CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
I’m not a religious person. Not really.
My mother was. She believed in angels, in divine signs, miracles in the quiet whispers of prayer. She tried not to miss church every Sunday. When I was younger, I would accompany her and Dad, sitting between them. The older I grew, the more I realized I’m not as devoted as ever was. But as I sit in the passenger seat of Adam’s car, watching the road blur past us, I find myself silently begging, pleading to whatever force might be out there.
Please, let my father be okay. Let him just be hiding. Let him be mad at me, drunk, lost, whatever. Just not… hurt.
There’s a heavy pit in my stomach, one I can’t reason away. Something feels wrong. Deeply wrong. But I don’t have anything concrete to back it up; just this eerie sense that so
