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“What?” Trevor asked.

“Nothing.”

“You’re smiling.”

“I was thinking about DeeDee, okay, detective?”

“Gross,” Trevor grumbled.

“Not like that, ya moron.”

“Still gross.”

“Children are so judgmental.”

“Where are we going?” he asked for the millionth time.

I tapped the steering wheel. “My childhood.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“It should.”

Eventually, the church appeared in all its white-siding, black-roof, tall-steeple, and glowing wooden-cross glory. A large block-lettered sign mounted above the entrance like an arrow pointing you to hell. Franklin Baptist Church.

It still had Daddy’s name beneath the service times. PASTOR XAVIER CARTER.

My stomach clenched, and Trevor noticed.

“That’s your dad?”

“Unfortunately.”

“He still works here?”

“God hasn’t fired him yet and his tock’s still tickin’.” I pulled the bus into the empty parking lot.

The church looked smaller than I remembered. That was another shitty thing adulthood did. Places that had once seemed enormous shrank and made you realize how dumb you were to be afraid of them. Buildings. Bedrooms. Camp signs. People. Fear.

I’m grown now, bitch. Smite me.

We climbed out, and Trevor followed me towards the side entrance. I pulled another key from my chain and reminded myself that I wasn’t a child anymore.

Trevor stared. “You have a key?”

“I tried for years, remember? Daddy liked normal me.”

“Uh… does he trust the not-normal you?”

“Excellent question.”

The lock clicked, and then we were standing on the other side of the door. I took a deep, steadying breath. The church smelled exactly the same. Old carpet, wooden polish, Dad’s coffee filters, and maybe dust. There was something faintly sweet from the candles Daddy’s congregation lit during prayer services. It used to be my favorite scent.

I stopped, and for a moment, I was thirteen again. Damn tie was too tight and my hair was combed flat while the damn Bible wiggled even tucked beneath my arm. I was trying not to look at Darius sitting two pews behind me.

“Alvin?”

I blinked, shaking more useless memories away. “Come on.”