Page 15 of Deliver us from Evil

Wait. That’s not right.

Dad’s not allowed to smoke inside the house. He didn’t even do it when Mom went to the shops.

WhereisMom?

She died in a car accident.

I falter halfway down the stairs.

Oh my God. They didn’t both die. All this time, Dad’s been living in our house in Redford while I was sent from pillar to post. While I had to bear the shame of being stranded in a school full of boys, an orphan girl who no one liked. No one except the Brotherhood.

Why would he do that to me? Howcouldhe?

The thought is visceral, but with no emotions attached. In fact, I don’t feel anything. Except for a sudden itch behind my neck.

“That you, child?”

Dad called me that. Child. Like I was one of the kids in church. Maybe he got it from Gabriel.

I clear the stairs. I can see in the kitchen now.

There’s a man by the stove. He has his back to me. There’s a whole fog of smells now—bacon, onions, cigarettes, coffee, burned toast.

The man turns, smiling fondly when he spots me.

I’m convinced it’s Dad, even though I know he’s dead. So convinced that I see him there, right there. So convinced that, when my brain tries to interject, to correct me, I write it off as the fact that he’s got a big Band-aid over his nose, and his face is a little puffy, and that’s why he doesn’t look quite like Dad but just enough that itmustbe him.

Dad beckons me closer with a spatula as he turns and starts dishing up food onto the plates standing ready on the kitchen island.

“Is this a dream?” I ask him through numb lips. Might as well make sure, after all.

“Would you like that?” he asks. And it’s not Dad’s voice at all. It’s Gabriel’s.

“Dunno,” I say, but actually, I don’t care.

Unsteady legs take me deeper into the kitchen. I stand next to a stool, but I can’t even imagine how much effort it would take to get up.

Gabriel puts the pan back on the stove, dusts his hands, and comes around the island. His damaged face should scare me, but instead it intrigues me. I feel like I should know how he was hurt, but I can’t seem to find the memory. He slips his fingers under my armpits and lifts me onto the stool like I’m a toddler.

“Morning, daughter,” he murmurs, close to my ear, before he walks around the island and takes his seat on the opposite side. “Sleep well?”

When he slides my plate over, I try and pick up the fork propped on top of a piece of blackened toast. My fingers can’t seem to get it right though.

Something is wrong.

With this setup.

With me.

“Hasn’t worn off yet,” Gabriel says, as if talking to himself. He takes a bite of his food and then points his fork at my plate. “You’re probably not hungry. Should I put it in the microwave?”

The fork drops from my fingers, and he chuckles at me as he comes around to my side again. He pushes away the plate and grasps my chin with his fingers, turning my head to face him.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, staring deep into my eyes.

“Not feeling anything.”

He smiles. “That’s good.” He drops his gaze, and it takes me a second to realize he might be staring at my body. I think I should care about that, but I don’t. Not even when he rubs his hands up and down my arms like he’s trying to warm me up. “You’re so dirty. We’ll have to get you cleaned up after breakfast.”

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