Chapter 47
Agatha
The boys wear black like shadows. T-shirts, plain pants, boots.
I chose leather. A skirt that barely covers anything with fishnet tights underneath, and a halter top with metal rings that catch the light.
A heart-buckle belt sits low, and the whole thing squeaks slightly when I walk.
I know exactly what this looks like to them.
They preached for years that only whores wear black.
That tattoos are the devil’s handwriting.
That a woman who bares her stomach bares her soul to damnation.
I want them to choke on the sight of me.
Nobody talks in the car. Corwin drives. Garron rides shotgun. Evander sits beside me with a bag on his lap. I keep my eyes on my hands. My nails tap against my thighs. My heart beats loud enough I’m sure they can hear it.
“Still sure?” Evander asks without looking at me.
“Yes,” I whisper.
We pull up two houses down. The porch light is off at my parents’ place. The curtains are drawn. It looks smaller than I remember. Smaller and meaner.
Garron checks his watch. “Perfect. Let’s go.”
We get out quietly, cut through the side yard and slip in through the back door.
Corwin silently twists the handle and swings it open for me.
I had been betting they would still leave the back door unlocked.
What if the pastor came calling? What if the church needed them in the night?
They always preached that the Almighty would never let harm touch His flock.
There was a chance, after what happened to Devon and Darron, that they would finally think to lock the door.
Either they had not heard yet, or they were too sure of their own holiness to believe they would ever be next.
The kitchen smells like bleach and stale bread.
I hate that it smells familiar. The linoleum floor is yellowed with age, squares worn thin where feet always passed.
Cabinets the color of honey oak line the walls, their finish dulled from years of scrubbing.
A floral curtain hangs limp above the sink, the pattern faded to pastel ghosts of what it once was.
The table is small and round with matching chairs, a bowl of wax fruit at the center.
We move like ghosts through the kitchen and into the living room.
It looks staged, like something straight out of Man of the House.
A plaid sofa sits stiff against one wall, no sagging cushions, no personal clutter.
The carpet has vacuum lines so precise they look combed.
Family photos hang in perfect order on the wall, every frame dust-free, every smile stiff.
And none that include me. It is too clean, too curated, like it’s tended daily not for comfort but for inspection.
Debra is nowhere to be seen, but from the reflection in the mirror on the far wall of the living room we see Michael sitting in his recliner like it’s a throne, his Bible open on his lap and a rosary twined around his fist. He’s reading like the words can save him.
He doesn’t even hear us at first. He’s wearing a thin white tank and soft grey boxer–like shorts he wears as his nightwear.
The image would almost be domestic if not for the way his knuckles whiten around the beads. He doesn’t even notice us.
Corwin and Garron move. They close in from behind the recliner.
Garron jerks Michael’s head back, clamping a hand over his mouth in the same motion.
Michael bucks, the chair rocking under his weight, but Corwin leans in over the backrest, snaring both wrists and wrenching them behind him.
His Bible tumbles, forgotten, to the carpet.
“Kitchen chair,” Corwin hisses.
Evander doesn’t waste time. He slips back through the doorway and returns with a chair gripped in both hands.
Corwin and Garron drag Michael over and slam him into it.
Evander digs in his bag, pulling out rope.
He works quickly, looping the cord around Michael’s wrists until his hands turn red.
Another length circles his chest, pinning him tight to the backrest. His legs kick once, but Corwin stomps down on his foot, and the fight leaves him with a grunt of pain.
Ankles bound, knees lashed to the chair, his body is locked down in seconds.
Garron swiftly releases his hold on his mouth and duct tapes it shut.
Michael breathes heavily through his nose, a ragged sound that fills the space between each tick of a clock.
His eyes flash between them, but there’s no authority left in them.
Only the shock of a man who has been pulled out of the sermon and into the fire.
I stand there and watch, my heart pounding so hard I feel it in my teeth. This is it. Face to face with the man who taught me what hell looks like before I even knew what heaven was supposed to be. His eyes find me and narrow. I step closer so he sees every inch of me.
Corwin leans in until his face is an inch from Michael’s.
His voice turns into a low, cutting tone.
“Remember what you did to her, old man? Remember holding her under water and calling it baptism? Remember abusing her in your chapel while your friends ‘prayed’ over her like she was something to be broken?”
Garron’s fist flashes out and drives into Michael’s ribs, just enough to pull a grunt out of him. Michael’s eyes fill with rage and disbelief.
The stairs creak.
Debra appears at the bottom, her hair in a bun, her dress buttoned to her neck. Her eyes go wide.
“Daughter?” she whispers.
“In the flesh.” I twirl slowly so she can see the leather.
Her hands tremble. “What are you doing? Why do you have Daddy tied up? Who are these heathens?”
Garron looks up at her, his eyes flat. “We are the retribution she deserves. Are you ready to pay your penance?”
Debra’s chin lifts just a little, like she wants to pretend she’s brave. “Stop it, this instant. We are your parents. He is your father. You are to obey and serve.”
I take a step toward her. Her words taste like iron. “I obey and serve no one.”
