Over the years, Quenton Morehead had convinced himself that his molestation of Lilith had been a necessary part of her ‘exorcism.’ He had already asked Jesus for forgiveness, and if the Lord could forgive him, then surely Lilith would. Now in his late sixties, he had eased up on the child’s ‘treatments,’ fearing the emboldened teenager might speak out against his acts.

But Quenton still had his needs, and the girl’s budding adolescence gnawed at him, creating desires that even prayer cannot staunch. But this public display of nudity—this was something altogether different. The girl was teasing him, charging his insides with electricity.

Lilith moans louder as she slips her fingers beneath her bikini bottom and pleasures herself.

It is more than Quenton can handle. Leaving the bathroom, he heads outside.

Feeling his presence, Lilith opens her eyes. ‘Something you wanted?’

Quenton grabs her by the arm, dragging her to her feet. ‘You wanna be a bad girl? I’ll show you what we do with bad girls—’

Lilith slips inside the nexus.

A moment later, Quenton Morehead finds himself on his back on the freshly mowed lawn, staring up at the blue heavens and his granddaughter’s surreal azure eyes.

Lilith’s fist blots out the view as it wallops his nose.

‘Oww … God … damn you, you little whore!’ Blood spurts from both nostrils.

‘Whore? Whores get paid, Quenton.’

‘I have paid you! Fourteen years I’ve fed you and clothed you and kept a roof over your head. You owe me!’

Still straddling him, she fondles her breasts. ‘You want this, Quenton? Come and get it.’

He reaches for her, but she hits him again, the furious, impossibly fast blow knocking loose his front teeth.

Lilith is on her feet, her bikini bottoms twirling around her index finger as she struts, naked, back into the house. ‘Be sure to put the lawn mower away before you come in.’

Quenton rolls over, spitting out two bloody teeth. Only thing I’m gonna do is beat the hell outta you, then do you ’til you walk funny.

16

NOVEMBER 1, 2027: FEDERAL CORRECTIONAL INSTITUTE, MIAMI, FLORIDA

‘… nineteen … twenty … twenty-one …’

Eighty-two-year-old inmate Pierre Robert Borgia sucks air through his teeth, his face red, his muscles trembling as he completes his daily regimen of sit-ups.

‘… twenty-two … twenty-three … twenty-four …’

It has been nearly fifteen years since the former secretary of state was incarcerated for ordering the murder of Michael Gabriel.

‘… twenty-five … twenty-six … twenty-seven …’

Borgia has been a model prisoner. He has helped tutor inmates in a literacy program. He has led prayer groups on Sundays.

‘… twenty-eight … twenty-nine … thirty …’

Daily video-mail has kept him apprized of his family’s efforts to reduce his sentence. He knows parole is just around the corner.

‘… thirty-one … thirty-two … thirty-three …’

Exercise has helped keep Borgia’s blood pressure in check. Daily meditation has preserved his sanity.

The thought of revenge keeps him alive.

‘… thirty-four … thirty-five … thirty-six …’