Page 93 of Breaking the Sinner

“Father will brew you some coffee, too,” she assured him. “I’ll see you in the kitchen.”

She walked on clouds. He envied it as much as he resented it. Her sisters would puke if they knew even a fraction of his childhood.

Her father would kick him out without a second thought.

Cobra scrubbed at his teeth, avoiding his own gaze in the mirror, then splashed water so cold it might as well have come from a glacier onto his face. Some of the shadows cleared in his mind. Some.

The kitchen was a surprising counterbalance to the tense quiet of the night before. Each sister had her hands in a different task, from cranberry sauce to casseroles, while their mother directed and their father brewed coffee.

“One day per year I indulge in a little coffee,” the man said gruffly, pulling out two small white china mugs. They held barely more than a splash. About one-tenth of what Cobra normally drank for his first cup of the day.

“Coffee fuels my life,” he joked, but the man’s mouth turned downward.

“Christ the Lord and Savior fuels ours here.”

Cobra accepted the mug, catching Gen’s grimace from over her father’s shoulder. Cobra tossed back the whiff of coffee and looked around. Guess that would have to do. “You ladies need any help?”

“Thanksgiving is a woman’s holiday,” Mrs. Gingham said in a singsong voice.

“It’s our duty to demonstrate our gratitude for our safety and our future,” one of the sisters said—the oldest one. She worked a rolling pin back and forth over some dough, frowning a little. “We are blessed beyond measure in this life. We have everything we could ever need here.”

Yeah. Definitely the oldest one, Abigail. She had a nasty grudge against Gen, and Cobra wanted popcorn for when their purity brawl broke out.

Gen’s pointed gaze found Cobra’s from over the shoulders of her sisters. She rolled her eyes a little. Enough to make him laugh.

“Is something funny?” Mr. Gingham asked, swiveling to face Cobra.

“No, sir, I…” he trailed off. “I respect what she said. To each his own, you know?”

The sentiment landed with a dull thud in the center of the kitchen. Confused glances skated between the sisters.

“There is one path,” Mr. Gingham said quietly. He clasped his hands behind his back, walking around the edge of the kitchen, toward the windows overlooking the backyard. Trees sprawled across the property, thick green leaves obscuring any view of neighbors. They were alone out here. Completely cut off. Imprisoned.

“Son, at what age did you receive Christ into your life?”

Her father’s voice struck like a hammer. Anxiety snaked cold and sinuous through his veins. “Uh, I…” He wet his bottom lip, wishing for even one more sip of coffee. Anything to take the edge off this morning. Five sets of inquisitive gazes landed on him. Only Gen had her head down, fingertips pressed to her temples. “I haven’t.”

Charity gasped. Hope made the sign of the cross. Abigail slammed her rolling pin down and left the kitchen.

Mary hopped from foot to foot, her bright eyes skating from Gen to Cobra to her mother. “But why wouldn’t he receive Christ into his life?”

“Children,” Mrs. Gingham warned.

“Have you ever been exposed to the truth?” Mr. Gingham went on.

Cobra snorted. “Well…a version of it, I suppose.”

“Mother, what does he mean by a version?” Mary asked in a low voice.

“Mary,” Mrs. Gingham said.

“There is no version,” Mr. Gingham said. “There is one truth.” He stopped in his slow stroll along the far wall, turning to Cobra with a curious smile. “Would you be interested in a Bible lesson, son?”

“You can learn about the truth in there,” Mary offered.

“Mary,” Mrs. Gingham hissed. “Girls don’t speak unless spoken to.”

Cobra swallowed down a strange feeling. “I appreciate the offer”—he didn’t—“but uh…I think I’m cool for now.”

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