Page 118 of Corpse Roads

Without hesitating, Hunter fills the awkward silence. Foster enquires about Sabre’s expansion plans, seeming a little starstruck. He knows a hell of a lot about the company that’s taken me in.

Giana can’t tear her eyes away from me. There’s something intense in her gaze, a secret message that I can’t decipher. I don’t know what the hell she expects me to say now.

I’m not her daughter.

That person died.

I wonder how she felt when they discovered I was gone. It’s any mother’s worst nightmare. Did she run around, screaming and demanding help? Did they put up posters? Knock on doors? I’m not sure she did.

My morbid thoughts take an even darker turn. How did she live with the guilt? Rebuild her life without wanting to end it all? I spent years praying for death. Was she doing the same thing? Part of me wishes she was.

My chair scraping back startles them all.

“I need the bathroom,” I rush to explain.

She forces a smile. “Of course, darling. It’s down the hall, on the left. Do you need me to show you?”

“I’ll be fine.”

Their voices pick up the moment I leave the room, urgent and worried. I walk even faster to reach the bathroom. I’m not sure I can trust myself to sit there without flipping out.

While they were getting married, having a baby and tending the damn rose bushes outside, I was being beaten to a pulp, starved and carved up like a hunk of meat for slaughter.

I want to know if they suffered. Grieved. Sobbed and begged God for the slightest glimmer of remorse. Locking the bathroom door behind me, I slump against it.

My breathing is shallow and pained. Hunter won’t let me hide for long, but I don’t want to see him either. All of them look like one person in my mind—laughing, covered in blood, a belt snapping against his palm.

Come along now, Harlow.

Kneel by the door, there’s a good girl.

Ready for your nighttime prayers?

I obeyed Pastor Michaels. For years, I fought. When my strength ran dry, compliance was the only thing that kept me alive. I surrendered so much of myself for one reason.

I actually believed that he was my father. He convinced me it was true, chipping away at my memories with his torture and beatings until I forgot those monsters ever stole me.

Staring into the mirror, soulless eyes look back at me beneath silvery hair and blood-flecked skin. I see him in every part of myself, even my physical appearance. Pastor Michaels is always there.

Even if I wanted a real family, my mind holds no space for them. It’s a sinking ship, water spilling in through traumatised holes.

I am your father.

You will obey me or face the consequences.

Don’t you want to go to heaven?

“No,” I reply to my reflection. “I don’t want to go to heaven. I want to go to the depths of hell and see you there.”

I’m coming for you, little girl.

Sinners don’t get second chances.

You must repent in blood or die trying.

As I stare at the figment of my imagination, it changes. Pastor Michaels’ hair grows, becoming white with age and soft like cotton candy. In a second, Grandma Sylvie stares back at me.

“Why did you have to die?” I whisper tearfully. “I don’t even know you, but it hurts that I’ll never get the chance to.”