Chapter Text
It’s the day after.
The day after Chris got dragged into the hospital with red, black, purple bruises.
The day after I stormed Miller’s place, wild and stupid.
The day after I sliced Dale’s finger off clean.
The day after I stood in front of Jim again and remembered exactly what it feels like to be ten years old and a murderer terrified.
And now it’s mornin’. Or somethin’ close to it.
I wake up slow, like my bones don’t wanna move and my mind sure as hell don’t wanna follow. My eyes open to somethin’ cold, just gray light through Clyde’s curtains and the stale warmth of an empty bed. It takes me a second to remember where I am. Another second to realize what’s missin’.
There’s no warm body slung over my back. No long legs tanglin’ with mine. No breath against my neck. No soft weight climbed on top of me whinin’ for lazy kisses I pretend to complain about. Just me. Just my own heartbeat thumpin’ too loud in the quiet. The sheets feel too big without him in ‘em, like the bed’s swallowin’ me whole. The place where he should be, where he always ends up, even when I swear he won’t, is cold, flat, untouched. And it ruins somethin’ deep in my chest. Somethin’ I don’t have the words for.
I lay there, starin’ at the ceiling. I don’t move. I don’t want to. I am a rag, rung out and left to dry wrong. My knuckles throb. My ribs pinch when I breathe. My back aches from sleepin’ tight, all curled up as if I’m tryin’ to keep myself from unravelin’.
I don’t know what I’m hidin’ from, not really. It could be Monty and Dale, they’ll be tellin’ Miller everything, cryin’ to him about what I did, and Miller’ll send men to beat my ass. Could be Abigail, stewin’ in whatever picture she’s painted of me since the dinner. Could be Nick, with that look I always wish he would do, chin tight, eyes hard, thinkin’ I’m just the same useless mess I always been, draggin’ trouble behind me like a shadow I can’t shake. I imagine tellin’ him what I did. I imagine the way he’d look at me. The disappointment. The tiredness. The way his mouth pulls to one side like, of course you did, Matt. Of course. But thinkin’ about Nick don’t hurt as much as it used to. Or maybe I’m just bufferin’ the hit before it comes. Maybe nothin’ can get through this numb left inside me.
Everything feels like it’s waitin’ on me. Like the entire world’s sittin’ outside this bedroom door, arms crossed, tappin’ its foot, expectin’ me to explode again. To get up and fight the way I always do when there ain’t no other choice. To scream. To punch. To break somethin’. To grab the world by its collar and shake it ‘til it stops hurtin’ the people I love. But I don’t got that in me this mornin’. I don’t got anything in me. I ain’t angry. That’s the strangest part. I ain’t angry at Monty or Dale or Miller or Abigail or Nick or the whole rotten town that’s always been happy to spit me out.
I ain’t angry at Jim, even after last night, even after the bruise throbbin’ around my eye, even after the words he put in my head like he’s brandin’ me from the inside out. I know I should be. I know any decent man would be. I know anyone else woulda gotten up swingin’, cursin’, slammin’ fists through walls, hollerin’ that they don’t deserve what’s happened to them. But I never learned how to do that for myself. I don’t think it’s in me.
Truth is, I only ever got angry when someone touched Chris. That’s the one place my blood knows how to boil. Not for me. Never for me. For him.
So now, without him here, all the fire that once burned in me goes dead. Like someone dumped a bucket of water on whatever spark I had left. And what’s left ain’t rage. Ain’t heat. Ain’t even bitterness. It’s empty, as if someone scooped out everything inside me and left the shell to figure out what to do with itself.
My chest feels heavy, like the heavy of a blanket I don’t know if I wanna push off or curl under. I don’t yell. I don’t cry. I don’t say this ain’t fair, or I didn’t deserve that, or I’m done. I just lie there, quiet. Unmoving. Lettin’ the thoughts come slow, each one like a stone droppin’ into a river somewhere far away.
Maybe that’s why I’m hidin’. Not ‘cause I’m scared. Not ‘cause I’m ashamed. Not ‘cause I’m runnin’ from the mess I made. Maybe it’s ‘cause I don’t know what to do when I ain’t angry. I don’t know who I am when there ain’t adrenaline poundin’ through me, tellin’ me where to go, who to fight, what to save. I don’t know how to exist without the push of fear pretendin’ to be fury. I don’t know what to do with myself when my mind stops demandin’ somethin’ bloody and loud from me.
