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I straighten, watching him shrink into himself, those dead eyes wide and wild.

It’s the closest thing to justice he’ll ever know.

I place the photograph on his lap, forcing it into his trembling hands. His fingers close around it reflexively, but his eyes never leave mine.

And for the first time, I see something real. Panic.

I reach for his wrist, grabbing his fingers, pushing them back hard enough to make his knuckles pop. His mouth opens, a grunt escaping, but I don’t let go.

“You deserve worse,” I whisper, my breath hot against his cheek. “Every mark on your body. Every ounce of pain. You earned it.”

He grunts again, louder this time, his head shaking from side to side. Then his eyes flick, just briefly, to the far corner of the room.

To the cellar door.

And a cold stirs in my chest.

CHAPTER

THIRTY-FOUR

The room settles into silence, thick and suffocating, save for the rasp of my father’s shallow breaths. He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, just sits there slumped in his chair, his chest rising and falling like it’s the only thing he’s capable of anymore.

But his eyes…

His eyes betray him.

They keep flicking to the cellar door. Quick, furtive glances, like he thinks I won’t notice.

But I do.

I see everything.

The door sits tucked in the far corner of the room, half-obscured by an old chair. The wood is warped and split, years of damp rising along its frame like mildew climbing skin. It’s different from the cellar door off the kitchen, the one that leads to jars of canned peaches, dusty shelves, things left behind but not forgotten.

No. This one is different.

This door leads to the part of the cellar no one ever talked about. The one no one should have known existed. The one they used. The one where I was taken. Trained. Broken. Again and again.

And I’ve avoided looking at it for years.

But now, seeing him looking at it, makes my stomach lurch.

My skin tightens over my bones like it’s trying to flee.

My father’s gaze drifts back to me, his lips parting slightly, another garbled grunt escaping his useless throat. His chest rises sharply. His hands twitch on the armrests, weak, useless movements that still manage to make my fists clench.

I step toward the door. He grunts. I can feel the tension in the room grow.

It pulls at me like a chain wrapped around my throat and ankles both.

Each footstep echoes louder than the last, like the house remembers.

I keep my back to him, my hand hovering just above the rusted knob.

My voice comes quiet, but it’s carved from stone.

“Are there more things hidden behind this door than my mother’s body?”