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Tears stream down her face, but she doesn’t wipe them. Doesn’t flinch.

“It was my brother,” she whispers. “I told Warren what I suspected. I told the pastor—your father. I told anyone who would listen.” Her voice cracks. “They all said the same thing. Family keeps its own counsel. That Cindy was troubled. That I was imaging things.” She looks up at me, her eyes stripped bare. “She wasn’t troubled. She was drowning. And no one tried to help.”

She sinks onto the edge of the chair, hands in her lap, wringing invisible guilt between them. Her shoulders curl forward, her words finally too much to carry upright.

I kneel in front of her and place a blanket on her lap. My heart racing. “Tell me the truth,” I say, softer now. “Please. I need to know.”

Her gaze lifts to meet mine, and it’s like staring into a storm years in the making, grief, shame, and something close to relief fighting for room behind her eyes.

She shakes her head weakly, the blanket slipping from her lap.

“Your father,” she whispers. “And my husband. They were part of something. Something bigger. Something older than just this town. They believed they were chosen. That their sins weren’t sins at all.”

The words hang between us, heavy and sickening.

A car door slams outside, sharp, sudden.

Sarah jolts, her face draining of color. “You have to go,” she hisses.

Footsteps hit the wooden porch.

Before I can react, the door swings open.

Clyde appears first, stepping through the doorway. His face is tight, his mouth a hard line. “What’s going on?” he asks, voice low. Before I can answer, another figure steps in behind him.

Clyde’s father.

The air in the room shifts, heavy and electric. His presence fills the space like smoke. A suffocating certainty that this house, these people, belong to him.

His gaze moves to me, polite but cold, assessing. They flick to the photographs I set next to Sarah. His mouth ticks. It’s slight, but I don’t miss it.

“Sarah,” he says smoothly, voice edged with iron. “You didn’t mention you were expecting company.”

“She didn’t know I was coming,” I say.

Sarah flinches but forces a brittle smile. “Just catching up, that’s all. Lydia was just leaving.”

I rise slowly, keeping my movements deliberate. “Warren,” I say, my voice calm but sharp. “Clyde.” I keep the same calm in my voice as I address both men.

Warren’s mouth curves into a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Lydia Anderson. Still not respecting your elders enough to use their surname, I see. I thought you’d grow out of that sort of disrespect.”

“I see that as a sign of respect, and I see no reason to use it here.”

He lifts his brows slowly, like he’s been waiting for me to walk through that door. “What are you really doing here?” he asks, tone silk-wrapped in steel. “Trying to hurt my wife with talk about her dead daughter?”

His words slither out, too casual, too smooth, like a snake sunning itself before it strikes. The room feels colder. Smaller.

He chuckles low at my lack of response. The sound is dry and knowing, not amusement but something darker. “How’s your father doing, Lydia? Taking care of him like a good daughter should?” His mouth curves, but it’s not a smile, it’s a sneer dressed up to pass for one. “After all,” he continues, voice thick with mock sincerity, “he gave you such a rich, godly life. Full of blessings, right? Obedience. Correction. The Lord’s work.”

He steps closer, not physically, but emotionally, pressing in. His eyes glint with something between admiration and threat. “It’s the least you could do. Wouldn’t you say?”

Mrs. Lewis clears her throat. “Lydia was just leaving.”

“You’ve already said that, Mother.” Clyde responds.

The clock ticks louder, each second dragging out like a blade across stone.

Mr. Lewis’s smile fades slightly. He glances between Sarah and Clyde, suspicion narrowing his eyes.