Shocking Pink. Erica Spindler

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      A sound of despair had flown into her throat like vomit, and she’d held it back. Just as she’d held back her tears, her self-pity. Such expression was just another form of vanity, her father said. Another form of self-love over God-love.

      Her father had ordered her mother to find her something less provocative to wear, something that wouldn’t tempt her to stray from the path of righteousness.

      She had gone to church that day in a plain brown jumper and scuffed loafers; she had gone marked by sin, so vain and wretched she wasn’t even allowed to wear pretty dresses and bonnets like the other girls.

      Instead of welcoming smiles, she had been greeted with curious stares from the other children. Their gazes had slipped over her, and they had wondered, she knew, why, on the highest holy day of the year, the reverend’s daughter was dressed the way she was.

      They hadn’t had long to wonder. Her father had told them.

      He had been at the pulpit, delivering a rousing sermon. As he spoke, his fiery gaze kept coming back to her.

      “You’re sinners!” Her father’s voice had boomed through the church. Around Julie, people shifted uncomfortably. “He died for you. For your sins. He died so you may live.”

      He paused a moment, then brought his fist crashing down on the pulpit. “Sinners!” he shouted, swinging his gaze to Julie’s, seeming to pin her to the pew.

      He lifted a hand and pointed. At her. Directly at her. “Sinner,” he said softly. Then louder, “Sinner!”

      Julie had gone hot, then icy, clammy cold. Tears had flooded her eyes and she’d sunk down in the pew. She’d heard the hushed murmur move through the congregation, felt those around her ease away, as if afraid of contamination.

      If the others hadn’t known about her before, she remembered realizing, they had then. And she had known, too.

       Dirty flesh and foul spirit. Marked by sin.

      Julie made a strangled sound of despair, the past retreating, the hopeless present reasserting itself. If only Andie or Raven was with her now. They would talk to her, make her smile and laugh, make her forget. Who and what she was. They would tell her she was okay.

      And for a little while, she would even believe it.

      For a little while. She pressed her face to the pillow, longing so hard for her friends she ached, even though she knew in her heart that no one could help her, not even God. She knew it was true, because she had prayed and prayed, but still the devil stalked her.

      And one day, she feared, he would catch her. And she would be lost forever.

       10

      Andie sat at the breakfast table, going over what she had decided in the darkest hours of the night, rehearsing what she would say to her mother. She had to tell her what she and her friends had seen the night before. She had to, no matter what she had promised them.

      Andie folded her hands in her lap, trying to appear calm even though her heart thundered nearly out of control. She had hardly slept. She had tossed and turned, unable to expunge the image of the blindfolded woman from her head. Or of the man, sitting like a king, the lord of the woman before him.

      Daniel then Pete slammed through the kitchen door, one chasing the other with a squirt gun, both of them squealing with laughter.

      Andie jumped, nearly startled out of her skin. “Hey!” she called after them, irritated. “You’re not supposed to shoot that thing in the house. And be quiet. Mom’s still sleeping.”

      “No, she’s not.” Her mother shuffled into the kitchen, a hand to her head. “Up and at ’em.” She crossed to the coffeepot, took a mug from the cabinet above and filled it with some of yesterday’s cold brew, then set it in the microwave to warm it.

      Andie swallowed against the lump that formed in her throat. When her dad had lived here, there had always been fresh coffee. She remembered walking into the kitchen in the morning and its aroma filling her head, welcoming and somehow reassuring.

      The microwave dinged and her mom brought the now-steaming and bitter-smelling cup of coffee to the table. Sighing, she sat down.

      Andie glanced at her from the corner of her eyes, nervous. She cleared her throat. “Mom? Can I talk to you? It’s kind of important.”

      Her mother didn’t look up. “Sure, honey.”

      Andie opened her mouth then shut it. Was she doing the right thing? She had made a promise to her friends. She had promised not to go to her mother. She had agreed they would investigate more before any of them blew the whistle on the mystery couple and their activities.

      They had agreed.

      She chewed on the tip of her thumb, indecisive. But that had been last night. None of them had been thinking clearly. Now she was. And what was going on in that house was wrong.

      Andie peeked at her mother again. She seemed to have forgotten her daughter was even there. She stared off into space, her expression so sad it broke Andie’s heart.

      “Mom?” she said softly. When her mother didn’t acknowledge her in any way, she tried again, this time louder.

      Her mother started. “I’m sorry, honey. What is it?”

      “Are you all right?”

      Marge Bennett smiled, though to Andie it looked forced. “Fine. It’s just … just that I’m tired. I’m not sleeping much, and …”

      Her voice trailed off, and her eyes filled with tears. She drew in a choked breath. “It’s just hard, you know? I thought we, your father and I … I thought forever meant forever. I thought we were … that we were happy. I was. Completely.”

      Her mother fell silent for a moment, her gaze turned to the window and the bright day beyond. “I still love him.”

      Andie stared at her mother, hurting so bad each breath tore at her chest. Even so, anger at her father coiled inside her, anger and resentment.

       How could he have done this to them? How could he have done it to her mom?

      As if sensing her daughter’s despair, Marge turned back to her. She covered her hand. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I shouldn’t have said that.”

      “Don’t apologize, Mom. It’s his fault. He’s the one who—”

      “No,” her mother said, cutting her off, “I shouldn’t have said anything to you. Not now or the night he … told us he was leaving. I handled that all wrong. And everything since, too.” She sighed. “I was so hurt, I wanted to hurt him back, just a little. I used you kids, his love for you, to do it.”

      “Mom, don’t—”

      “No, honey, what I did was wrong and not very mature. Your father loves you and your brothers very much.”

      “Then why did he leave us?”

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