So I stay in this bed. Clyde’s bed, not mine. But it don’t matter. Any bed without Chris in it might as well be a stranger’s. I stare at the ceiling ‘til it blurs. I listen to the soft sounds of the house, Luanne movin’ in the kitchen and Clyde coughin’ down the hall. Normal sounds. Good sounds. Sounds of a house where no one’s scared of walkin’ wrong. But none of it touches me. I’m not angry. I’m not anything.
Like last night carved out whatever pieces were left in me that believed I could fight this. Like seein’ Chris hurt, seein’ Monty and Dale cry, seein’ Jim stand there with his look, like I’m still nothin’ but a boy who don’t know how to use his words, broke somethin’ in me so cleanly I didn’t hear the crack ‘til now.
I pull the blankets up, even though I’m not cold. I shove my face into the pillow, even though I know it smells like someone who ain’t me. I breathe slow, shallow and suffocatin’ somehow.
I’m tired.
I can’t sleep it off, it sinks into me. It makes me feel small, like everything else is too big and my voice is too tiny to do anythin’ but disappear inside it. Like hidin’ is the only thing I know how to do anymore.
And if I’m bein’ honest, really honest, in the place where I don’t let myself think too long, I don’t know what I’m hidin’ from.
Monty?
Dale?
Miller?
Clyde?
Abigail?
Nick?
Jim?
Chris?
Maybe all of ‘em. Maybe none of ‘em. Maybe I’m hidin’ from the truth that I ain’t ever been angry for myself.
Because some part of me still ain’t sure I got the right to be.
I sink deeper into the mattress, lettin’ the quiet press down on me like a hand over my mouth. I don’t move, not even when my foot starts tinglin’ from how long I been layin’ the same way. I’m floatin’ in the thin place between sleep and wakin’, like a bad dream I can’t shake off my skin. My thoughts stretch thin and slow, draggin’ through mud, my ears ringin’ as they do. The house creaks somewhere in the walls, a soft shift of wood settlin’. I don’t flinch at it, but I hear somethin’ else.
A sound so small it barely exists.
A tiny snicker, soft as dust slidin’ across a floorboard.
My heart jumps so hard I feel it in my throat. Everything in me goes still, tight as a pulled wire. For a beat, for one stupid half-second, I think it’s somethin’ bad. One of Miller’s men crouched in the shadows. Jim standin’ quiet as a tombstone. A ghost from last night crawlin’ outta the dark to finish whatever wasn’t done.
The room holds its breath with me.
Then, little fingers, chubby and wiggly, poke out from under the bedframe like claws.
“Rawr!” a voice squeaks. “Ah’m gon’ eat ya toes!”
My pulse don’t settle right away. It trips over itself like it ain’t sure if it should keep panickin’ or let go. I don’t move yet, can’t move, but Henry sure can. He scoots out from under the bed, hair stickin’ straight up. His Mickey Mouse pajamas are twisted and he’s grinnin’ as if he just made the funniest joke’s a man’s ever done.
Then he freezes, his grin collapsin’.
“You’re not Papa,” he accuses, bottom lip juttin’ out.
I don’t have the energy to play pretend, not really, but I ain’t about to let a four-year-old sit there confused and disappointed like he’s done a magic trick for the wrong crowd.
“You’re right,” I say, voice cracked from sleep and everything else. “I ain’t. I’m…” I wait, swiping’ my hand out quick, grabbin’ him around the waist and haulin’ him up onto the bed. “-the tickle monster!”
Henry shrieks, a delighted terror, half a laugh, half a scream. His whole body wriggles like he’s tryin’ to escape through joy itself. I tickle his belly, gentle but silly, wigglin’ my fingers while he flails and kicks at the blankets.
“No! Not the tickle monster!” he giggles, the sound fillin’ the room like warm air puffin’ into a cold space.
“I’m gon’ gobble up little boys with my tickles,” I tease, because he’ll shriek at that, and he does, shakin’ in my hands like laughter’s buzzin’ his bones.
