He had spent four years trying to convince himself that he could find Gabriel. For four years he stared at that dark corner in the church. Four years plotting. Four years wondering. Four years alone. The schoolyard was quiet without Gabriel. In the early days, weeks, even the first few months of his disappearance, his classmates would surround him, ask him where Gabriel was, why he wasn’t at school, how unfair it was that the pastor’s boy got to skip class. But none of them knew the truth. None of them could understand what he had gone through, let alone what Gabriel went through--door and all. They hadn’t seen him all those nights ago. Full of fear, and regret. All sorrow gleaned through his small body in that big church. To this day, Adam continued to shake at the thought fo him. Of the darkness. The rings. The water. The very act of terrorizing one’s own son bore into Adam’s mind. But he never found the true courage to find Gabriel, to go after him

 One day, though, he approached Father Carter. It was the end of Sunday Mass, the church was emptying. His parents and Lily had gone to the back of the pews, chitchatting with Ivan Krass’s parents.

Adam watched the pastor from his seat on the pew bench. The man was brushing his robes, and adjusting his vestments. His gaze rose from his sleeves to Adam. The boy did not look away. Neither did Father Carter. Adam’s heart thumped in his chest. 

The pastor moved around the podium of the dais and down the stairs. Adam stood, walking down the aisle to the man. Most would have moved out of the pastor’s way when they met. But Adam--he grew bold since that night. 

“Where is he?” Adam raised his little chin and looked up at the man. He refused to be intimate, not by this adult, not by anyone. Father Carter looked down, cokcing a brow. Then he knelt to Adam’s height and took the boy’s chin between his fingers. Adam tried to shake his grip but it only tightened. He steeled his gaze instead. 

Father Carter stayed quiet for a moment, then another, and another.

Finally, he said, “Don’t worry about my son, Adam.”

“He’s my friend,” replied Adam, though it was hard to say anything with the way Father’s fingers clutched his jaw, squeezing his cheeks. 

Father Carter shook his head, “No. He is not your friend now.”

“Where is he?”

“Gabriel is where he needs to be,” he let go of the boy’s face and turned him towards the back of the church. “Now, off with you.” His large hand pressed the small of Adam’s back and urged him forward.

Adam spun around and slapped the man’s arm away. His breaths came heavy, ragged, hot. He glared at the man with hatred in his eyes--it was a feeling he had never known before. It was dense in his chest and held his heart down. The consequential slapping noise between Adam’s small palm and the father’s well-adjusted arm resounded in the church. It echoed, once but all eyes turned to them. The air had been sucked into everyone’s chests. But Adam did not care. He cared not for punishment or a scolding. Let them do their worst. Their worst was nothing compared to iron sealing him.

“Where is he?” He said again, this time with the sharpest gaze a child could give to such a great man.

There was silence. 

Then came Dad’s voice. “Adam.” A hand ripped him around. He was now facing Dad, steeled gaze, same hate, same little boy.

Adults cared too much about how they were seen. They had shame and when you have shame, everything held you back. But Adam was a boy; a little boy did not have shame. Yet. 

“Where is he?” Said Adam.

“We’re going home,” said Dad and pulled Adam along.

But with a strong pull, the boy ripped his arm out of Dad’s grip and roared, piercing through the air as he turned his heel and charged at Father Carter.

A stray thought crossed Adam’s mind. In the moments, his feet hitting the tile floor, his anger bubbling inside him like an overcooked pot of noodles--he wondered what he looked like. Small, frail, oak-toned and nothing but that bubbling fury inside him about to tackle the Pastor’s legs, hoping to carry him crashing down with him. 

He lunged, foul and swift, he kicked off the ground higher than he expected, than anyone expected of an eight-year-old boy. The world slowed down. The Father’s face contorted, twisting into confusion, then realization. Adam was shy of grabbing Father Carter’s neck, but his fingers caught the divet of his collarbone beneath his vestments and pulled him up. The pastor cried out. 

“Where is he?!” Adam screamed as he climbed up, wrapping his legs around Father Carter's chest. He beat the man’s head with his small fist and pummeled into his skull. Thudthudthudthud. 

Thick arms wrapped around him, meaning to pull the boy off the pastor. But he would not let go. He would see to it that this man told him where his friend went, where he put him! Adam screamed high like the child he was. It splintered everyone’s ears. And the noise, sharp as it was, relented. 

After several moments of screaming, kicking, and small punches, Adam tired, letting go of Father Carter and gazing back at him. He exhausted himself, but still wanted to reach for that man, pull the truth out of him. Adam felt his fingers twitch, sore as they were, pulsating with the blood and beaten feeling of his punches. His hands flexed—the urge to dig his nails back into the hollowed-out flesh of the man’s collarbone and pull. Rip the bone from underneath the skin. And that thought, that small violent thought, made him shudder. 

