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Warren wheezes. His face reddens. His eyes bulge.

Clyde leans closer. So close their foreheads almost touch.

“You killed her,” he whispers. Quiet. Plain. Just truth, sharper than a blade.

Warren’s legs kick once, hard, then weaker, then not at all.

The body slumps.

Clyde holds on another second.

Maybe two.

Then he lets go.

The sound Warren makes when he hits the floor is small.

Insignificant.

Undeserving of ritual or prayer.

Clyde stares down at him, breathing hard, face pale and hollowed out, eyes burning from the inside.

He doesn’t cry.

He just says, “She wasn’t weak.”

CHAPTER

FIFTY-FOUR

Silence swallows the chapel.

Clyde straightens; he’s still standing over his father. His breathing ragged but at the same time calm. It’s like he’s finally at peace now that his father is dead.

I stare at him, heart pounding hard enough to drown everything else out.

He turns to me, his expression unreadable. “I couldn’t let you,” he says quietly. “You’ve already carried enough.”

I swallow hard. “You didn’t do it for me.”

Something flickers in his eyes. “I know.”

I glance down at Warren’s body, then look at Clyde again, really look at him. I have so many questions, but I know now is not the time. He just killed his father. Killing is one thing, but killing someone you know, a parent, is something else.

Clyde crouches beside his father’s body, his fingertips brushing over Warren’s forehead.

“I used to think he was invincible,” Clyde murmurs, his voice thick, but steady. “When I was little, he’d carry me on his shoulders after service. Said I’d see heaven better from up high.”

“You’re not him,” I say quietly.

Clyde’s head turns slowly toward me, his eyes shadowed but glinting beneath the moonlight slicing through the broken glass. “Aren’t I?”

I stiffen. “You’re not him,” I repeat.

He pushes to his feet with a grunt, his gaze lingering down at the body. “Maybe not yet.” The words chill me more than the wind sneaking in through the small crack in the stained glass.

His boots echo on the polished tile as he walks slowly to the pulpit. His hand hovers over the varnished oak, tracing the familiar grooves worn into the surface. Deep ridges where my father’s rings had scraped again and again.