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Then he starts pulling them, one, two, three at a time. Flipping through their pages with a frantic energy beneath his steady exterior. His lips move again, this time whispering fragments I can’t catch. He crouches beside a pile, digging deeper, pulling out a battered journal, another slim volume with a warped leather cover.

I watch him. Watch the way his brow creases deeper with each turn of the page. Watch the way his fingers trace under certain words, certain names, like he’s following a thread only he can see.

He mutters something under his breath. I catch fragments. “Sanctuary… covenant… called…”

“Clyde?” I ask cautiously.

He looks up sharply, then back to the journal in his hands. “He kept writing about it,” Clyde says, his voice taut. “Here. And here.” He flips to another page, taps a line scrawled in messy ink. “‘Mount Absalom. Covenant of the Bound.’”

He pulls another book, points to a second mention. “‘Sanctuary at Mount Absalom.’ It’s here again.”

I step closer, peering down at the names. “Mount Absalom?”

“It was an old church camp,” he explains, his tone clipped, focused. “Used to be called Camp Redemption when we were kids. Up in the mountains near Fayetteville. They said it shut down years ago.” His jaw tightens. “But this…” He lifts the journal. “These entries are recent. Right up until your father’s accident. He knew it was still running. Knew something was still happening up there.”

I feel a chill creep down my spine. “I’ve never been there,” I admit. “Not once. I didn’t even know it was still open.”

Clyde flips another page, pointing again. “Look at this. Same name. Covenant of the Bound.”

He pulls out a second journal, fingers flipping quickly through the thin, brittle pages. “He mentions it here too. And here.”

His hand stills on a page, eyes tracing the name, there, tucked between sermon notes and scripture, like a hidden prayer.

“It’s not just a camp,” he says quietly. “It’s something bigger. A network. A… society.”

The words land hard, sinking straight into my chest.

Finally, he looks up at me. His gaze steady, shadowed, sharp.

“This is what you’ve been chasing, isn’t it?”

I nod, slow, careful, every part of me on edge. Of course, my father left clues out in the open and not hidden away. They were in plain sight, and here I’ve been, with my eyes closed shut.

“Do you trust me?” he asks softly, taking a small step closer, the journal still open in his hands. His voice is low, coaxing, warm on the surface, but underneath… there’s something else, something I can’t read.

I hold his gaze, my pulse steady but slow. I think about the knife tucked inside my coat. I think about the distance between us. I think about Warren lying cold on the chapel floor.

“I trust me,” I say carefully. “And I trust what I’ve seen.”

A flicker passes over his face. Surprise? Amusement? Approval? I can’t tell.

“Then let’s finish this,” he says quietly.

I nod. Not for him. For me. Because whatever this is, whatever he’s leading me toward. I’ve already walked too far into the dark to turn back now.

CHAPTER

FIFTY-SIX

The air inside the building clings to me, thick, humid, oppressive. It settles on my skin like a film, seeps into my lungs like something living. Clyde’s flashlight cuts a narrow path through the gloom, the beam gliding over walls where paint peels in long, curling strips. Beneath the flaking layers, dark stains bleed down the plaster, some branching-like veins, others pooling like old wounds. I can’t tell if it’s water… or something worse.

I should’ve told Clyde no when he suggested he and I come here together. This isn’t his fight, it’s mine. He’s already lost too much because of my father and whatever is going on up here. I don’t know why I didn’t tell him no. The entire drive up here was silent, just the hum of the engine and the tick of gravel against the wheel wells. The tension thick. Something in my gut is telling me to go back. This is larger than the demons I’ve been fighting the past few years.

“This way,” Clyde murmurs, his voice low and steady, almost rehearsed. He jerks his chin toward a narrow hallway, then moves ahead, boots creaking across warped floorboards that groan under his weight. “Everything still looks the same from when I was a kid.”

I follow.

My fingers clamp tighter around my own flashlight, the slick metal handle slippery against my palm. The knife presses cold and familiar against my thigh, a small, sharp reassurance in this sea of unknowns. I sweep the beam across the walls as we walk, shadows crowding closer with every flicker, every breath.