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Up the stairs. Down the hall. Through the door.

Into the room I hate most in the world.

I sit cross-legged on the bed. Place the box in front of me. Stare at it.

And wait.

I don’t move.

What if it proves everything?

What if it proves nothing?

What if it’s worse than I imagined?

What if it’s not?

The key is cold in my hand.

“Enough,” I whisper.

I slide it in.

Click.

The sound is soft.

But the world shifts beneath it.

CHAPTER

THIRTY-ONE

Inside, a faded blue Bible sits atop the contents, its leather cover cracked and worn from years of handling. It’s one of the Bibles he used in the pulpit, the one he held high while preaching about sin and salvation.

I lift it out gingerly, like it might bite me, revealing what lies beneath.

Photographs.

They’re neatly stacked, bound with a brittle piece of twine. My breath hitches as I untie the knot. The string snaps with a dry crack. I pull the first photograph free, holding it up to the dim light of the bedside lamp. My ears fill with a high, thin ring that drowns out the whoosh of my heart. Cold sweeps from my fingertips, down my arms and into my chest. My breath stalls, caught halfway between an inhale and nothing at all. The edges of my vision blur and narrow seeing nothing but the photograph. A photograph of a child, staring at the camera, tears streak cheeks, in very little clothes.

The images grow worse.

In each photograph there stands a child. The children are different, but their expressions are the same: hollow, defeated. Some stare blankly ahead, their eyes glassy, while others seem to flinch, as if the camera’s click was a slap.

And then I see her.

Her hair’s in two long, chestnut braids. Pretty bows at each end. They’re the kind a mother ties with care on school mornings. Her bangs are cut blunt across her forehead. Her eyes, deep chocolate, holding more pain than any little girl should have to hold. The kind of still that comes from learning too young not to cry where anyone can see. Her arms are wrapped around herself, small hands gripping her elbows, trying to hold herself together. Her dress hangs off one shoulder, the collar looks loosened, like it might be unbuttoned at the back. Her face is sullen. Sad, in a way that has nothing to do with childhood at all.

The girl is me.

I scramble off the bed and stand in front of the window to get a better look at the faded picture. The edges of the photograph dig into my trembling fingers, sharp as razors against my skin. My breath catches, a shallow gasp rattling in my chest. The room tilts slightly, the walls closing in as I stare at the image.

It’s a younger version of myself. I’m unsure of my age, but there’s no mistaking who it is.

The girl in the photograph stands stiffly, her arms pinned to her sides like she’s trying to make herself small. I can see the tension in her posture, the way her shoulders draw inward, her body shrinking under an invisible weight.

I’m standing in a room I recognize all too well, my father’s office. The heavy drapes are drawn tight, casting the space in shadows. The mahogany desk looms in the background, dark and imposing, like it’s watching.