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Clyde’s lips press into a thin, bloodless line. His eyes stay pinned to the image, unmoving, like he can’t, or won’t, look away.

“You were…” He swallows, hard. “Jesus, Lydia.” His fingers tremble where they hold the edge of the photo. “How long…?”

I draw a slow breath. “Since my mother until my father’s accident.”

He jerks his gaze to me, horror swimming behind it.

“I didn’t know about Cindy then,” I continue, quiet but steady. “Not until I found these. If I’d known…” I stop myself, my throat tightening. “If I’d known, I would’ve told you,” I finish.

His chest rises and falls, uneven, like the air won’t settle inside him. He turns back to the photo, his thumb brushing over the corner. He shakes his head, a hollow, disbelieving sound leaking out.

“They did this to you… and she…” His jaw clenches. “And she was going through it, too, and we never knew.” Something cracks inside him then. He lowers the photo, his hand dragging down his face. His shoulders sag, and for a moment, he looks smaller than I’ve ever seen him.

“We never knew,” he whispers again, like a prayer or a curse.

I want to tell him that from what his mother told me. She knew what was happening to his sister, her daughter, but would it help? Does he need to suffer any more? He killed his father tonight. I know he has it in him to give the same fate to his mother. Anger is a powerful emotion.

He flips another, a group photo, men in suits and ties at a church picnic, smiling, arms draped across shoulders.

“Wolfe.” He taps the man at the center. “That’s Wolfe, isn’t it?”

I nod.

“He’s not missing, is he?”

“I don’t think so.”

He looks up sharply. “He’s dead.”

“I believe so.” I’m not ready to confess my sins. Or my redemptions.

He scrubs his face with both hands, dragging his palms down hard. His eyes are wet when he looks back at me, red-rimmed and hollow. “You’ve carried this… all of this… alone?”

“Someone had to.” My voice is low. Cold.

A silence spreads between us, dense and humming.

He leans back slowly, his hands braced against his knees, his chest rising and falling in controlled breaths. “How many times did you have to go through all of this?”

“Too many to count,” I answer.

“Jesus,” he says. His gaze flicks across the room again, the hooks, the straps, the ledgers stacked like quiet witnesses. “And this? All of this?” He swallows hard. “He built this?”

“They all did. It wasn’t just my father. I haven’t been able to pinpoint who was in charge. I don’t think it was my father, but I think he was up there when it comes to who was in charge, if that makes sense. But your father proved that there are men who were and are involved who never physically touched anyone. I’m still trying to figure that out.”

“Do you think that’s the reason why all those men have gone missing because they have the answers that you’re seeking? Someone is making sure they don’t talk?”

Another silence, longer this time.

“I don’t know.”

He stares at me like he’s trying to pull the truth from my eyes. “I don’t know how you carried this.”

I stare at the photos, at the images I’ve carried longer than I’ve carried anything else. “I carried it because I had to.”

Clyde moves slowly around the bench, dragging his fingertips over the scarred wood, over the straps, over the dark stains like they’re old wounds he’s memorizing. His shadow stretches across the cellar walls, swelling and shrinking with every flicker of the single bulb above us.

He pauses at the far wall, his hand hovering over the shelves of books. The spines are cracked, dusty, brittle with age. His eyes scan them, mouth moving silently as he reads the faded titles.