Total pages in book: 38
Estimated words: 34955 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 175(@200wpm)___ 140(@250wpm)___ 117(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 34955 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 175(@200wpm)___ 140(@250wpm)___ 117(@300wpm)
“Then explain to me why he didn’t go to prison,” I said hesitantly because the look on my dad’s face wasn’t one I was accustomed to seeing. Was that pain?
Dad stood up and sat his cup on the table beside him. “One reason would be that the Shephard family is a part of the southern mafia. They weld power in high places.”
I didn’t respond. Although I had thought my parents suspected or after the media frenzy when Thatcher had drugged and abducted me, they had found out for sure what the Shephards were. Neither my mom nor dad had come out and said it to me. Not like this.
“But you know that, don’t you,” he said, his eyes still full of that remorse that confused me. “You knew it when you told the police he hadn’t kidnapped you.”
I remained silent.
He let out a heavy sigh. “This,” he said with a slight shake of his head. “This is my punishment. I had convinced myself over the years that the Lord understood my actions. But I had always known deep down that was a lie. One, I told myself. It made it easier to accept and forget.”
I was now confused. How had he gone from telling me about the alleged murder that Thatcher had been accused of years ago to something he had done?
“The other reason he didn’t go to prison was because he had a witness. A strong one. That said it was self-defense. The only witness but one that people trusted. The court trusted. But then the judge had been bought by dirty money. She’d just needed a reason to let him walk away free.”
I waited, studying my father, whose posture wasn’t as straight but appeared to be weighed down by something heavy. A slow trickle of uneasiness began to seep through me. Why did my dad know the specifics? Had he looked it up, done research, because I was with Thatcher?
“You see, even a pastor will do what must be done to protect his children. He will do things to better his church. Build the flock,” he said with a hollow laugh, and suddenly, the lines in his weathered skin seemed deeper.
The silence that followed was loud—so loud that I was afraid to breathe. But I waited, needing to know what I didn’t.
“You remember the years of therapy you went to?” he asked.
I tensed. That was something we never spoke about. I had managed to shove it deep into my past and never allowed it freedom.
“Why are you bringing that up?” I asked, my voice cracking.
“Three days a week for a year, then two days, until finally one day you didn’t wake up screaming in a cold sweat, trembling. Breaking my heart. Those nights when I witnessed the damage that had been done to you, I didn’t question my decision. I even found justice in what I had done. Because the man who had caused my little girl to live with night terrors had deserved to die.”
I didn’t speak. My throat was dry, my body felt as if it were slowly starting to numb. I only blinked.
“Beauden had pictures of you that covered a room in the basement of his parent’s house. They didn’t find it until later. Years later. It wasn’t something the media ever got a hold of, and I had been thankful for the Shephard’s power. No matter their sins. I had been thankful. Beauden Redd’s mother died from a heart attack in her home. His father had been dead for years. No one found her until the smell got too strong. Of course, the property was inspected for any foul play before her cause of death had been determined. It was then that the hidden room was found,” he paused and swallowed hard, causing his Adam’s apple to bob in his throat. “I was only shown the pictures taken of the room. A room where my little girl’s photos covered the walls. Floor to ceiling. Those of you on your bike, outside the church planting flowers, with your mother at the grocery store. And all the guilt that had haunted me. Was gone. Because I had wanted to be the one. Me. A pastor who taught about forgiveness and love. I had wanted to be the one to snap the bastard’s neck.”
I reached out to steady myself, gripping the doorframe. Flashes of moments came back to me. Those of the older boy who had always been there lurking, sneering, making me nervous. The times he had gotten close to me and said things about my clothing. Made fun of my glasses. All the memories I had managed to shut down, erase.
“The day, the one where he had grabbed you and held you against the dumpster. The things he said you refused to repeat. The moment that you would withdraw into yourself and rock back and forth when the therapist tried to get you to talk about it. That day. The last day you saw him.”