The Spirit—right. More and more I heard the voice of the Spirit talking to me, telling me things, usually in the voice of Uncle Jeremiah. I wasn’t sure if the Spirit was Jeremiah or if Jeremiah had been so close with the Spirit that it just took his form now as a matter of convenience. To be honest, I didn’t understand much about the afterlife. My visions had never really taken a turn into that realm, for better or for worse. I figured with more practice I could get a glimpse here and there, maybe like that guy St. Paul knew who got swept up into “Third Heaven,” whatever Third Heaven meant. Did heaven have levels like a skyscraper, and the better you were, the higher the floor you wound up on when you died? Maybe I could write a poem about it.

Grandma gave me a well, go on kind of look, so I cleared my throat and gave it a shot.

“Hi, Horace,” I said.

He grunted into his gag, eyes wide, staring up at me.

With fear. I realized Horace was afraid of me, of what I could do to him.

What could I do to him, really?

And that’s when I understood: I could do anything I wanted to Horace. I had the law on my side, right? At the very least, I had the law outside this door with a shotgun. I had the Spirit in me, I had my visions, I had Grandma and the Farm. Every single bit of that was power. And what did Horace have, bloody and bruised and stinking of piss and sweat, useless, duct-taped to a chair?

Horace had nothing at all.

I felt Jeremiah near me, praying over me.

Do not be afraid, whispered Jeremiah, for you are not alone. Speak, and the Spirit will come to your aid.

I took a deep breath and tried again. I looked down at Horace, and it was like I could see his fear, a great gray-black mass of it swarming his brain like an infection. It was almost palpable, his terror of me, of what I could do to him. I could do this. I only had to let the Spirit speak through me.

“Hi, Horace,” I said again, but I was smiling this time. “Grandma, loosen that gag on his mouth.”

“You sure about that?” she said.

“Horace isn’t going to try anything, not now. He’s too hungry, and he’s too scared. Besides, I have some questions for him.”

Grandma pulled the gag out of his mouth and dropped it on the dirty floor. He gasped a little at the stale air, and when he spoke his voice was soft and brittle, whittled thin by days spent bound on the church floor.

“I didn’t kill your momma,” he said. “No matter what they tell you, I didn’t do it. I loved her.”