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“No. So he could find peace. So he could repent.”

“Repent?” I scoff. “Is that what you think this is about? Forgiveness? Redemption? You think he deserves that?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he leans forward, resting his elbows on the desk, hands clasped like he’s still behind a pulpit.

“Do you?”

The question hits harder than I expect.

“Redemption,” I repeat, tasting the word like poison. “That’s what this is about for you. You’re trying to convince yourself you’re not a monster. That you’re not like him.”

“I’m not,” he says, steady now. “But I was close. Too close. I stood behind him. I said nothing. I let it happen.”

I step forward, my boots hitting the worn floor with a sharp crack. “And what’s your answer for that, Trent? What lets you sleep at night?”

He exhales slowly. “Cowardice. That’s the answer. I believed your father because believing him meant I didn’t have to confront myself. He said we were chosen. That what we were doing was holy. And I wanted to believe it… so I did.”

I don’t look away.

“You destroyed lives,” I say. “You hid behind scripture and sermons, and you destroyed us.”

“I know.” His voice cracks. “And I’ve spent every day since trying to atone. I left the Covenant. I left that life. I’ve built something good here, but it’s not enough. It’ll never be enough.”

The air between us thickens, heavy with unspoken things.

I study him, the slump of his shoulders, the quiet way he avoids my gaze now. There’s no bravado left. No sermon voice.

“I’m dying,” he says.

I don’t move. The words land softly and I smile.

“Doctor gave me six months. If I’m lucky.” He lets out a breath that sounds more like a confession than an exhale. “Liver’s shot. Years of trying to numb it all finally caught up to me.”

His hands are folded on the desk, but they tremble. His face, waxy under the yellow light, looks even older than it did during the sermon.

He’s not lying.

He reaches into a drawer and pulls out a notebook. It’s thin, cracked, yellowed with age. He lays it on the desk between us, then slides it across.

“This is everything I know. Names. Towns. Dates. Your father wasn’t just a monster. He was a recruiter. Among other things. He brought others in. Helped them hide in churches and orphanages and small-town congregations. I know where some of them are.”

I pick it up. The pages creak beneath my fingers. The names inside make my stomach twist.

“Not because you’ll forgive me,” he says before I can ask. “Because I need to settle the debt before I go.”

“You want peace,” I say, almost to myself. He doesn’t respond. “That’s what this is. You think that if you give me the names, you’ll earn some kind of favor. Maybe even forgiveness.”

Silence.

“You’re not getting either.”

He looks up, eyes hollow. “I know.”

I step closer. The room feels smaller, the heater in the corner clicking like it’s gasping for breath. The blade at my hip is still there. Ready. Familiar.

My fingers graze the handle.

I could. Right here, and now. How long it would take to slit his throat. Whether anyone would hear through these old walls. Did anyone really notice me? Look at me enough to give the authorities something concrete to go off? The kill would be clean. Faster than he deserves, but done.