“You think Sky Daddy liked the show?” Cade asks.
I snort.
Seba cracks open an eyelid. “Sky Daddy?”
“Well, yeah, Christianity is basically one giant daddy kink.”
This time, Seba snorts.
“Speaking of kinks,” I muse, poking Seba’s side. “You’re lucky I have an IUD, Sir Cum-Fetish.”
“Dammit,” he sighs. “The plan was to get you pregnant.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
“He’s serious,” Cade snickers.
I prop up on an elbow. Seba blinks at me with an irritatingly smug grin. I slap his stomach. He grunts. Cade cackles.
“I choose when that happens, dickhead.”
His brow arches. “So it’s not off the table?”
“God help me,” I groan, flopping down again.
Seba just chuckles. “God ain’t helping any of us, sweetheart. You’re stuck with us.”
And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Seba
SIX MONTHS LATER
Florida man, Pastor William Sinclair, faces additional charges after hosting confession behind bars. The local Fort Manor Pastor was arrested and detained without bail six months ago in connection to a multi-state drug trafficking ring. Sinclair, who has been hosting confession for parishioners during scheduled visiting hours, has been allegedly communicating in code to colleagues on the outside regarding their operation. All visitation rights for the pastor have been suspended while authorities continue the investigation.
My thumb hovers over the share icon. Not that anything good will come of it. But maybe I’m itching for a fight after the way Mom acted at last week’s disastrous family dinner.
What was supposed to be a low-key barbecue at Declan’s to catch up and celebrate breaking ground on our new house at the Grove— or as Cade calls it, Eden— turned into an episode of Family Feud. Mom wasn’t even supposed to be there, but whatever plans she had canceled at the last minute, meaning she was already bitchy. In an effort to salvage the evening, I let the firstback-handed compliment slide, but the second her snide remarks shifted to my boyfriend and girlfriend, I lost it.
“Your coffee is getting cold, big guy,” Andrea says, sinking into the space beside me on the top step, overlooking rows upon rows of orange trees draped in morning fog. Cramming three people (two of them fashion hoarders) into a rented trailer isn’t ideal, but it’s only temporary. At least out here, we don’t have to deal with nosy busy-bodies poking their heads where they don’t belong.
“Just reading your article.”
She smirks around her own steaming mug. “Not mine, Evie Adam’s.”
I chuckle at the pen name. “Mmm, right. Isn’tEviesupposed to be packing?”
“Yeah,” she sighs, resting her head on my shoulder. I know she’s nervous— this documentary is more than a passion project now. After decoding the messages between Sinclair and Dr. Aldrich for the authorities, she’s been more determined than ever to get justice for the victims of her father’s crimes. Naturally, when Ash called from Boston, she jumped at the opportunity to help. But it’s heavy shit— heavier on her than she’d like to admit. The things she’s learning keep her up at night, spiraling down rabbit hole after rabbit hole, a new horror waiting to be uncovered at the bottom of each one.
I kiss the top of her head. “Sure you don’t want us to come with you?”
“I’m sure.”
She doesn’t say it, but I hear it in the silence.I’m not bringing Cade into this.
Behind us, something crashes.
“Shitfucktits!” A clang. “We’re good!”
