Page 9 of Creeping Lily
Her voice bursts through, high-pitched and shaking. Words tumble over each other, muffled by background whispers and shuffling.
“Just come home, Lincoln. We need you now.”
The line goes dead.
I stare at my phone. My chest tightens.
Will watches me. “That didn’t sound good.”
“It wasn’t.” I pocket the phone, already deciding. “Wilma’s staying here. Get her towed later. Come on, I’ll drop you off.”
For once, he doesn’t argue.
The guesthouse iswrong the second I pull up.
The porch light’s on, but the shadows underneath it feel… heavier.
The smell hits first—stale beer, bile, something acrid underneath. Vomit. My stomach flips.
Inside, the mess is surgical in its chaos. A console overturned. Liquor pooling on the floorboards. A chair angled like it was shoved aside in a hurry.
My mother appears from the hall. Her hand presses flat to my chest, stopping me in the doorway. She’s pale, eyes wide.
Behind her, my father stands in the living room, shoulders squared but gaze… heavy. Regret. Defeat. Two words I’ve never attributed to him.
“What is it?” My voice is already sharp.
Her grip on my shirt tightens. She doesn’t answer.
“Lily. Your brother. Oh God…” She buries her face against me, and the sound that comes out of her is broken.
Fear punches through my ribs. “Was there an accident? Where are they?”
Maria steps out from the back. Lily’s room. She doesn’t meet my eyes, hands wringing so hard her knuckles are white.
Doctor Bernard follows. Our family doctor. He doesn’t make house calls.Ever.The fact he’s here twists my gut into a knot.
“Someone tell me what the fuck is going on!”
The words hit like bullets.
Swelling.
Bruising.
Vaginal tearing.
Psychological trauma.
Rape.
Rape.
Rape.
The doctor’s voice is steady. Mine isn’t. The syllables scrape through my skull until they’re carved there.
He hands Maria a small paper bag. “Morning-after pill. Antibiotics. Painkillers.” His eyes flick to my father, then away. “This concludes our business.”