For a little moment, not long, barely a breath, I let myself pretend I’m normal. That I’m not hollow. That last night didn’t peel somethin’ outta me I’m scared to look for.
His laughs fade slow, little trembles left in their place. He curls against my arm, cheeks flushed and hair all over.
“Uncle Matty-” he starts, then corrects himself, eyes wide with pretend fear. “I mean, Tickle Monster… wanna come eat Cocoa Puffs with me?”
I press my lips together like I’m thinkin’ real hard. “I reckon monsters love Cocoa Puffs.”
He beams, a little sunrise right in front of me as he pumps his small fists in the air.
I lift him up, even though my arms feel like they’re filled with wet sand, and climb out of the bed. The moment my feet hit the floor, the dread that’d been hoverin’ above me slides right back into place. Heavy, cold, settlin’ somewhere in my ribs where breath oughta be.
But Henry don’t notice. He’s kickin’ his legs, encouragin’ me to go faster, like we’re runnin’ some timed race to the kitchen. I set him down when we hit the doorway, and he scampers off on socked feet.
The kitchen’s bright, or at least brighter than the bedroom. Morning light slants in through Luanne’s lace curtains, turnin’ dust motes into drifting sparks. Luanne’s standin’ at the counter in her nightgown, hair up in rollers, movin’ around as if she been awake for hours. Clyde’s at the table, newspaper spread open, readin’ glasses slid down his nose, cup of tea goin’ cold beside him.
Henry spots him and makes a beeline. “Papa! Help! The tickle monster got me!”
Clyde looks up slow, shakin’ his head, a smile tuggin’ at his lips despite himself. “Well now, that sounds like a mighty serious situation.”
I linger in the doorway, feelin’ like I just stepped somewhere I don’t belong. Father and son, that easy closeness, that certainty, it hits somethin’ inside me I don’t got a name for. Like standin’ too close to a window lookin’ in on a life that ain’t mine.
Fear.
Clyde ruffles Henry’s hair, chucklin’. “Boy, you leave your uncle Matt be now. Go help your mama.”
Henry spins, already runnin’ back to Luanne, tuggin’ at her dress hem. “Mama! Cocoa Puffs!”
Luanne sighs loud enough to shake the nearest wall. “Henry Clyde Anderson, if you don’t stop pullin’ at me, I’m gon’ glue your little fingers together.”
He giggles again and she rolls her eyes but grabs the cereal anyway. I shake my head at the sight.
Clyde looks up at me then with a tight smile, eyebrows taut. “Ya sleep well?”
I nod once. “Thanks for lettin’ me crash here, appreciate it.”
He stills, like he’s takin’ that in too careful before rollin’ his shoulders. “Well, why don’t you sit down? Lu’s makin’ biscuits, eggs, ham. Lu, you makin’ a plate for Matt, right?”
“I been cookin’ since sunrise,” she mutters, but it’s fond, and she sets Henry’s cereal down before grabbin’ another plate for me.
I don’t wanna eat. The thought alone makes my stomach twist, but I ain’t gonna disrespect their table, so I sit. Hands folded, tryin’ not to breathe too deep ‘cause the smell of food is warm and homey and safe, and I don’t feel like I got the right to any of that.
Luanne brings the plate over, biscuit soft enough to fall apart, eggs still steamin’, ham salted just right, and the second the scent hits me my throat clamps tight. I swallow it down, keepin’ my eyes on the table.
She sits and Henry climbs into his booster seat.
Clyde flips a page of the newspaper, the crinkle cuttin’ through the quiet. “Did you hear ‘bout old Calhoun paintin’ his cow again?” he asks, like this is any other morning in any other house in any other year. “Man says it’s to keep the sun off her, but damned if she don’t look like a circus clown.”
A laugh slips outta me, small, barely there, but real enough it surprises me. The pressure in my chest loosens, but only a notch. “Anythin’ to stay off the beer I guess,” I reply.
Luanne clicks her tongue at Henry, who’s already got milk runnin’ down his chin. “You always turn into a messy eater soon as we got guests. Lord have mercy.”
