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My hands tremble as I sink onto the nearest bench, the world spinning around me. I feel raw, exposed, like every nerve in my body is on fire. Tears sting my eyes, but I blink them back furiously. No. He doesn’t get that, not now, not ever. I focus on the details around me, the jagged bark of the tree nearby, the faint rustle of leaves in the breeze, the cold steel of the bench beneath my palms. Anything, anything at all, to ground myself in the here and now. I focus on the cold air scraping down my throat, the sharp sting of my nails digging into my palms. But it’s no use. The memories keep rushing in, a torrent I can’t stop.

I used to think it was normal. That men like him, like Nathan Kerr, Virgil Wolfe, and Dennis Harper were just doing what men were meant to do. That my body existed to serve their wants, that my mind was something they had the right to shape and control. I believed the pain was a test, the humiliation a necessary path to redemption.

But it was never right. It wasn’t how God intended it to be. It was twisted. Wrong. Poison wrapped in the language of love and salvation.

And now they want me to step inside that house again, to care for the man who made me believe I was nothing. Who whispered in my ear that I was bound for damnation unless I submitted, unless I let him shape me into his idea of salvation.

My stomach churns again, and I clench my fists, the nails biting into my palms. I can’t do it. I won’t do it. But even as the thought takes shape, another follows, a whisper in the back of my mind. I’ve faced him before. I’ve survived and I can survive again. But this time, it wouldn’t be about survival. This time, it would be about control. About proving to myself and to him that he holds no power over me anymore.

I straighten slowly, the cold air biting at my cheeks as I wipe them with the back of my hand. My breath steadies, though the heaviness in my chest remains. Taking care of him. The words taste wrong in my mouth. For years I imagined the day the tables would turn, him needing something from me the way I once needed something from him. I never pictured it looking like this. A body without a voice, hands that used to reach for me now unable to reach for anything at all.

If I agree to this, if I take him into my care, it won’t be out of duty or obligation. It will be on my terms. Every meal, every bath, every small mercy I decide to give him. That’s a debt I intend to collect for once, on my own schedule, in my own way. There’s a strange kind of power in that.

The thought brings a flicker of clarity, though it does little to ease the storm raging inside me.

My hands are still trembling as I head back toward the clinic, my steps slow but deliberate. Each one feels like a defiance, a refusal to let the past dictate my future.

Caldwell looks up as I reenter, his expression cautious. “Lydia, are you…”

“I’m fine,” I interrupt, my voice steadier than I expect. “It’s a lot, but I’m fine.”

He nods. “Cecilia will be in shortly to get everything started.”

“I agreed to do this, Dr. Caldwell, but I will do this on my terms. I will be deciding who comes and goes from the house and how often. He’s my father, and I’m the one who knows what he needs.”

Caldwell nods, offering a faint, practiced smile meant to soothe, but it barely registers. My head swims with the implications of my choice. My rules. My way. Words spoken with more conviction than I feel. The air in the clinic seems to thin again, the walls closing in, pressing down on me.

“I’m sure all that will be fine. We’ll have to wait for what Cecilia has to say,” Caldwell says, but his voice is distant now, muffled beneath the roar of my thoughts.

“Then let’s wait,” I say, placing my hands in my lap, willing them not to shake.

CHAPTER

TWENTY-THREE

The bank smells like wood polish and dust. It’s too bright, too cheerful for the knot in my stomach. The Pergo flooring gleams under the fluorescent lights, every step echoing too loudly in the silence between transactions. I don’t know if this is a wasted trip or not, but if I’m going to have to care for my father, I would rather it be at his expense and not my own.

Mrs. Perry greets me from behind her station with a warm smile, her eyes crinkling. She hasn’t changed much. Her gray hair is still tucked into the same tidy bun, and her floral cardigan stretches over her small frame.

“Lydia! My goodness, it’s been ages.” Her voice carries a hint of motherly concern. “What brings you here today?”

I force a smile, but it feels brittle, like thin ice. “Hi, Mrs. Perry. I need to go over my father’s accounts.” The words stick in my throat like splinters.

Her face softens. “Of course. I heard about your father waking up. That must be… something of a miracle.”

I nod, swallowing the bile threatening to rise. “Something like that.”

She gestures for me to sit, pulling up the information on her computer. Her fingers tap rhythmically on the keyboard, a sound that grates against the tension thrumming in my head. My hands rest on my lap, but they’re clenched tight. “You’re listed on the accounts, so accessing them shouldn’t be a problem,” she says kindly, turning the screen slightly so I can see. The numbers flash before me, amounts larger than I expected. Far larger.

I lean in, my pulse quickening. “That’s… a lot of money. Where did it all come from?”

Mrs. Perry’s eyes narrow slightly as she scrolls through the account history. “These deposits appear to be private deposits, offerings, charitable contributions from the congregation.” She hesitates, glancing at me from the corner of her eye. “It’s not uncommon for pastors to hold onto a portion for ‘administrative purposes,’ but this… well, it’s substantial.”

“Can you tell where the private deposits came from?”

She nibbles on her lip. “I don’t know, honey. We switched our system a few years back. I might be able to go to storage and pull the deposits out by the date. We’re all digital now, but that only happened recently.”

I nod without really thinking, trying to stay present, but Mrs. Perry’s voice feels like it’s coming from far away, muffled under the low hum of unease filling the room.