Page 94 of On Your Knees

A sudden, heavy weight presses down on me.

Jensen may be wrong about what happened to Paul, but he’s not wrong about exposing Clifford. He does deserve it.

But that’s not what would happen.

I would be the one exposed. I would be questioned, doubted, dissected. I would be under a fucking microscope, but nothing would happen to Clifford or Ruby or the church.

Of course, all of that’s assuming that I’m still alive to be speaking.

I would defend myself. That’s why I have the gun.

But I don’t think it will do me much good. John Clifford won’t attack me directly. I’ll get killed in a car wreck or something like that. I might overdose, so that there can be a big story about how my homosexuality was a gateway to other vices.

What I really need is for John Clifford to die.

I could kill him. I’ve thought about it plenty of times. But to do that, I would have to immerse myself again, fully, in that dark, awful space. I do that with my paintings, but it’s different. It’s private. I don’t think I could bear to rip my soul open like that in front of John Clifford.

Even though it would be the last thing he would see, I would have to carry that memory with me, and I can’t. I’m exhausted. I can’t handle one more ounce of weight.

My phone starts vibrating again. I silence it again. It’s probably Ruby. She’s trying to save this. She doesn’t like messes. She wants things tidy. And for all her wickedness, I don’t think she actually wants me to die. She would accept it, yes, but I don’t think she actively wants it.

There are many shades of evil.

Jensen presses, “John Clifford deserves to be punished.”

“I know,” I admit. “But I can’t do it. I just can’t.”

Jensen lets out a long, slow breath. I can see that he understands. That doesn’t mean he cares. That doesn’t mean he’ll keep me out of this.

But Ruby’s attempts to pay him off haven’t worked, and her threats haven’t worked. There’s nothing left to do but kill him or let him decide, and I’m not going to kill him.

Others, however, might.

“Be careful,” I warn him. “They’re dangerous because they think they’re immune. Not just because of their money and power but because they twist their religion around to tell themselves that they’re in the right.”

Jensen huffs in frustration. “That’s not what I’m trying to do, you know. Be like that. I’m not.”

“Then leave me out of it. Please.”

When my phone starts vibrating for a third time, I pull it out, intending to put Ruby on a permanent silence, but it’s not Ruby. It’s Patrick.

Shit.

Without another glance at Jensen, I hurry out the door, answering Patrick as I snap the door shut behind me.

Patrick barks in my ear, “Fucking finally!”

“What the fuck is going on?” I demand.

Patrick tells me as I make my way out of the hotel, and my blood is ice cold by the time I reach the street—because I know, I fucking know where Levi has gone.

THIRTY

Levi

John Clifford lets me in so easily. He knows who I am. He wants to talk to me. So he leads me through his mansion-like townhouse to an elegant office full of antiques. Green glass. Fancy rugs. Towering bookcases full of leather-bound books.

He settles behind an ornately carved desk. There’s a gun lying on top of it. There are other things too. A laptop. Notes. Pictures.