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When the spasms finally subside, I slump back against the bedframe, my body trembling like a leaf. My heart hammers against my ribs, and my breath comes in short, painful bursts.

I clutch the crumpled envelope in my hand, the paper damp with sweat, and stare at the torn photograph as it lies there on the floor.

Fucking Kerr.

“Damn you,” I whisper, my voice hoarse, the sound barely audible over the blood rushing in my ears.

My father. Kerr. The man in the photo.

They’re all tied together, tangled in a web I’ve spent my whole life trying to escape.

Everything keeps circling back to Kerr.

And the worst part is, he’s no longer here to answer the questions clawing at my brain. He’s gone. Dead. Digested. Silent.

I should’ve gotten more out of him before I killed him.

He died too easy. And too fast.

I know he left something behind. There must be someone else who knows what he did. Who they were. Someone still walking around, pretending they weren’t part of it.

I shove everything back into the shoebox with frantic, jerking movements. The photographs, the Bible, the torn picture, the note. They’re his, not mine. His legacy. His sins.

But I keep the photograph of the man and the child, my fingers lingering on its torn edges.

If he’s gone, then he can’t speak.

But the people who knew him, who enabled him?

They can react.

I just need to push the right buttons.

It all presses down on me, heavy as stone, threatening to crush what little resolve I have left.

I was stupid to think I was enough for them, for their sick perversions. I’ve never been enough.

But I’ll be something now.

CHAPTER

THIRTY-THREE

The photograph feels heavy in my hand, the edges slick with sweat as I stare down at it. My heartbeat thrums in my ears, a steady drumbeat that drowns out everything else. I turn the image over, studying it again, as if I might miss something, the way his hand grips my shoulder, the smile on his face that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. And the other man, blurred but still there, standing shoulder to shoulder with him like they shared the same darkness.

Proof lies with Kerr.

My father’s note rings in my head like a bell, vibrating through my bones until I can’t hear anything else.

Proof of what? Of who?

I need answers. And I know where to get them.

The hallway stretches ahead, every creak of the floorboards echoing my intent. The shoebox hangs heavy at my side, its contents rattling like bones inside a coffin.

When I open the door, he’s already staring at me. My father sits slumped in his chair by the window, his bony hands folded in his lap, his eyes dull and pale as river stones. I pause in the doorway, the picture held tight between my fingers, the paper softening at the edges.

“Look at me,” I say, my voice low and even.