Henry sticks out his tongue, proud of himself and I can’t stop the hearty laugh that escapes me.
He turns at the sound, at me, tiltin’ his head. “Uncle Matty?”
I tear a piece of ham, chewin’ slow. “Yeah, buddy?”
“Where’s Chris?”
The ham turns to sandpaper in my throat. The dread crashes back hard enough to rock me. Clyde’s eyes flick up, sharp. Luanne freezes mid-reach for a napkin.
Before I can speak, because I can’t, Luanne steps in.
“He’s not…he’s not feelin’ good, peach,” she steps in, quiet and questionin’.
Henry frowns, his little head sideways now. “Does his tummy got boo-boos?”
Luanne hesitates, just long enough that I feel my stomach knot so tight it’s painful before she nods.
Henry processes that, then opens his mouth again. “Then why ain’t Uncle Matty with him?”
My throat closes so sudden it’s like someone grabbed it from the inside. I can’t swallow. Can’t breathe right. Clyde’s jaw ticks once. He leans toward Luanne, voice low and steady.
“Take him ‘fore he starts cryin’,” he says, and I ain’t sure if he’s talkin’ ‘bout Henry or me.
Luanne scoops Henry up, half-protestin’, half-shushin’ him.
He whines, his chin tuckin’ in. “But Mama, I ain’t done with my Cocoa Puffs-”
“Hush now. We’ll get you more,” she whisper-yells.
They disappear into the living room, Henry’s complaints trailin’ off.
The kitchen drops into a silence so thick it feels like the air is solid. It’s just us now, me and him and the sound of the old fridge knockin’ like it’s tryin’ to get out.
I stare down at my plate. The eggs goin’ cold, the biscuit untouched, the rest of the ham glistenin’ under the overhead light. I don’t lift my fork. Don’t think I can. My body feels like it’s stiffenin’ up, brick by brick, settin’ itself in place so I don’t have to move, don’t have to decide anythin’, don’t have to feel that awful pull in my chest tellin’ me I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t’ve come. Should’ve run somewhere else, anywhere else. Because I’m sittin’ in another man’s kitchen pretendin’ like I ain’t hidin’ like a damn child.
“You know,” Clyde starts, leanin’ back in his chair real slow, like he’s tryin’ not to spook me. “I can’t say the kid ain’t got a point.”
My grip tightens around the edge of my plate, my fingers achin’ as I do.
“What?” I mutter, almost unsure if the words came outta his mouth.
Clyde lifts a brow, tossin’ the newspaper aside. He folds his arms like he’s settlin’ into somethin’ he been workin’ up the courage to say.
“C’mon, Matt,” he says, voice low. Too gentle, it crawls under my skin. “I gave you some time. I ain’t push you, even though Lord knows you needed pushin’. But you should go to-”
“No.”
The word slices the room in half. I don’t raise my voice. I don’t need to, it drops like a pit.
Clyde blinks. “Seriously? That’s it? You’re just gonna say no?”
“Yeah,” I affirm, jaw tightenin’ ‘til it hurts. “I’m just gonna say no.”
He lets out a sharp breath through his nose, half scoff, half disbelief. “Unbelievable.”
That pricks somethin’ sharp in me. My head snaps up, shoulders drawn. “You wanna say somethin’, Clyde? Say it.”
My chest is tight, too tight, like all the air in me is tryin’ to claw its way out. But Clyde just shakes his head, lips pursed, eyes narrowin’ like he’s studyin’ me again.
“No,” he huffs. “Seems you made it pretty fuckin’ clear.”
I don’t know what he means. Or maybe I do. I just pretend I don’t, because it stings, worse than it should. I drop my gaze again, the silence crawlin’ up the walls like vines.
A few seconds stretch out, slow and heavy, before Clyde clears his throat.
“You remember the first time we met?” he asks, shiftin’ in his seat.
I freeze. Don’t breathe. Don’t blink.
I don’t answer.
He keeps goin’. “Movie drive-in. BUtterfield 8.”
My stomach spins like a wheel, hard enough I feel it in my spine. Yeah, I remember. But not for his reason. Not for the movie but because I ate Chris out in the back of his daddy’s car after.
