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A harsh breath hisses through the line. “That’s enough,” Clyde says. “With him? That’s more than enough.”

I can still see Warren’s smile, razor-sharp beneath the civility.

“He doesn’t scare me, Clyde. Your father preys on the weakness of others. I don’t have what he’s looking for.”

Another silence stretches, heavy and thick.

“You have no idea what my father does or doesn’t do,” Clyde says, almost like he’s tasting the words himself. “You’ve always lived your life with your head down, never looking at those who surround you. You’ve always been ignorant like that.”

My throat tightens. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. Talk about ignorant. You, Clyde, need to open your eyes to those closest to you. You’d be surprised what you see.”

“Like I said, Lydia. You shouldn’t have come here. He’s…” Clyde says quickly, then catches himself. His voice drops even lower, cracking under it. “He’s already decided. You crossed a line tonight. There’s no walking it back.”

The world tilts slightly around me, the floor beneath my feet feeling less certain.

“What are you talking about? What is he going to do?” I whisper.

A pause.

“Whatever he thinks God tells him to do,” Clyde says bitterly. “And if you think that means mercy, you’re wrong.”

I close my eyes, pressing my fingers hard against the bridge of my nose. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because…” His voice breaks, and I hear him swallow it down. “Because I should’ve warned you sooner.”

Static hums between us. Neither of us speaks.

Finally, Clyde says, barely a whisper: “Be careful, Lydia. They’re watching you now. And they don’t forgive easily.”

The line clicks dead in my hand.

And the silence he leaves behind feels heavier than the call itself.

I lower the phone slowly, my hand trembling.

I turn back to the desk, the photographs and journal staring back at me like ghosts. The thought rises unbidden, sharp and biting. My father. His sermons. His network of men who called themselves godly while they destroyed everything they touched.

If he had been a father, if he had been a man, I wouldn’t be standing here, piecing together the wreckage of his sins.

I grab the journal, flipping through the pages, hands unsteady. The words blur together, scripture twisted dark, twisted evil.

“You did this,” I whisper, my voice trembling with rage. “You did all of this.”

If I listen hard enough, I can hear the rasp of his lungs, dragging in the air like a thief.

Still alive.

Still rotting everything he touches.

Damn it. I should’ve killed him when I had the chance.

CHAPTER

FIFTY-THREE

The photograph stares up at me from the bedspread, its glossy surface catching the lamplight like a shard of glass. The ink scrawled across the back is faded but still legible: Revival 1998. Green Pastures.

My father’s handwriting. Sharp. Certain. Each letter a nail hammered into my chest.