Page 11 of Creeping Lily
Maria reappears in the doorway. “She needs to rest, Lincoln.”
I glance back at her. “She needs justice.”
Maria’s expression is unreadable, but she doesn’t argue.
I stand. My hands are shaking, but it’s not fear. It’s pure, unadulterated rage.
I findBentley in the kitchen. He’s standing at the counter, sleeves rolled up, hair still damp from a shower. Like this is any other night. He’s scrolling his phone like he’s looking for something.
He looks up when he hears me. “Lincoln.”
I don’t answer. I don’t even blink.
“Mother said you?—”
My fist connects with his jaw before he can finish. His head snaps sideways, phone clattering to the floor.
“What the hell?—”
Another punch. This one splits his lip. He staggers back, catches himself on the counter. “You’re insane?—”
“She’s sixteen!” My voice cracks the air. “Where were you!”
Bentley’s smirk is gone now, replaced by something colder. “Watch your mouth.”
“I’ll rip your fucking throat out before I watch it.” I lunge again, but my father’s hand clamps around my arm, yanking me back.
“That’s enough,” he barks.
“It’s not enough until he’s in the ground.” I wrench free, chest heaving. “You’re protecting him? After what his friends did? After what happened to her?”
My mother stands frozen in the doorway, one hand pressed to her lips. Bentley wipes the blood from his mouth, eyes hard and unrepentant.
“Careful, little brother,” he says softly. “Remember who you are and who this family is.”
“Fuck you,” I snarl. “And so help me, if I find out you laid a hand on her, I’ll end you myself.”
He smiles faintly, arrogantly. I don’t know why his smirk never bothered me as much as it does now.
My father steps between us. “This family survives because we keep our own secrets. Remember that.”
I stare at all of them—my father’s control, my mother’s shame, Bentley’s arrogance—and realize something sharp and irreversible:
They’ll bury this.
They’ll bury her.
And if I let them, I’ll be complicit.
6
LILY
Depression.
It’s a word I never knew the meaning of. Something whispered about in passing, meant for other people. Not me. Not until the doctor said it—soft as a confession, heavy as judgment—and the sound of it cracked the air like a match struck before lighting a fire.
Now it’s everywhere.
