Chapter XXII. 2007 #2
She was contemplating the drop from her window, whether the distance was great enough to break a bone or whether she could run before her father caught her on the cameras, when from behind her came the distinctive click of a door opening.
She whipped her head toward the sound, her heart surging. Her mother’s bedroom door was opening, the nurse in the doorway, her face turned away as she mumbled something about Pastor Burson.
The nurse had not yet seen her, but it was only a matter of seconds before she turned and saw Camilla standing there. Camilla who was supposed to be drugged, likely courtesy of the nurse’s stash.
Her bedroom was too far away, and she couldn’t go downstairs without the possibility of her father seeing her. Only one door was close enough, and she slipped silently inside just before the nurse turned around.
She held her breath as the nurse’s footsteps passed her and then went down the stairs. Only once she could no longer hear them, did she turn and fill her lungs as she took in the room she’d never been allowed inside.
Her father’s office.
A desk, much like the one in his office at the church, dominated the center of the room. But where she’d expected a chaotic scatter of notes and files and frames with family photos, there was blank, gleaming wood. The only items on its surface were her father’s glasses and a single Bible.
Everything was neat and orderly. Nothing about where he spent all his time crafting his sermons spoke anything at all of the work it took.
Her gaze drifted across the room to a massive bookcase that housed a surprising collection of secular reading choices—Jonathan Swift, Samuel Johnson, among a scattering of other dead British men.
And standing to its left, in pride of place, an empty acrylic case she knew was supposed to hold her father’s first edition King James Bible.
It had been passed from pastor to pastor since Hawthorne Springs built its first church.
Her mother had told her on the day her father received it, he’d cried more than on their wedding day.
For years, the Bible rested inside the family safe, concealed with a number of other valuables in her parents’ bedroom, but her father never wanted it out of his sight.
It was a reminder of their heritage. Of his duty.
And so, he’d had the case specially made by some munitions company.
The tech engineered to protect against damage by any and all acts of man or God and designed to filter out the damage from UV light, so her father no longer had to keep the Bible in the dark.
He showed it to Camilla only once, on the day he transferred it to the case, but she’d been seven years old and far more interested in her horse, Pricci, than in heirloom Bibles.
Her gaze fell again on the desk and the Bible resting on it that should be inside its case, and she realized she’d seen it more than once. Again, her heart surged as she thought back to the night before, when she’d seen the Bible in her father’s hand as he knelt beside Grant.
In defiance, she stepped toward the desk and pulled the Bible to her, its heft a surprise. She expected it to crumble against her ungloved touch, old as it was, but the leather was smooth against her palm as she flipped it open.
The pages lay flat beneath her fingers as she took in the scrawled ink that covered the board and endpaper.
A series of names she didn’t recognize all connected with spider-thin lines until what formed was something like a web.
She traced the names downward and then across to the other page until she saw her mother’s name and then her own.
So not a web. A tree. The roots of her maternal family going back to the first two: Anne Bolton and Florence Dudley.
Her brows knit as she stared down at the names in confusion.
This was her father’s Bible, passed down from the preacher before him.
She’d never been told it was an heirloom from her mother’s side.
If it was, wouldn’t her father have included it in the diatribe he gave her about it all those years ago?
And if it wasn’t, why was the tree there?
It was possible her father had done it, wanting to leave his own mark, but the entries looked to be in different handwriting, the ink from earlier entries markedly faded compared to her own.
And wouldn’t he have transcribed his own line rather than his wife’s?
She followed the names back to the beginning, noticing for the first time the inscription at the top. Beside it, a deep, rust-colored stain blotted the page, and she traced her fingers over it as she read.
And from their blood will we prosper.
A shiver ran through her, and she pulled her hand away from the stain. Blood.
“Camilla?”
The voice ran through her like a shock, and she slammed the Bible closed. Grant stood in the doorway. He was still wearing his suit from the night before, his tie loosened and the top button undone.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, hating the tremor in her voice.
