I wonder if this is where Del’s holed up. I study the windows, their screens hanging awry, curtains in tatters. It’s impossible to tell if there’s anyone in there or not. Then I catch a glimpse of movement—not inside the house, but along the side.

Nothing’s changed, except . . .

I blink and take a closer look. The figure I thought I saw has either stepped out of sight or it’s just me, projecting more of my fears. But I swear I caught a glimpse of a priest in his black habit, standing at the corner of the house before he slipped away.

I step back deeper under the trees, hoping I wasn’t seen.

Does this mean they’re all here? All the freaks that made my life such a horror show?

Del, the priest, my old boyfriend Rob, my foster parents . . .

I feel nausea rise up my throat and I have to sit down. I lean my head against the trunk of the tall birch behind me, wishing I could stop the flood of memories. But I can’t.

Del was the worst betrayal—because you expect your family to protect you, not to hurt you—but Father Cleary came pretty close. When the church preaches love, you don’t think they mean it so literally.

I had my first communion when I was six, which followed hard on the heels of my first confession. I knew what I had to confess, but I also knew what Del would do if I ever told anybody. That line Mattie had about having her nose cut off and a necklace made of her fingers and toes—that came from Del. I’d only ever tried to tell anyone about it once, when it first started happening. All it got me was a slap in the face from my mother for being such a filthy little liar. And later Del made his own point: he burned me with the end of his cigarette, then claimed I’d walked into it. Naturally, they all believed him.

So I couldn’t confess to the priest because I wanted to keep my nose and fingers and toes, and I didn’t want to be burned again. But it started eating at me because I knew I was lying during confession by not telling about it.

I realized that not only was Del hurting me, but when I died I was going straight to hell.

Still, it was another two years before I finally got the courage.

There I am, this little eight-year-old girl trying to tell the priest what’s been happening to me, and he says that I have to go to his office after I leave the confessional and wait for him there.

“This is very serious, Jillian,” he told me. “We’re going to have to pray hard and long together to make things better between you and the Lord.”