Was he telling the truth? He seemed sincere about it. But I knew what I’d seen in my visions and what we’d found in the trunk of his car. No, Horace was bullshitting me, same as always.

“Stop lying to me, Horace,” I said. “I’m sick of it. I’m sick of the way you treated Murphy and me, the way you swooped in and wrecked all of our lives. I hate you for that. I hate you for what you did to my mom.”

It fell on me then—not a full vision, but a glimpse of something. I saw Horace at home, just a boy, with his shirt off, hunched on his knees in front of his bed. I saw a man standing over him, bald and potbellied, a cigarette burning in his mouth. I saw a belt wrapped around his fist, the buckle end dangling down like a whip. This was Horace’s father, I knew immediately. I saw him raise the belt above his head while Horace cowered beneath him.

It was just a flash, an instant, and then I was back in the toolshed, Horace looking up at me, his eyes cracked, his voice just a husk.

“Please,” he said. “I didn’t do it, Lee. I didn’t kill your mother.”

I looked down at him, and all I could see was that boy about to be whipped, staring right back at me. Staring at me the same way he had stared at his father.

I couldn’t help it. I turned and ran out of the toolshed. I vomited in the grass next to Sheriff Bearden’s boots.

Grandma came outside, frowning at me like she was disappointed.

“It seems we still have quite a lot of work to do,” she said and walked off toward the house.

I was pretty down after that. All day I couldn’t shake these nagging thoughts, like maybe I wasn’t cut out for this, like I would never be good enough, I would never be what Jeremiah was. I was so afraid of failing him, of failing Grandma, of failing our entire community. That’s what I found myself telling Cass later that night.

“You’re still new to this,” she said. “You’re still learning about yourself and about the Spirit. You’ll be a great leader, and people will open their hearts to you, to the Spirit and to our message.”