Page 92 of Breaking the Sinner

“The house is on lockdown. If you try to get out, it’ll set off an alarm.”

His mouth parted. “You grew up in a prison?”

Her gaze drifted off. Maybe it had never occurred to her before.

“It’s fine,” he rushed to add. “I just thought it might help me pass the time down here. Your folks go to bed early.”

“They get up early too.” She grimaced. “Welcome to my family. Do you need anything else?”

He looked back at the couch with the cobalt blue sheet and the quilt that looked like somebody’s grandma had made it. “I think I’ve got everything.”

“Don’t go outside,” she said again, pulling away from him.

“Got it. Is it okay if I take a piss later or do I need a letter to do that?” He cracked a grin to show her he was joking, but fuck if it didn’t feel like that. He would have died growing up in this house. It was the exact opposite of his free-rein childhood with a mom who would have probably preferred that he wandered out at night and got lost in the city.

“That’s allowed,” she said, then came back to him, pushing up onto her toes to give him a quick kiss. He snagged the kiss and then dug his fingers into the back of her neck, urging a second one. Then a third.

She broke away from him, frazzled.

“That’s enough,” she said. “It’s too weird doing that here.”

“You afraid the Bibles are gonna set themselves on fire?”

She snorted with a laugh and pushed at his chest. “Go to sleep. We’ll be eating tomorrow at noon.”

“You know I’ll be insomniac-ing it up down here, Genny.” He winked as she tip-toed back toward the stairs. “’Night.”

She crept up the stairs whisper quiet, leaving him to the consuming silence of the first floor. The lockdown irked him, but he kept reminding himself it was one night.

His only distraction came in the form of music. Earbuds in, sprawled out on the couch, he cycled through the entire contents of his phone mouthing the words to hip-hop lyrics as he stared at the unyielding walls of this prison.

How could Gen have grown up here? And why the fuck did her sisters want to stay?

Late night turned into wee hours. He drifted off before dawn, but woke up the second he heard footsteps creaking down the stairs. The small amount of rest he’d snagged had been plagued by anxieties manifesting in shifty, shadowy dreams.

He sat up, tugging the earbuds out of his ears from the music that had stopped hours ago. He rubbed at his eyes just as Mr. Gingham rounded the corner.

“Rise and shine,” he grunted without a glance his way. “You take coffee?”

“Uh…yes, sir.” When Gen’s dad disappeared into the kitchen, Cobra scrambled to change out of his pajama pants and T-shirt. He pulled on jeans and a black long-sleeve, his best attempt at dressing up for Thanksgiving. More footsteps sounded down the stairs. Then Mary came tumbling around the corner, eyes wild and searching.

A bright smile erupted on her face when she saw Cobra. She waved so hard her body shook.

“Morning, Mary.” Her eagerness made him smile. The rest of her sisters filed through the living room a moment later, those straight-backed Little Women on the Yosemite.

And then Gen appeared. Dressed like the rest of them. Khaki skirt. Moss green blouse. Her long hair in a non-descript braid. The sight of her stole his breath…but for a different reason than normal. This time, seeing her felt like a punch in the gut.

Reminded him of the truth.

That she was a sheep in wolf’s clothing down in Los Angeles.

“We’re going to start cooking, Cobra,” she said, sending him a smile backed by singing angels. Here, she was purer than ever. The unsoiled version of herself that rubbed salt in all the places where he was evil.

This place reminded him of the time he’d stolen a car with Klay, just for fun, when they were seventeen. The time he’d broken into a rival dealer’s house with Tyler and stolen some of their cocaine. The countless times he’d swiped food from the local grocery store because he was broke and a teenager and hungry.

This place reminded him of the hateful slurs hurled by his mother. Everyworthlessandloserandidiotthat had left pockmarks in his veneer. The countless times she’d locked him out of their apartment, before she met Patrick, so she could spend hours fucking nameless guys in the living room while nine-year-old Brendan wandered the neighborhood feeling scooped out on the inside.

Cobra’s hands were shaking. He turned, rummaging in his backpack. “I need to brush my teeth.” His voice came out pinched.

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