“I wanted to check in on you, but your dad said you were sleeping it off. Someone spiked the punch, I heard. Your dad asked if I would come up and grab his glasses.” He pointed to the bifocals resting on the desk. “You feeling okay?”
She stared back at him, taking in the gentle, worried expression plastered on his face. She wondered if it was difficult for him to wear that mask at all times, or if he’d worn it so long it felt like honesty.
“Must have been jet fuel because I didn’t think I had that many glasses. Not enough to have blacked out,” she said, choosing her words carefully. She needed him to think she believed their lie, that every word was more mild flirtation and nothing more.
“I can’t help but feel the tiniest bit responsible. I didn’t even think to try the punch myself. I’ve never liked sweet drinks like that, you know?” He ran a hand over the scruff on his chin and offered a shrug she knew was meant to look sheepish. A dog caught with his nose in the treats.
His gaze shifted to the desk where the Bible still rested beneath her hand and then quickly to the empty case. Her heart accelerated.
He put his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, I see.”
She swallowed against the lump of fear building in her throat. “What?”
“You prepping for next week’s sermon?” He pointed at the Bible and took another step into the room.
She wanted to back up but held herself still. Couldn’t let him see she was afraid. That she suspected, whatever all this was, he was only playing his part.
“I didn’t think he let anyone near that Bible, but I suppose it’s fine. What with you being blood and all.”
Blood. She froze. The bloodstain in the Bible.
The blood on his and her father’s chins.
There was some connection there, but she couldn’t see it.
There were too many pieces missing. Her mind cycled through it all, and she felt her mask falling.
It was too much. Too many things she still couldn’t slot together.
“Grant,” she began. And he smiled. The smile he gave her that first night. The one that told her she was the only important thing in the room.
“It’s okay. It’ll all be okay.” He pulled his hands from his pockets, his cell phone at his ear as he advanced on her. “She’s upstairs. In the office.”
Her mind went clear. Once, she and Noah argued over who would be the first to die in an apocalypse. She insisted it would be her, that she would malfunction in the face of any sort of violent end, but Noah hadn’t agreed.
“You’re tough. Tougher than you think,” he said.
She hefted the Bible upward and threw it at Grant’s face with every ounce of strength she had. Maybe all those hours of Pilates had paid off after all. It landed with a meaty crunch, and he dropped his phone as he threw his hands over his nose.
“What the hell?” he shouted.
“I hope it’s broken, you absolute fuck,” she said as she lowered her shoulder and then ran at him. The force of her body caught him off-balance, and he staggered backward as she pushed past him.
Her only hope was to make it down the stairs and out the door before whoever was on the other end of that phone call made their way to the office.
She hit the stairs at full speed, gripping the banister as she flew down.
Her blood moved through her with a singular intent. A chorus that sang of escape.
Nothing moved downstairs. No shouting or flurry of movement came from the kitchen as she imagined her father would come barreling out to cut her off.
She could have collapsed in relief, but she didn’t allow herself to slow, her feet hitting the marble hard enough to sting through her shoes as she ran for the door.
Grant was on the stairs, his hand covering his nose, which was still spewing blood, and she pushed herself to move faster as she threw open the door and blinked into the sunlight.
“Where’s the fire, girlie?” Trent Glover stood before her, blocking the stairs. Behind him were two Range Rovers, the windows too dark to see who might be inside. “You should be resting after last night. Your daddy will be so disappointed.”
“Don’t you fucking touch me,” she said, retreating into the doorway.
Any second now, Grant was going to reach her, and she was trapped between them.
If she could make it to the kitchen, she could use the door there, but she still didn’t know where her father was, and if Grant was moving quickly enough, he could easily cut her off.
He clucked his tongue as the Range Rover doors opened, four of the church leaders stepping out. “Language. Let your tongue in all ways praise Him. I don’t think that sort of talk is very becoming of a godly young woman. Don’t you think so, too?”
Panic slid down her center, her arms and legs going numb, as he advanced on her. There was only one reason for the Range Rovers.