Oblivion (Sasha Dawn) by Sasha Dawn

Author:Sasha Dawn
Language: eng
Format: mobi
ISBN: 9781606844779
Publisher: EgmontUSA
Published: 2014-05-26T21:00:00+00:00

It’s a little after nine in the morning, and while service doesn’t begin for nearly an hour, the nave below me is already filling with members of the congregation. It’s the one-year anniversary of Hannah Rynes’s disappearance. There’s a poster-sized print of her, looking much like I remember, resting on an easel near the meditation nook. Candles blaze in her memory. There is no reference to the man who might’ve kidnapped her, probably out of courtesy to Hannah’s family, although some of the parishioners were so snowed by Palmer’s word that they assume my father is as much a victim of foul play as Hannah, that he followed whoever took her to save her.

They wouldn’t feel that way, if they’d stood witness to the man beneath the alb.

I walk the length of the balcony, toward the reverend’s quarters, and find the door slightly ajar. I sneak inside the rectory, and tiptoe to the far side of the room, toward the room my father called the confessional.

Now that I’ve been to confession at Carmel—reconciliation is a requirement in religion class—I know that Palmer’s confessional was anything but a safe place to reconcile sins with God. His calling this small room of terror a confessional is further proof of his twisted mind, if you ask me. I very nearly hear my mother’s screams as I approach.

My gut churns. My fingertips buzz with warning, although logically, I know I won’t find my father behind that door, but his replacement, preparing for this morning’s sermon. I draw in a long breath, searching for any hint of Palmer’s aftershave—piney, like something reminiscent of an evergreen forest.

When I don’t catch the scent, I trudge on.

I meet with subtle differences instantly. The draperies are no longer a navy-and-forest stripe, tied back with gold ropes; rather, they’re airier, beige corduroy tab tops. Evidence that the world has continued to turn without Palmer’s pushing it. Evidence that all the things around me have progressed, and my life can’t continue in the past. Hopefully, all that will change soon, if not today.

A quick peek into the confessional, the door to which is propped open with a wedge of wood, confirms my assumptions: Andrew Drake is bent over the writing desk. I enter and close the confessional door behind me with a loud clap.

Andrew Drake looks up from whatever’s busying him on my father’s—now his—tabletop. His mouth forms a small o. He’s an attractive man, but I’m not attracted to him. Never have been. My history with him embarrasses me, and judging by the flush crawling up his neck, he’s none too proud, either. The girl I am today would never have done what I did with him, but the girl I used to be didn’t care about right and wrong as much as she craved security and understanding. At least that’s what Dr. Ewing says.

“Morning,” I say.

His mouth clamps shut, and he watches as I steadily approach.

It’s a closet of a room, about nine by nine, but it feels larger,

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