were carved out of the same nightmare, something no one would want to admit—not even me.
But it’s there. Always has been.
