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I watch him weave through the crowd, his shoulders cutting through the haze of cigarette smoke and dim lighting. He takes his time at the jukebox, his fingers lingering over the buttons like he’s deciding on a life-altering choice instead of a song. The colorful lights of the machine play across his face, catching the hard lines of his jaw and the faint sneer that seems permanently etched into his features.

My heart thunders in my chest as I trace his every movement, the seconds stretching into an unbearable eternity. He’s too calm and too methodical as if he’s deliberately testing me. I grip my glass tighter, the condensation slick against my palm.

Does he know?

I push the thought aside. He can’t. I’ve been too careful. The drink waits innocently on the bar, the pill already dissolving into nothing. No one would suspect. Only me.

He finally makes his choice, the faint mechanical clunk of the jukebox breaking through the noise of the bar. The first notes of a classic country ballad drift through the air, soft and mournful. Fitting.

But instead of returning to his stool, he lingers.

He leans against the jukebox, his posture relaxed but his gaze sharp, slicing through the dim room like a scalpel. He’s studying me again, those eyes of his crawling over my skin like they’re searching for something just beneath the surface.

For a split second, I’m not here. I’m a child, standing in the hallway of that godforsaken house while my father’s friends watch me with those same dissecting eyes. Like they already know what I’m for. Like I’ve already been decided.

My breath catches.

I force myself to look away, pretending to adjust the strap of my dress. My pulse quickens, and heat rises in my cheeks despite the chill of the air. His focus feels too heavy, too knowing.

What if he recognizes me?

The thought makes my stomach lurch, and I chase it down with another sip of whiskey, the burn steadying me. I glance back at him, a fleeting look meant to seem casual. He’s still watching, and his stare presses down on me like a physical thing.

Don’t flinch.

With practiced ease, I let a slow smile curl across my lips, tilting my head slightly as if to say, Well? Are you coming or not? The bait works. He pushes off the jukebox and starts back toward me, his steps unhurried. The bar suddenly feels too small, the air too thick. Each second drags as he closes the distance between us, and I’m hyperaware of everything, the scratch of my nails against the glass, the faint buzz of neon signs, the warmth of the whiskey pooling in my stomach.

Finally, he’s beside me. He slides onto the stool with a low grunt, his eyes flicking to the fresh drink waiting for him. A faint smirk tugs at his lips as he lifts the glass.

“Another one?” he says, his voice rough, teasing.

I shrug, letting my smile sharpen. “Thought you could use it. You looked… parched.”

He chuckles, the sound low and gravelly, and takes a long sip. I watch the glass tip, my heart hammering in my chest.

It won’t be long now.

By the time he finishes the drink, the effects are already starting to show. His words slur slightly, his movements slower. “You wanna get out of here?” he mumbles, his eyes glassy.

I nod, slipping off the stool. “Your place or mine?”

“Yours,” he says, stumbling as he tries to stand, falling into the guy next to him. The bartender looks over her shoulder, her brows pulling together. I give her a smile and shake my head as I steady him. She keeps her gaze on me for another second before she turns her focus back to the couple she was chatting with. No one pays us any mind, so I guide him toward the door.

We barely make it to my truck before his legs give out. He leans heavily against me, his breath hot and sour against my neck. His weight presses down on me, but I don’t flinch. This is just another step in the process. “Easy there,” I murmur, easing him into the passenger seat. His head lolls back, his eyes half-lidded and unfocused. “You’ve had a long night.”

By the time I circle around to the driver’s side, he’s out cold. I sit behind the wheel for a moment, watching him. His chest rises and falls in shallow breaths, his face slack and defenseless.

I start the engine, my hands steady on the wheel. “They never see it coming,” I whisper to myself, the words carrying softly into the quiet night.

It was almost too easy.

CHAPTER

THIRTEEN

In the dim light of the shed, Dennis Harper hangs from the gambrel, a device intended for suspending deer during gutting. The metal bar stretches his arms wide, forcing his body into a grotesque imitation of a crucifixion. The chains bite into his wrists, leaving angry red welts that deepen with each shallow sway. His shoulders strain, hoisted high, as his toes barely scrape the wooden floor, a futile grasp at grounding, at salvation.

The image forces a bitter thought to rise in my mind. Jesus hung on the cross for the sins of others; His sacrifice is the ultimate act of redemption. Dennis hangs here for his own sins, but there isn’t a pinch of redemption flowing through his veins. His body is a monument to the twisted power he wielded over a child, to the unspeakable horrors he inflicted alongside others like him. This is his penance, though it will never be enough to balance the scales. At least not for me.