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He glances over at me with a half grin.

“Not quite as pure as we thought, huh?”

He has no idea how filthy I’ve been. How impure my thoughts have gotten since I’ve been in this town. The darkness of Shadow Bluff has seeped into my soul.

“You’re one to talk.”

“I don’t pretend I’m not a sinner, Zaiya. I’ll ask the Lord’s forgiveness and still find my way into heaven.”

I scoff at that.

“So concerned with the afterlife. What about your life now? You murdered Harold Crotavere. You sent Vanessa spiraling into depression. Your mother.”

“You don’t know what it was like!”

His outburst pushes me back against the seat.

“Help me understand,” I say softly.

He grips the wheel tighter and stares straight ahead, done with our conversation. We pull up to the church. The rose window glows red from the inside. Light ripples behind the tall arched windows. Firelight.

Frank drags me out of the car and keeps the gun tight against my back as we move around to the basement door. Each step down creaks. Does anyone upstairs know we’re here? Do they even care?

He shoves me into the storage room and flips on the light. Folding tables lean against the walls. Metal chairs are piled in crooked towers.

“You should feel honored,” he says calmly. “Not everyone’s body is suitable.”

I swallow hard enough to hear.

“Suitable for what?”

He smiles. “Tonight, your blood will be very useful.”

Then he steps out. Something slides over the handles of the double doors after he closes them. I push hard, rattling the doors, but they won’t open.

His footsteps fade up the stairs to the sanctuary. I’m alone.

My hands tremble as I stand motionless. My knees threaten to give out. I press my back against a stack of tables and force myself to breathe. Panic won’t help me.

I wipe my hands on my dress, trying to get the remnants of dried blood off. I killed two men tonight. The realization carries a different weight. I didn’t freeze up. I fought back. I took control.

I can do it again.

My fingers slip into my bra and pull out the knife. The metal is familiar now, comforting in a way that should worry me. I picture Frank opening the door and stepping inside. I imagine lunging forward and burying the blade in his neck. I won’t miss.

This ends tonight.

Minutes pass. Then footsteps return to the stairs. Multiple sets.

My confidence wavers. I don’t know if I can do this with more than one of them. Maybe this time I won’t be so lucky.

My grip tightens around the knife anyway. I position myself at the side of the door, heart pounding. I angle the blade the way I was taught.

The makeshift lock is removed from the handles.

The door opens.

I step forward, arm raised—and stop.