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My throat aches with the lump I swallow.

“And you found the pieces of yourself again?”

“Yeah, I did. That morning when we walked out to the water tower and found the broken body lying under it. It was a fourteen-year-old boy. He'd been lying there all night. Nobody even knew he was missing, much less that he tossed himself off the top railing. His father works all the time, and his mother was wrapped up in raising three younger siblings and working, too. They didn't think anything of it when he wanted to go out with some friends the night before. They didn't realize he never came home. We tried to find the friends he was with and couldn't find anyone. It didn't take long to figure out that it was because he didn't have any friends. The kids at school bullied him so badly no one wanted to associate with him. Eventually it drove him off that water tower. Seeing that broke me. It made me a better officer, but even now, when I respond to a suicide, I think of him," Sam sighs. "I can't understand someone who does that. I can't imagine getting to that place when you genuinely don't want to live another day. Or think you don't."

"Life can put you through the grinder sometimes," I answer. "Sometimes it can seem like there isn't any point in trying to keep going because it's only going to get worse. Killing yourself doesn't feel like violence or an act of cruelty. It's mercy. Instead of trudging along through the rest of life with the days shackled to your neck, dragging along behind you, you cut the chains. You're relieved of the burden. Depression and hopelessness can be a bitch."

"I know," Sam says darkly. "But there's always more. There's always something else."

"And sometimes it's not worth the journey. Or it at the very least it, in that moment, it doesn't seem like it's worth it. The challenge is getting past that moment."

"That might have been one of the hardest parts about the investigation today," he says.

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"It's hard enough to deal with a suicide when it happens suddenly. Someone making a rash decision in a moment of turmoil is awful and tragic. But Everly took her time. She tormented herself for a long time. Her death was laying herself bare. Literally. She was naked and bound at the ankles. There were words written on her arms, thighs, and stomach."

"Words?"

"’Disgrace. Failure. Destruction.’ She took her time, which means that one flash moment of anguish for other people stretched on to probably an hour or more for Everly. That's tragedy."

"Why would she write those words on herself?" I ask.

"I think it was her way of leaving a message for the people around her. If she did have something to do with Peter Blair's death, those words amounted to a confession. She wasn't hiding anymore. She was offering herself up. And if she didn't, she was putting on full display what they reduced her to. In those last, black moments, she wanted her tormentors to know what they did to her."

"Did you have a chance to talk to anyone in the family?" I ask. "Get some insight into that theory?"

"I spoke with Michael Blair's ex and her boyfriend, and to Michael's brother. They had different reactions, to say the least."

"Why?"

"His ex, the mother of his son, was apparently on good terms with Everly. From all accounts, they were friendly and had no friction until Peter's death. She is really upset and in disbelief over the whole thing. Michael’s brother Daniel, on the other hand, he was cold. He didn't say it right out, but it was almost like he feels Everly killing herself was ridding the world of a problem he's glad he doesn't have to deal with anymore," Sam says.

I cringe. "Wow. And he saw the body?"

"He went in when he heard Maggie screaming. When I got there, he was still in the room with the body, messing with his phone. I had to go through his gallery to make sure he didn't take pictures. I've never seen someone that disconnected at a suicide scene before. But I guess hatred for another human will do that to you. If you think they're a waste of breath, you don't mind too much when they aren't breathing anymore."

Chapter Thirteen

Four and a half years ago

Her hair was to her waist now. She always kept it long, liking the way people admired how thick it was and the way the black strands gleamed like oil. But never this long. It hung in a perfect braid down the center of her back, tied with a strand of pale blue leather. That's the way she always wore it. It's how he preferred it.

That's all that mattered now. What Lucas preferred, what he wanted. Women with long hair woven down their backs, tied with blue ribbon. Simple dresses and slim, delicate gold bands around their first finger. Men in slacks and buttoned shirts. The chosen with bracelets around their wrist.

But it wasn't really for Lucas. It wasn't really his preferences. That's what she was learning. This was all for the good of all people, for the future harmony they were crafting together. It wasn't always easy. Sometimes they didn't understand exactly what he wanted of them or why things had to be the way they were. When the questions came, he comforted them. They didn't need to know. They shouldn't worry themselves with trying to understand, because they never would. It was beyond their capacity. Not because they were weak, but because only he was privileged to know all the universe had hidden.

That was why he was at the head of the Society. He had been chosen at birth, cultivated in greatness, and brought through fire of the adversity to make himself into the man who would usher in the New Time. Only those deemed worthy and who proved themselves would go with him. They would understand the truly awesome power he possessed and be humbled by the wonder set before them. They would know true freedom, true joy. Gone would be crime and sadness, destruction, and betrayal.

But to get there, they must earn it. They all knew that. The New Time wasn't going to just be offered up to them. The Existence, the time of now and all who belonged to it, would fight against them. The Existence wanted everything to stay the same. They feared truth and the judgment that came with it. Purification for the New Time and the work of building it wouldn't be easy, but it would be worth it.

In the six months since arriving at The Tower, she had learned those things. They were taught to her every day, spoken to her with every breath. Around her, the people of the Society trained her. They had already dedicated their lives to their deep belief in the potential within themselves to overcome what was given to them in favor of what could be. Soon, she would be just like them. And with that would come her new name. Every word held it, hidden behind what was spoken. Every touch let it seep through their fingertips into her skin. Every look passed it from their eyes to hers. They taught her to shed The Existence to become New.

Sister Abigail. Sister Abigail. Sister Abigail.

She heard it now, where she sat in a rounded room flooded with sunlight. The curve of the walls seemed to catch it so it swirled around her, surrounding her until she couldn't deny it.

"Yes, Jeremiah?"

It was his name now. The one she used to say had disappeared, shed from her tongue, so she barely even remembered what it felt like to say it. He crossed the room to her with his hands open, and she put hers into them, letting him bring her up from her seat. He rarely touched her anymore. It would distract them both from their learning, from the purification challenges ahead of them. The time would come. Soon if they dedicated themselves enough to find it. Then all would be understood, and they would enter into the New Time as one presence. Until then, each touch was precious, and she savored them.