Page 66 of Sinner’s Torment

Hannah laughed softly from the end of the table, shaking her head. “She had very specific ideas about her future. Very specific.”

“Can we please not do this?” Brandy said, setting her fork down with more force than necessary. “Can we not sit here and embarrass me in front of—” She stopped abruptly, like she’d been about to say something she couldn’t take back.

In front of Torment. That was what she’d been about to say. In front of the father of her baby. In front of the man who’d shown up on her doorstep claiming he wanted to be part of her life.

“Oh, come on,” Tracy said, her grin turning mischievous. “We’re just getting started. Duke, go get the photo albums.”

“No,” Brandy said quickly, her eyes widening. “Absolutely not. Do not get the photo albums.”

“Too late,” Duke said, already pushing back from the table. “I know exactly where Mom keeps them.”

Brandy turned to her mother, desperation clear in her voice. “Mom, please. Tell them to stop.”

But Hannah just smiled, that knowing, maternal smile that said she understood exactly what was happening and had no intention of stopping it. “They’re just excited to have you home, sweetheart. Let them have their fun.”

Duke returned a moment later with three thick photo albums, the kind with plastic sleeves and handwritten labels on the spines. He dropped them on the table with a thud that made the dishes rattle, then flipped open the first one with the kind of reverence usually reserved for sacred texts. “Okay,” he said, turning the album so Mercy and I could see. “Let me introduce you to Brandy Lynn Griffin, age four.”

The photo showed a little girl with wild blonde curls and a gap-toothed smile, covered head to toe in mud. She was holding a frog in one hand and grinning at the camera like she’d just conquered the world. “She found that frog in the creek behind the house,” Duke explained, his voice warm with the memory. “Brought it inside and tried to keep it as a pet. Mom made her put it back, and Brandy cried for two hours straight.”

“I loved that frog,” Brandy muttered, but there was a softness in her voice now, the embarrassment giving way to something gentler. Nostalgia, maybe. Or longing for a simpler time.

Tracy leaned over and flipped to another page, pointing at a photo of Brandy at maybe seven or eight, standing in front of a lemonade stand with a hand-painted sign that read ‘LEMONAID 50 SENTS.’ “She set this up every summer,” Tracy said. “Made a killing too. Saved up enough money to buy herself a bike one year.”

“I was very entrepreneurial,” Brandy said, a hint of pride creeping into her voice despite herself.

“You were a hustler,” Chris corrected, laughing. “You used to water down the lemonade when you were running low and charge the same price. Dad caught you doing it once and made you refund everyone.”

“Business is business,” Brandy said with a shrug, but she was smiling now, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly.

The photos continued—Brandy at her first communion, dressed in white and looking angelic despite the mischievous glint in her eyes. Brandy at a school play, dressed as a tree and clearly taking her role very seriously. Brandy at thirteen, all awkward angles and braces, holding a trophy from a spelling bee. Each photo came with a story, a memory, a piece of the life she’d lived before she’d run away to Nebraska and ended up in a world so far removed from this one it might as well have been another planet.

I watched her as her brothers talked, cataloging every micro-expression, every shift in body language. The way her shoulders relaxed when Chris told a story about the time she’d tried to dye her hair purple and ended up with green streaks instead. The way her eyes softened when Duke mentioned how she used to read to him when he was sick, even though she was younger and barely knew how to read herself. The way she laughed—really laughed—when Tracy pulled out a photo of her at fifteen, dressed in an outfit so ridiculous it could only have been a product of early-2000s fashion trends.

This was the Brandy her family knew. The Brandy who’d grown up in this house, in this town, surrounded by people who loved her unconditionally. The Brandy who’d had dreams and plans and a future that didn’t involve motorcycle clubs or violence or running for her life in the middle of the night.

And somehow, she’d gotten dragged into my world. Into a life where she had to hide who she was, where she was reduced to a role—club whore—that stripped away everything that made her human. Where she was pregnant and alone and terrified because I hadn’t been able to articulate what she meant to me.

The guilt settled over me like a weight, heavy and suffocating.

“So, Torment,” Duke said, closing the photo album and leaning back in his chair, his expression shifting from playful to serious. “Brandy never mentioned you. Where are you from?”

I hesitated, the question catching me off guard. I’d been so focused on Brandy, on the photos and the stories and the glimpses into her past, that I hadn’t been prepared to talk about my own. “I’m also from Connecticut. Near the coast,” I said carefully. “Grew up in Madison.”

Hannah’s head snapped up, her eyes widening slightly. “Madison?” she repeated, her voice carrying a note of recognition that made my stomach tighten. “You’re from Madison?”

I nodded slowly, already regretting the admission. “Yes, ma’am. Born and raised.”

“I’m from Madison too. What’s your family name?” she asked, setting down her fork, her full attention now on me.

“Dunaway,” I said, the word feeling heavy in my mouth.

Hannah’s expression shifted, something clicking into place behind her eyes. “Dunaway,” she repeated softly, like she was testing the name, rolling it around to see if it fit. “I remember that name. Your family was in the papers years ago. There was a... a tragedy, wasn’t there?”

The air in the room changed instantly. I felt my entire body go rigid, every muscle locking down, my jaw clenching so hard I thought my teeth might crack. Mercy glanced at me sharply, his expression shifting from casual to alert in a heartbeat. He knew. He knew exactly what Hannah was about to say, and he knew I didn’t want to talk about it.

“Their daughter,” Hannah continued, her voice gentle but relentless, the way people’s voices got when they were recounting a tragedy they remembered from the news. “She was just a baby. Kidnapped right out of her stroller while her mother was grocery shopping. It was all over the news for months. They never found her, did they?”

The silence that followed was deafening.