Dad dragged him outside. Mom on their heels after profusely apologizing to Father Carter. There was a small welt forming above his eyebrow. His skin was splotchy with redness. His eyes glazed over as he looked ahead toward Adam. Lily walked ahead, her head down, short black hair fell afront her face. Her eyes were on the ground and the sound of Adam struggling in Dad’s grip was the only noise she cared to pay attention to. Lily never often paid attention too much; she had always been the small one in the back of the room, tucked at a corner, hidden beneath shaded trees and shadowed hallways. Lily learned to disappear in plain sight. It was simple, really, especially with a brother such as Adam: loud, stubborn. Lily Finch had seen the days crawl by, grueling and slow. However, when you come to simply watching people, becoming an observer to everything and everyone, you take notice of time. 

Dad threw Adam into the car. The boy knocked his head on the center console. Lily flinched but Adam shot right up, unafflicted, slamming his palms onto the window. 

Lily’s chest tightened with the incoming tension. She had seen Adam and Dad fight. She had seen how Adam’s attitude blurred the lines between being a stubborn boy to someone Dad didn’t recognize. An eight-year-old with the temperament of a drunk, Dad had said to Mom. Mom never stuck herself between them--she knew better and so did Lily. When Mom opened the car and got in, Adam and Dad were screaming at each other.

Lily glued her eyes to the ground but the air--it was suffocating, full of static and fuzz, and an electricity that crinkled over her skin. She was waiting for it. The anticipation cloying its way up her throat. It had taken a lot to break Dad’s own temper, though. The yelling, the shouting, it was normal.

But then, the static seized itself. At once, Dad’s hand went flying, gripping at Adam’s throat. It all happened so fast, that Lily was barely paying attention. In one moment, it was all noise. In the next, silence. Her ears popped. She turned to see her brother, flung back against the seat. Dad’s hand slid away off his neck and held him down.

“I am tired of you,” he said, rumbling the words in his chest. “For weeks, you have peste3red me about that boy, and I have remained gentle, understanding.” His lips curled back.

“Jason--” Mom attempted to ease him back, a hand on his bicep, but he brushed her away.

Dad spat, “No,” hsi eyes never left Adam. “He needs to learn. God forbid I don’t teach you here.” He removed his hand, the pressure, the weight off of Adam’s chest, and turned to face the wheel. 

Adam lay there, still and staring through the windshield. Lily could not read his face. It was stone. She did reach for his hand, but he didn’t budge. Didn’t move even an inch. But she held his hand. 

A ringing filled her ears. She turned to Mom. Eyes meeting. 

*** 

At home, Dad dragged Adam upstairs. 

At home, Mom turned on the coffee pot.

At home, Lily sat on the sofa. 

At home, the sounds from upstairs were quiet and dull. 

Then they grew. Then it turned into horror. As the clock ticked its seconds, each one was met with the sound of leather against church pants. The wail of a boy. The scorn of a father. The stifled sob of a mother. The silence of a daughter. 

Dad had descended the stairs. Temples gleaming in the morning sunlight, sweat rolling down his neck. He walked through the house like a giant. 

Mom handed him a glass of water. Lily bit her cheek. She would never understand Mom. Never really understood her, but Mom was married. Mom had the life of being a married woman, Lily was but her child, as confusing as that may be. But here she was gentle with this man--Dad. 

Mom said, “Where is he?”

“In his room,” Dad replied between gulps. “Adam!” He yelled. Lily flinched. 

Small footsteps thudded above their heads. Lily lifted her head to follow the sound until Adam reared the corner. His eyes were puffy, his nose red, his entire body shook. Against her better judgment, Lily suddenly moved, kicking off the sofa, and ran at her brother. She was going to get in trouble for it. But she’d done it before, and she’d do it again. 

THis wasn’t the first time. This wouldn’t be the last, but each time, Lily would reach for her brother, because she saw, deep in him a twisting ball of hatred and despair beginning to form. Perhaps not exactly like that, but, still, what was she meant to be if not his sister? 

“What do you have to say to your mother, Adam?”  Adam stifled a sob and wiped his face. 

“I’m sorry.” He said. They heard him, as soft as his voice may have been, they heard him and knew what he said.

Mom started, “oh, baby,” her foot moved in front of her, “it’s okay--”

But Dad grabbed her wrist. “No. Say you’re sorry.” His eyes darkened.

Adam said, again, “I’m sorry.”

Ringing in Lily’s ears, “move.”

“He said he was--”

“Move, boy.” Lily’s chest stiffened. She moved.

Adam watched as Lily stepped away from him. But, more importantly, he watched as she tucked her hands close to her chest. She slinked back into the shadows of the house. She disappeared and Adam was once again alone. 

Adam approached his parents, eyes locked on Mom’s as he stepped closer and closer. 

Mom knelt and gazed right into Adam’s eyes. Once more, tears rushed to the surface.

“I’m sorry,” he said, stifling a sob. “I’m sorry for what I did.” Adam fell right into Mom’s arms. SHe pulled him in, held him, and embraced him until she squeezed the tears right out fo him. 

Adam didn’t know why he was crying. Maybe, it was the stinging that flared whenever he moved his legs. Maybe, it was the dull, thudding feeling beneath the corner of his skull. Maybe, he was confessing something. Maybe, his apology wasn’t for Mom. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe, he was simply crying. 

Maybe.

And, in some miraculous way, Adam had never thought of Gabriel again. 

Or so he had wished.