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I blink and he’s gone.

But I still smell him.

And somewhere, faint and distorted, I hear a hymn.

Jesus loves me, this I know…

That old Sunday school song, soft and slow like a child singing to the dark.

I press my hands to my ears, but the sound seeps through skin.

He made me sing that. Before.

After.

During.

I’m going to vomit.

But I don’t.

I swallow it down. I always do.

And beneath it all, something colder remains. Watching. Still.

That part of me that never flinches. Never cries.

The PI needs to go.

Soon.

Before the thread unravels any further.

CHAPTER

TWENTY-NINE

The shed reeks of death and bleach.

I’ve been scrubbing for hours. The metallic tang of blood lingers, faint but insistent, beneath the sharp chemical sting. It clings to the back of my throat, settles into the corners of the room like it belongs there. My gloves are slick with grime. Sweat clings to my back despite the cold air clawing in through the cracks in the wood. Every breath feels thick.

The tools I used, knives, shears, saw, are spread across the bench like old friends, their edges gleaming under the overhead light. Clean now. Sterile. But it doesn’t matter. Not really. Blood doesn’t forgive. I dip the wire brush into the bleach solution again. Scrub harder. My arms burn, muscles screaming. But I keep going. Blood gets into everything. Into the smallest grooves. The tightest seams.

It hides.

Like Father did.

Like they all did.

I glance down at the bench. The wood’s darker where Kerr bled out. Pooled thick. Soaked deep. Wood remembers. So do I.

I mix the peroxide paste. Hydrogen peroxide, baking soda, stir it like I’m mixing something sacred. I smear it across the stain. The fizz starts immediately, quiet and hungry, bubbling into the grain.

Then I hear him. Kerr.

Not his voice, his breath. Wet and uneven. Behind me. Close.

I freeze.