me. He keeps chewing on his bottom lip and there’s this thick blue vein standing out in his forehead.
I find myself not wanting Sheriff Jarrett—and his deputy, a tall Native American guy named Coburn—to leave at the end of the interview.
But soon the sheriff is putting a hand on my shoulder, telling me not to worry, that he’s going to make sure Alex Winter never bothers me again. I’ll have to testify at the trial, he says—there’s no way around that. But he’ll do everything he can to keep me safe.
“You’ve been through enough already,” he says. “I hope you can put this behind you.” He promises to check up on me again in a few days.
To my dad he says, “You’ve got a very brave girl here, Mr. Noonan.”
“Yes, well . . .”
They shake hands.
My dad walks the two officers out the front door and I go back up the stairs, closing my bedroom door and making sure the window is shut tight and locked. The light on the bedside table, with colonial figures embroidered into the dark-stained canvas lamp shade, reflects patterns on the pink pastel walls.
I swallow two more of the pills. Then I reach over and turn off the light just as my dad’s heavy footsteps sound from the staircase. I pull the covers up. The door to my room opens and my dad stands there, beneath the dull orange glow from the hallway.
“Come on,” he says through his clenched teeth. “We’re going to pray.”
I sit up in bed.
“What? Dad, please. I’m really tired. I just want to go to sleep.”
He rubs his chin with his long fingers.
“No,” he finally says. “No, you must pray. . . . We must ask God for forgiveness.”
“What do you mean? What do I have to ask forgiveness for?” I ask, feeling the knot in my stomach turn to a kind of smoldering ash—like an ember catching and starting to burn, slowly.
“You know what I mean,” he says. “You know exactly.”
There’s something in his eyes, the way the light hits them, that I don’t think I’ve ever seen before. His gaunt features are pulled taut—straining in every direction—mouth turned down, eyes bulging, jaw clicking back and forth. His hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat and there’s a smell like sickness coming off him.
“Dad,” I say, the heat growing like a weed inside me. “What’s wrong with you?”
He shakes his head.
“I want you to come pray with me,” he says. “I want you to pray for forgiveness. I’ll not let Him take you the way he took your mother. I failed with her. But I won’t fail with you. I’ve received a vision, Jen. . . .”
I gather the blankets up around me as if, again, they might offer me some protection. “A vision?” I say. “What are you talking about?”
He steps forward into my room, his tall frame enveloped in the shadowy darkness.
“The devil was in your mother. And the devil is in you.”
“Dad . . .”
“You’re being tested. You are a prophet, Jen. And all the prophets are tested.”
“I’m a prophet?” I actually almost laugh at that. “Look, I think we both got pretty freaked out by what happened, but . . .”
“No,” he says, cutting me off. “No, I see clearly. Coming here, to this house—I’ve seen God’s will for me . . . and for you. He wants me to save you, the way I couldn’t save your mother. He wants me to save you. And then you will go forth and tell the people. You will warn them of the terrible speed of God’s mercy.”
“Dad,” I say, my voice cracking. “Dad, come on. You’re not making any sense.”
“I’m making sense,” he says. “The only sense there is.”
“But this wasn’t my fault,” I say.
He drops down on the bed next to me, the mattress and wooden frame sagging beneath his weight—though he remains rigidly straight, speaking as if to the room and its darkness.
“You’re right,” he says, sounding calmer now. “It was my fault. I should have prepared you better. But I will now. I will not stop until you have been saved—until you fulfill your destiny.”
“Dad, please,” I say. “I think we both need to get some sleep.”
I see the silhouette of his head nodding up and down.
“Yes,” he says. “But first we will pray. We will pray for your salvation. We will pray for your soul.”
He takes hold of my arm with his damp, cloying hand and pulls me to the floor. The