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This isn’t the first time I’ve heard that. He’s just confirming what I already know.

My grip tightens. The pulse in my ears beats like war drums. “You’re trying to make it sound bigger than it was.”

“It is bigger than it was.” His voice sharpens, reverent and terrible. “Your father didn’t invent the flame, he just kept the embers alive. Same as I did. Same as Clyde will.”

His words hit me like a slap. “Clyde? Your son is the last person who will keep the embers alive. Especially when he finds out that his father knew who was hurting his little sister.”

He laughs again, harsher now. “Still so certain, Lydia. That’s always been your problem. You see what you need to see.” His smile doesn’t waver. “You always have.”

A flicker of doubt coils in my gut, cold and sour.

The chapel groans under its own weight, dust swirling in the moonlight like ash.

His words press on me like stones.

“You’ve been chasing ghosts,” he says softly, coming closer to me. “But the fire? It never went out, Lydia. It’s been burning this whole time.” He spreads his arms, a grim parody of a preacher. “And whether you like it or not, you’ve been standing in the middle of it all along. You think you’ve been extinguishing the evil of the past? You’ve been cleaning house. Making room for the next generations. We really should thank you.”

My face flushes. I know he sees it too.

“So what now, girl?” he asks, his voice quiet, bitter. “You think sticking a knife in me puts the fire out? You think it ends here?”

Footsteps thunder from the vestibule. Clyde bursts into the chapel, his breath ragged, sweat shining on his forehead, his eyes wide and wild. “Lydia,” he gasps, hands raised. “Don’t.”

My grip tightens. “What do you mean, don’t?”

Clyde steps closer to me, his hands up at his sides in surrender. “He’s just an old man, Lydia. Are you going to ruin your life because of one old man?”

I ignore him and focus back on the man standing with my blade pressed against his chest. Why he isn’t stepping back is beyond me. Maybe he doesn’t think I’ll do anything since Clyde is here. Now is the time for Clyde to know. “Were you aware what your brother-in-law was doing to Cindy?”

“Yes,” he says without hesitation. “I encouraged it. Girls need discipline Lydia, you of all people know that.”

Clyde’s gaze snaps to his father. His face hardens, the boyishness stripped away, a sharper, more dangerous look settling in its place. “What?” Clyde questions.

“Your sister needed discipline, Clyde. She was weak. She needed to build strength. She was a failure.”

“Say it again,” Clyde says, voice low, trembling beneath a brittle calm.

Warren’s smile widens, slick and vile. “You heard me, boy.” He glances at me, then back at Clyde, his gaze slow and heavy, like he’s savoring every moment. “She needed it. Every girl needs discipline. Just like your mother. Just like her.” He nods toward me, eyes gleaming with something darker than pride.

The words slam into me, hard and cold. My stomach twists, nausea rising in a sour wave. The knife shakes in my hand, pressed against the soft rise of his chest. I can feel his breath fluttering beneath the blade, a slow, steady rhythm that makes my skin crawl.

“You let him…” My voice cracks. “You encouraged him?”

“I didn’t let him,” Warren says calmly, as if explaining something obvious, as if this isn’t monstrous. “I taught him.”

For a split second, Clyde doesn’t move. It’s like the words don’t land. Like his mind won’t accept them. But then something inside him snaps.

Clean. Violent. Final.

His jaw clenches first. Then his throat works, like he’s swallowing something jagged. His eyes go dark. No shock left, no disbelief, just a widening, widening void.

“You taught him?” The words scrape out, barely a voice at all.

His chest rises once, sharply, then he lunges.

Not at me.

At him.