“Yeah,” I murmur, a sudden heat coilin' in my stomach. “I remember.”
Clyde leans back, scratchin’ his jaw, embarrassed in a way I ain’t never seen him. His cheeks get a little pink, his dark eyes slidin’ away from mine.
“I was an ass to you,” he admits. “You know that, right? Hell, I still am sometimes. But back then? Christ, Matt, I was a damn tool.”
I blink slow, not understandin’ where this is goin’. Why now of all times he’s draggin’ up the past. Why he looks like he’s swallowin’ nails to get the words out.
He keeps talkin’ anyway.
“I knew Chris since we were kids,” he continues. “Always around Abigail. And Luanne was friends with Abigail since we were all knee-high. So Chris was just…there. Always floatin’ around.” He shrugs. “Never bonded with him or nothin’, but he was familiar.”
I don’t say a word. Mostly ‘cause I don’t understand why he’s tellin’ me this. And partly ‘cause my throat’s turnin’ to stone.
Clyde glances at me, sees the confusion plain as day, but keeps on.
“You came in that day with him,” he tells me, like he remembers fine as day. “Ratty shirt, grass stains on your jeans and boots that’d seen better days. I saw you and I thought, ‘who the hell’s this lower-class stray Chris dragged in?’”
He laughs once, dry and self-loathin’. “And I teased you ‘til you ran off. Not ‘cause you deserved it. Not ‘cause you did anythin’ wrong.” He lifts his gaze and pins me with it. “But ‘cause you scared the hell outta me.”
I look up, eyes narrowin’ like he just spoke in tongues. “Clyde-”
He cuts me off with a palm up. “Let me finish.”
I grit my teeth, but I shut my mouth.
“You walked in there with Chris,” he adds, “this quiet choir kid I’d known my entire life. And you were…different. You didn’t bow your head. Didn’t fidget. You weren’t fake like the rest of us,” he sighs, his Adam’s Apple bobbin’. “You weren’t intimidated by me. And I didn’t know what to do with that.”
My throat tightens, somethin’ hot crawlin’ up the back of my neck.
“So I joked,” Clyde mutters. “I pushed at you. Figured if I kept you below me, I didn’t have to admit you were built outta steel and I wasn’t.”
His words hit somethin’ too deep, somethin’ I ain’t touched in years.
“Clyde-” I start once more.
“No,” he stops again, firmer. “Just listen.”
He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “My old man never supported me. Not once.” His voice is a low rumble, shame buried in it. “He’d like you though. You’re strong. You don’t do things ‘cause people expect ‘em. You do what you think’s right. You always have.”
I almost laugh. It’s bitter, a sourness coatin’ my tongue.
If only he knew.
Clyde keeps goin’, noddin’ once like he’s gatherin’ his courage. “What I’m tryin’ to say,” he explains, “is that you were never scared. Sure, you acted like you had a stick up your ass all the time,” he laughs, snortin’ and I roll my eyes.
“But you still seemed happy. You weren’t afraid of no one, and I guess I just don’t see that in you anymore.”
My chest hollows out, bad. The words hit harder than a punch. I swallow, but it feels like swallowin’ glass.
“I was just good at hidin’ it,” I admit. “And now I ain’t.” I mumble, shakin’ my head once. “I been scared my entire life. I ain’t fearless. I ain’t…” My breath stutters, my mind tellin’ me to stop, stop, stop- ‘fore I say too much.
“I ain’t no normal man who goes to church and works hard and does what he’s supposed to. I’m…” I trail off, my voice droppin’ to a whisper. “I’m a phony.”
I don’t know why the words fall out, why they spill from my mouth like they been waitin’ years to escape. I don’t know what Clyde’ll say. If he’ll laugh, if he’ll spit, if he’ll kick me out.
He doesn’t
He sits back, brows drawn, mouth firm.
“What’re you scared of, Matt?” he asks, and there ain’t any judgement in it, just quiet, a simple fact. “Miller? You know why he hired you in the first place?”
I stay silent.
“Because you’re the smartest man in this town,” Clyde replies to himself. “And he knew it. He knew if he didn’t grab you fast, you’d get scooped up by some businessman in Atlanta or New York and he’d lose his chance. He’s an asshole that’s for sure, but he ain’t stupid.”
