Fear the Wicked (Illusions Series Book 2)(26)

My father's desk still stood proud in the center of the room. His bookshelf still filled with the books he used in his practice. Sitting on the right side of the third row from the top was a book that I'd taken a beating for, its title printed in bold black letters on the spine: Female Reproductive Anatomy.

If he didn't want us to find that particular book, why did he shelve it so low that it would be within our line of sight?

If my father had hidden a second confession in this house, it had to be within this office. Creeping forward, I pull the toggle of a lamp on the desk as I passed by. A warm green glow emitted from the stained glass lampshade, a color that reminded me of him.

My knees popped as I bent down, my forearms resting on my thighs. I squatted there for several minutes before reaching to grab the book. Running my fingers down the front cover, I endured the memories for a few quiet seconds. It surprised me when I found myself throwing up a silent prayer.

The book fell open in my hands. I flipped the pages and found nothing.

Slamming it closed, I let it drop to the floor and closed my eyes against the memories. Rage crept inside at the stream of images: the basement door, the way Jericho would look back at me from over his shoulder, the way my mother would guide me away from the kitchen the moment my twin started screaming.

I hated the man who worked in this office, and because of him I'd hated God.

My arm flung out, my fist knocking over the neatly arranged books until they'd spilled from the shelf, their covers opening like the flapping wings of dying birds. They landed in a pile to the left of the shelf and I turned my gaze to the rest of the room.

There was no hesitation to my actions, no time to control the rage. Before long I'd broken every lamp in the room, every anatomical model, every framed photo and degree. I'd dumped every drawer, punched holes in the plaster walls, tipped over bookshelves until every piece of my father's legacy was in a messy pile on the floor. There was nothing in this room but his memory, no written confession, no hastily recorded tape. Out of breath, throat sore from screaming, I ended up on top of that pile, a piece of his legacy just the same.

My chest beat hard with labored breath, my teeth clenched as my shoulders shook, and for the first time since the day Eve showed up on the lawn of my parish, I cried until my tears ran dry. Scrubbing my palms over wet cheeks, I rubbed at my red stained eyes. Every horrible memory continued its battering assault, every voice, every mistake, every stupid fucking decision that led me to this day. To this moment. To this point in my cursed life.

My father pushed me away from God and Cassandra shoved me back. And after twelve years in that sleepy town, I thought I could drop my guard.

Why? Fucking why was this shit happening to me? Why couldn't the universe just leave me alone? How fucking fair was it to grant me a life where I'd been forced to climb out from beneath an abusive hand just to discover I wasn't better off alone?

The memories. The whispers. The grating images of what my father had done. Each memory worse than the other, driving me to my feet, forcing another bellowed cry from my lungs until I was marching in a direction I promised myself I wouldn't go.

Within a single minute - sixty short seconds that were nothing remarkable in the span of all time - I found myself staring at the basement door where it stood in the kitchen, my hands clenched into painful fists, my fingernails digging into my palms, and my head pounding with every dark thought that mocked me until I opened the door.

Like any typical basement, a staircase led down. There was nothing especially troubling about the space, at least not in plain view. Yet, as my eyes took in the rows of storage shelves, as I scanned the shadows for memories I knew all too well, I couldn't help the sense that something was watching me as intently as a predator would its lunch.

Charging down the steps, I ignored the way my stomach twisted over itself, the stabbing pains in my gut that threatened to drop me to my knees. Inside my head, all I could hear was my brother scream as he begged our father to stop.

I hated the sight of his bruises, couldn't stand the high pitched cries, and for every step I took down into the bowels of my personal hell, those pain-filled shrieks only grew louder.

Three steps led me to a doorway, to what should have been a storage closet if it had been finished, but I knew the room for something else, knew what horrifying secrets it harbored inside.

This room, this cage, this small out of the way prison had been where Jericho and I were left for hours at a time when my father's beatings had ended.

My palm slammed down on the worn metal handle, the door creaking open to welcome me inside. There was no light in the room, not a single bulb to illuminate the dirt-ridden floor my father never bothered to have finished.

As if by God's hand, the chaos of memories was wiped from my head, the smoke clearing and parting until only a few words spoke clearly.

Those words weren't from my distant past, weren't from another day, another time, or another age.

They were Father Timothy's words spoken as he escorted me out, the words I somehow knew he'd chosen carefully.

With a clarity that forced the breath from my lungs, I finally understood what he meant.



"What I can tell you is that God wasn't the only person to whom your father confessed his sins. You just have to dig deep enough to find it."



Dig.



I have to dig.



I stared down at the dirt floor before walking away to grab a shovel.