Chapter 55
Fifty-Five
ANDREA
How do I know I haven’t already died?
Those words, written in smeared blue ink, are tattooed on the inside of my eyelids. My skin feels scraped raw— hypersensitive and too tight. Reading Cade’s inner thoughts put my heart through a blender and shoved guilt down my esophagus.
I’m sick over it. Sick to my fucking stomach that I didn’t try harder to get in touch with him. Disgusted by my ignorance. My selfishness. I thought I buried the girl who couldn’t see past herself, but once again, she evaded death.
I fell for denial’s illusions.
Not anymore.
Cade has my undivided attention.
Downshifting, I coast into the parking lot of the Poached Egg, struggling to rein in the flood of emotion drowning me beneath the surface. As if he senses it, Cade’s arms tighten around me.
I kill the engine and sit for a moment with his chest pressed to my back, the steady beat of his heart reaching through his skin to sync with mine.
My hand covers his.
Fingers lace.
A silent conversation.
I’m here. I’m sorry it took so long. You feel like a missing puzzle piece slotted into place. Like home.
I take a deep breath and extract myself from his comforting embrace to remove my helmet. The ceaseless burning in my core spikes. It’s always worse after a night of drinking. The notification for the lab results came in this morning, but I haven’t opened them.
I’m scared to.
Simple as that.
“What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?”
Burning, burning, burning.
I spin around, trying to ignore the pain blasting at full volume. Blue and honey eyes watch me closely. I almost force a smile— almost. But this is Cade. My Cade. He’s immune to lies.
“My vagina is on fire.”
Smooth, Andrea.
His brows lift in surprise.
“Okay, sorry, that was aggressive. Not like I’ve got an STD or anything, it feels like a UTI but not?
The doctor already tested for that and a whole bunch of other shit last time and found a whopping nothing.
Can you believe that? Doesn’t make any damn sense.
Why can’t they just figure it out? I can’t be the only one with this problem.
And trust me, it’s a fucking problem. This shit doesn’t stop.
Ever. I’ve tried over-the-counter pain killers, every homeopathic inflammation remedy— you know what?
I’m gonna shut up now. Let’s forget I even said anything about my fire crotch on our first real date. Cool? Cool.”
God, now would be a good time to prove your existence. Smite me so I don’t have to live through this embarrassment any longer. Because Cade is just staring at me with this bewildered look in his mismatched eyes.
“This is a date?”
That’s all he got out of my tirade?
“I think so? I mean, it was supposed to be, but if you don't want it to be a date-date then it doesn't have to—”
“I want it to be,” he says quickly. “A date-date.”
I sag in relief. “Good. I don’t think I can be friends with you.”
His smile. Is. Heaven sent.
It’s like we’re teenagers again, feeding off the electric current pulsing between us. My heart is racing and my brain is fuzzy, distracting me from the destabilizing pain splitting me in half.
We enter the cafe, the door chime tinkling. Instantly, we're absorbed into a bubble of delicious scents— cinnamon, pancake batter and maple syrup. Cade’s head swivels, taking in the tacky palm tree and shell decor as we approach the hostess stand.
I grin at the girl, no older than us. “Table for two,” I chirp. She smiles and grabs our menus before escorting us through a maze of waxed blonde wood tables. She looks familiar. Then again, most people in this town do. Perks of being a life-long Fort Manor inmate.
Once tucked into a small table by the window, I peek over the seasonal menu at Cade. He’s sucking on his bottom lip as he writes something on a napkin with an orange crayon from the cup next to a pitcher of syrup.
“Whatchya writing?”
His eyes flick up. Then back down to his scribbling. “Just a note.”
“Of what?”
He folds the napkin and shrugs. “Something I don’t wanna forget.”
As if that’s enough of an answer. I don’t press him on it, but file it away for later. He leans over to steal my menu when something on the side of his neck catches my eye.
“Is that a bite mark?”
He freezes, lips parting.
I nearly jump over the table to examine it closer. Sure enough, the bruised imprint of teeth mars his flawless skin. He’s only been here one day. At his parents' house. Meaning…
“Do not tell me you fucked Seba,” I growl. He’s a deer in the headlights. “Have you two been fucking this whole time behind my back?”
He recoils. “Fuck no! You read my journal. I haven’t seen him since… since then.”
“But…”
His nose wrinkles in frustration, the tiny diamond stud sparkling.
“He’s acting weird as hell. He smokes now.
Saint Seba would rather eat dirt than smoke.
And last night, he came onto me—” His mouth snaps shut.
The crayon snaps between his fingers. “It’s like he doesn’t care if we’re caught.
Which isn’t like him. The Sebastian I knew would be mortified. ”
Yes, Seba owns the top spot on my shitlist, but my cursed brain latches onto what it shouldn’t. The two of them. Together. Slicked in sweat and cum, panting, groaning, moaning…
A zing of arousal.
I grind my teeth, struggling to squash the deviant fantasies. The waitress comes to the rescue, interrupting us to take our order. By the time she walks away, I’ve composed myself… enough.
“Don’t trust him. He’s still working for dear old Dad.” I reach across the table, prying the crayon from his grip and holding his hand. His eyes meet mine. “I don’t know exactly what’s going on at St. Gemma’s, but I’m getting to the bottom of it.”
The gears whirl in his beautiful head. “How?”
I chew the inside of my cheek. “I have a contact on the inside.”
Cade smirks. “Ok, spy girl.”
I roll my eyes. “They reached out to me first. A few years ago.”
“I see.”
He thinks this is a joke. It’s anything but.
I’ve been compiling scraps of evidence, whispers, and leads for ages now.
Though I wouldn’t have half of it without the anonymous informant who messaged me on Instagram right after I started at FMU.
At first, I thought the faceless account was a bot or someone fishing to get me back into the congregation— Dad tried pressuring me plenty during my last year at Kingsbury— but the things they sent were too damning.
Snippets of conversations, blurry photos and video clips.
Truckloads of boxes showing up under the cover of darkness.
Spreadsheets logging shipments, donations and names. Shady shit.
My contact never explains what they send, no matter how many questions I ask. While I haven’t been able to crack who’s behind the messages, I’ve accepted that they want to take down my father and his church as much as I do. Maybe more.
I hunch over the table. “My expose is going to land that bastard and all his cronies behind bars, mark my fucking words.”
He brings our joined hands to his lips, lightly pecking my fingertips without dropping my stare. “If there’s anyone who can get the bastard, it’s you, little sinner.”
Blushing, I squeeze his hand. Then a genius idea blooms.
“How do you feel about helping burn Pastor Sinclair at the stake?”
A wicked grin.
“Sign me the fuck up.”