My heart clenches, hard. I’m not sure what to say, or what to do.
“And I knew it too,” Clyde sighs. “I was…surprised you married Abigail. It-It felt like a joke. I didn’t say anythin’ but it didn’t sit right.” He holds my gaze, not lookin’ away. “The weddin’ didn’t feel right.”
My stomach flips, but he keeps goin’.
“That day?” he says, scootin’ up closer. “You weren’t fearless anymore. I could see right through you. You were terrified.”
The air leaves my lungs like a punch. I don’t move. I don’t blink, my hands shakin’ without my permission. Clyde softens then, just a fraction.
“I don’t know what’s stoppin’ you,” he goes on, voice low. “And I know I ain’t ever tried to find out.” He leans in. “But I’ll tell you this, Matt, whatever you’re runnin’ from, whatever’s holdin’ you hostage inside yourself, all of it could go away if you’d just stop runnin’ from your fears.”
My vision blurs at the edges. I’m not cryin’. Ain’t cryin’. But somethin’ shifts in me, somethin’ old and bruised. I open my mouth to argue, to deny it, to tell him he’s wrong because I ain’t scared, I’m just tired, I’m just done, I’m just-
A scream cuts through the house.
It’s high, sharp, cracklin’ with something too wild to be anything but real.
My entire body jerks. Clyde shoots up so fast his chair skids back. Luanne’s voice follows, strangled and shakin’.
“C-Clyde-Clyde get over here!”
The sound of her tremblin’ knocks somethin’ loose in me. My heart slams up into my throat so hard it feels like I swallowed a live animal. Clyde’s already movin’, shoes hittin’ the floor loud and fast, and I stumble after him, barely findin’ my footin’.
The hallway yawns open into the livin’ room, and before I even reach the doorway, I see it, the flicker of the TV light spillin’ across the walls like fire. Somethin’ inside me recognizes the glow before I recognize anything else. My breath stutters, turnin’ thin as thread.
Clyde stops short.
I don’t. I crash right into his shoulder and look past him.
Abigail is on the screen.
Not a picture of her.
Not a still.
Live.
She’s standin’ in the center aisle of the church, the big oak cross risin’ behind her like a shadow waiting to swallow her whole. The sanctuary lights wash her out, pale as candle wax. Her eye, usually dark and busy and judgmental, look sunken, bruised at the edges, like she ain’t slept in days. Her fingers tremble around the microphone she’s clingin’ to.
Her hair’s pinned neat, Sunday neat. Her dress is lavender. Her face is wrong.
Jim stands beside her.
His hand’s on her shoulder, staring dead at the camera.
Dead at me.
Like he knows where I am. Like he’s lookin’ straight through the glass, straight through the screen, straight into me sittin’ in Clyde Anderson’s living room like a rat hidin’ under floorboards.
My breath leaves my lungs all at once. It don’t come back.
It don’t even try.
Jim leans down, murmurin’ somethin’ too quiet for the mic, but I see his lips move. I see Abigail’s chin quiver. Her throat bobs as she swallows, shakier than I’ve ever seen her in all the years I pretended to love her.
Then Jim lifts his head again, his stare sharpens, his jaw set, the lines in his face carved deep, and says into the mic, cold and commandin’.
“Tell them.”
Abigail’s fingers crush the handkerchief in her hand so tight the lace stretches.
“I didn’t…” Her voice cracks through the television, she clears her throat, tryin’ again, words breakin’ like a branch under too much snow.
“I didn’t want to do this.”
My stomach drops straight through the floor.
“I didn’t want to be an embarrassment to the Lord,” she continues, eyes glossy, dartin’ sideways at Jim like she’s beggin’ him for mercy he ain’t ever had. “But… I’m afraid he leaves me no choice.”
My lungs seize. My ears ring high, sharp, my vision tunnelin’ in and out.
This is what happens. This is what happens. This is what happens-
I blink and she’s still there, tremblin’ in front of the entire town, the entire congregation, the Georgia Channel 5 evening news.
“I cannot hold this sin any longer.”