Michael thrashes against the rope. Without a word, Evander and Garron move as one toward Debra.
She spins, trying to run back up the stairs, but Evander catches her first, his arms locking around her shoulders and upper arms, pinning them to her sides.
Garron is a second behind him, grabbing her feet so she can’t kick.
She twists and shouts, her voice breaking, but they carry her as if she weighs nothing.
Corwin grabs another kitchen chair from the table and drags it across the floor so it screeches.
He plants it directly across from Michael.
Evander and Garron push Debra down into it.
She fights, but the rope is already being snaked around her wrists, her chest, her ankles, the same knots they used on her husband.
Her breathing is hard and fast, her eyes darting between me and the men like a trapped animal.
My pulse beats harder. This is the moment I have been waiting for since I was eighteen.
Corwin turns back to Michael, his fingers hooking under the edge of the tape and ripping it off in one smooth motion. The sound is sharp in the quiet house. Michael’s mouth opens wide, spittle at the corners.
“Agatha,” he spits my name like a curse.
I step closer. “Michael.” I do not call him Dad. He lost that honor.
“You bring men into my house? You shame yourself again?”
“Shame?” I laugh. “You do not know shame. You only know control.”
Michael's mouth curls and he spits, “Blasphemy. You will answer for this.”
Garron smiles without humor. “You told her that her body was the devil. You told every woman in that church that they were filth unless they stayed bent. You made your daughter believe she deserved your chains.”
Michael's eyes flash. “You are vermin. A pack of dogs. You will rot in prison.”
Evander speaks this time. “We are not the law. We are what happens when the law fails.” He nods at me like I am the judge.
“You will pay for this,” Michael snarls, teeth bared.
I feel a strange satisfaction that is equal parts terror. This is not mercy. This is not justice. It is a reckoning.
“I’ve been away for years.” I lick my lips. “I thought you two would miss me.”
“We know what you’ve been doing. I knew you’d turn out to be nothing but a whore. You were born wild. Born to sin. You needed harsher discipline.”
Garron’s jaw clenches and his eyes go dark. “What you did wasn’t discipline. It was torture. You beat a child and told her God was smiling.”
Michael cackles. “I tried to save her soul.”
Evander cuts in, “No. You tried to crush it. And you failed.”
Garron produces a belt and snaps it once across Michael’s thighs. The sound is like a whip cracking. Michael screams. The sound punches the air. The second strike lands higher. He tries to curl in on himself, but the rope keeps him from bending.
“Count,” Corwin says to him. “Say what you did. Name it.”
Michael spits and repeats old lines about duty and purity, old lies. Each line gets him a crack with the buckle side of the belt. Debra’s face goes white as milk as she watches what is happening to her dearly beloved.
I stand and watch. “Did you think what you did would be hidden forever?” I ask Michael.
He tries to answer with a scripture. Corwin slaps his face. “No more verse,” Garron says. “Tell the truth or stay silent.”
The belt whistles through the air, and another strike lands across his thighs.
He jerks, the chair rattling against the floor.
A sound tears out of him, muffled and raw.
Garron doesn’t pause. The belt comes down again.
And again. The buckle edge glances off bare skin, leaving red welts that bloom darker with each lash.
Michael gasps, tries to thrash and kick, but the rope holds him down.
Each strike forces a grunt out of him until the grunts become cries and then hoarse screams that rasp in his throat.
Corwin leans in close, making him look at me between blows.
“Do you see her? Do you see what you made and tried to break?”
Michael’s voice falters until it’s just broken breath, and then finally nothing at all. His head slumps forward, chin to chest.
“He’s out,” Evander says, stepping back. His chest rises slowly but steady.
That’s when Debra breaks. “What have you done?” she screams, her voice sharp and shaking. She thrashes in her chair, wrists straining against the rope. Her eyes are wild and wet, locked on Michael as if looking hard enough could undo the truth.
I look at her and feel nothing but the old echo of eighteen years of silence. I step closer, the leather of my skirt squeaking in the quiet between her ragged breaths. Her eyes flick to me, wide and frantic, searching for something that has never been there.
“What have I done?” My voice is low. “No. What did you do? You stood by while he drowned me in a bathtub, when he beat me over and over again, when he starved me. You handed me over when the church wanted to ‘pray’ over my body like it was theirs. You told him every word I said when I begged you to run. And then you watched him punish me for speaking.”
Debra shakes her head fast, too fast. “I was trying to keep the peace. I was trying to save you.”
“Save me?” I laugh, sharp enough to sting my own throat. “You didn’t save me. You sold me out. You were supposed to be a mother, but you were just another set of hands to hold me down.”
Her mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Tears spill, sliding down her cheeks and soaking the collar of her prim dress. She looks at Michael’s slumped body, then back at me, like she can’t decide which one of us betrayed her more.
I lean in close enough that she can feel my breath on her face. “You ask what I’ve done? I survived you. And now I’m going to make sure no one else has to.”
Her chin trembles, lips parting like she wants to pray, but nothing comes out except the smallest sound, a wounded animal noise.
I straighten, the leather creaking at my waist. “Your turn, Debra. Time to pay.”