Page 39 of Faith's Redemption

CHAPTER SEVEN

Faith

Ihadn’t made it past the couch.

Adam let me and Lance into his apartment, barked out a few things while jabbing his finger in various directions, told me to lock the door behind him, and left.

The quiet resolve that this is where my life’s path resided was overwhelming. I lowered my bag to the floor and sank onto a couch that had seen better decades.

Lance hopped up next to me and snuggled in while I closed my eyes and tried to rein in some sense of peace.

People were after me because of my dad.

And, still, during all my years of defending him to my sisters, refusing to see the devil under his disguise, believing him to be the God-fearing righteous man he claimed to be, Reverend McMasters was working with Redemption’s version of the mob. Worse yet, he’d run illegal funds through the church—why else would there have been the fake financials? But then he’d been stealing from those assholes as well? Was he insane?

“Certifiable,” I whispered, shaking my head. “Was it worth it, Daddy? Watching me nearly get killed to pad your son’s trust fund?”

The son he’d always wanted.

And I’d wanted so badly to hate him. To blame him. To throw all the hurt and betrayal and pain at Matthew that had exploded my life.

Damn him for being likeable.

Lance sighed, resting his little white head on my leg. I looked down, stroking the soft curls around his ears.

Matthew was as much a victim as the rest of us. Used and manipulated, because those were the only parenting tools in the reverend’s toolbox.

The reverend.

I chuckled as I realized I’d started to think like Hope.

Footsteps on the stairs jolted me out of my reverie, and I pushed to my feet to find something to do. Anything to keep from making eye contact with the one person I wanted to smack upside the head and then climb him like a tree. I needed to stay busy. Focused.

But then the footsteps stopped outside the door. No jangle of keys. And fear washed over me in a cold sweat.

What if it wasn’t Adam?

I yanked my phone from my pocket with suddenly shaky hands, dropping it as the key turned in the lock and the door swung open.

Adam stood there, watching me fumble for my phone, holding my side as I bent to pick it up. Jesus, I should have just kept my ass on the couch with Lance.

“Should you be doing that?” he asked.

I sighed as I stood upright, relief flooding through me with something close to nausea. I crossed my arms to hide the trembling. “Doing what?”

“Bending like that,” he said, gesturing to my midsection.

“No,” I said. “I’m supposed to... it doesn’t matter.” I shoved my phone back into my pocket and looked around blindly for something to do.

“It does matter,” he said. “You have to take care of yourself and—”

“Adam.”

He held up his hands. “Whatever.” His jaw muscles flexed and he scraped his fingers over his close-cropped hair, moving to the tiny open kitchen like a man on a mission, yanking open the fridge like its very existence pissed him off.

“Adam!”

He blew out a breath and turned to face me, the threads of his patience clearly fraying.

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