My knees nearly buckle. Clyde’s hand shoots out, grippin’ my arm hard, but I barely feel it.
She takes a breath that shudders so violently I hear it shake the mic.
“Christopher Owens…” She says his name like a prayer turned poison. Her lips tremble. She looks at Jim again, just a flicker, before turnin’ back to the camera.
“A-Age twenty-three… has committed prostitution,” she swallows, “adultery… and sodomy with my husband.”
It cracks clean through.
The sound on the TV distorts, dips out for a second before rushin’ back too loud. My vision blurs, then clears too sharp. I don’t feel my hands. I don’t feel my legs. I don’t feel the room around me.
I feel my heart.
Thrashin’. Violent. Wrong.
The camera cuts to a reporter, a man with a slicked-back part and a smile too wide, too cruel, too giddy with the scent of blood.
“Well, ladies and gentlemen,” he crows, voice boomin’ with grotesque delight, “there you have it! Evil has a name tonight, and it walks among us wearin’ choir robes at Sunday sermons. A pervert, a deviant, and a corrupter of our God-fearin’ community, caught right here in the little town of Waycross, hidin’ behind the good grace of our Lord!”
My ears ring so loud, so loud, so loud-
The reporter keeps going, voice cuttin’ sharper with every syllable.
“Christopher Owens, church volunteer, young town regular, exposed at last for the faggot he is! Deceivin’ our families! Violatin’ sacred vows! Seducin’ a married man under our very noses!”
I don’t hear the rest.
I don’t even notice when the TV clicks off.
Not until the room drops into a silence so violent I almost stumble.
Clyde’s hand is still on my arm. Hard. Shakin’.
“We need to go,” he mutters, voice tight, low, like he’s afraid the walls’ll come alive and swallow us. “Matt, did you hear me? We need to go. Now.”
Luanne is behind us, arms wrapped around Henry so tight he’s whimperin’ into her neck. Her face is white as church linen, mouth tremblin’.
“Matt,” she stutters. “Wh-what… what are they talkin’ about? Did you… did he-?”
I don’t answer.
I can’t.
My eyes are stuck on the blank TV screen. The ghost of Abigail’s face burned into it. The tremble in her voice. The way Jim stared straight through the camera, straight into the house, straight into me like he expected me to be watchin’. Like he wanted me to see.
My body starts shakin’ before my mind catches up.
This isn’t happening.
It can’t be happening.
MURDERER!
“Matt!”
Clyde’s voice cracks, sharp, slicin’ through the haze stranglin’ me.
“We have to go!”
Henry sobs harder. Luanne tries to hush him, but her own voice trembles too much.
I don’t remember standin’ up.
I don’t remember movin’.
One second I’m rooted to the carpet, the next my legs are carryin’ me, numb and stiff and hollow, followin’ Clyde through the hallway as he grabs his keys off the counter with hands that aren’t steady either. My mind’s screamin’ at me but my ears are filled with cotton, thick and suffocatin’
“Wait,” Luanne cries. “I-I’m comin’ with you!”
Clyde spins on her, shakin’ his head fast. “No. Stay with Henry. Stay here. Lock the doors.”
Henry reaches for him, crying Papa, Papa, Papa, and the sound tears through me like barbed wire draggin’ down my ribs.
But I’m already moving.
Out the door.
Cold air slams into my face but I don’t feel it. The ground tilts under my feet. Clyde unlocks the truck and I climb in because I don’t know what else to do. My hands don’t work right. My breath don’t work at all.
The engine roars and we pull away.
I watch the house shrink in the rearview, but it ain’t the house I see.
Christopher Owens.
Prostitution.
Adultery.
Sodomy.
Chris.
My Chris.
My Chris who’s dead-
(No he’s not, he’s not, he can’t be-)
(He is. He must be. Why else-)
(Stop. Stop. Breathe-)
(I can’t-)
The world spins, tiltin’, blurrin’, shreddin’ everything. I can hear my heartbeat in my teeth. My breath won’t go in right, won’t go out right, like the air’s turnin’ to glue around me.
I don’t know what to do.
I don’t know how to move.
I don’t know how to breathe.
But I do know one thing.
Chris is dead.
MURDERER!