Page 5 of Creeping Lily

LINCOLN

T he rescue takes forever.

One thing after another, each more pointless than the last. The battery’s in. The cables are tight. The car still won’t start.

I slam my boot into the tire. “Lousy piece of shit!”

Will just leans on the roof, smirking like I’m a toddler throwing a tantrum. “Don’t talk to her like that.”

“Why do you even hang onto this clunk of metal?” My hands drag through my already wrecked hair. “You could buy ten new cars and still have change for lunch.”

“This,” he says, patting the faded hood, “is history.”

“Yes, I’ve heard your Bundy theory before.”

He grins. “You love it.”

What I love is not freezing my ass off on the side of a freeway at midnight because Will refuses to let his precious rust bucket die. But before I can tell him that, my phone rings.

I don’t need to check the ID. The ringtone’s different—sharp. My mother.

Will’s smirk falters. He knows she never calls. Not unless it’s bad .

I answer.

Her voice bursts through, high-pitched and shaking. Words tumble over each other, muffled by background whispers and shuffling.

“Just come home, Lincoln. We need you now.”

The line goes dead.

I stare at my phone. My chest tightens.

Will watches me. “That didn’t sound good.”

“It wasn’t.” I pocket the phone, already deciding. “Wilma’s staying here. Get her towed later. Come on, I’ll drop you off.”

For once, he doesn’t argue.

The guesthouse is wrong the second I pull up.

The porch light’s on, but the shadows underneath it feel… heavier.

The smell hits first—stale beer, bile, something acrid underneath. Vomit. My stomach flips.

Inside, the mess is surgical in its chaos. A console overturned. Liquor pooling on the floorboards. A chair angled like it was shoved aside in a hurry.

My mother appears from the hall. Her hand presses flat to my chest, stopping me in the doorway. She’s pale, eyes wide.

Behind her, my father stands in the living room, shoulders squared but gaze… heavy. Regret. Defeat. Two words I’ve never attributed to him.

“What is it?” My voice is already sharp.

Her grip on my shirt tightens. She doesn’t answer.

“Lily. Your brother. Oh God…” She buries her face against me, and the sound that comes out of her is broken.

Fear punches through my ribs. “Was there an accident? Where are they? ”

Maria steps out from the back. Lily’s room. She doesn’t meet my eyes, hands wringing so hard her knuckles are white.

Doctor Bernard follows. Our family doctor. He doesn’t make house calls. Ever. The fact he’s here twists my gut into a knot.

“Someone tell me what the fuck is going on!”

The words hit like bullets.

Swelling.

Bruising.

Vaginal tearing.

Psychological trauma.

Rape.

Rape.

Rape.

The doctor’s voice is steady. Mine isn’t. The syllables scrape through my skull until they’re carved there.

He hands Maria a small paper bag. “Morning-after pill. Antibiotics. Painkillers.” His eyes flick to my father, then away. “This concludes our business.”

No warmth. No pretense. Just an exit.

I round on my father. “You’re not covering this up. Tell me you’re not!”

“Keep your voice down,” my mother hisses, but the fury in my chest is volcanic.

“She’s sixteen !” My shout rattles the picture frames on the wall. “She was raped in our home!”

Maria closes Lily’s door. Maybe she’s protecting her from the noise. Maybe she’s protecting me from seeing her.

“This will ruin us,” my father whispers.

Ruin us. Not her. Us.

“What aren’t you telling me? Where’s Bentley?”

My father’s tone is flat, political. “A scandal like this ends everything. Your career. Your brother’s. Mine. This dies here, quietly. ”

“You’re going to let her suffer more of this? For something that wasn’t even her fault?” I can’t believe what I’m hearing.

“We can, and we will.” My mother’s voice cracks. She’s crying again, but she’s not fighting.

And then—quietly, like it’s tearing her throat to say it?—

“Bentley… was there.”

The world tilts. My breath catches.

Not an accident. Not strangers. Not random.

My brother was there.

My pulse is a war drum in my ears.

Bentley. Was there.

I move before my mother can stop me. She grabs at my sleeve, but I tear free. Maria’s eyes widen as I shoulder past her.

Lily’s room smells faintly of vanilla undercut by antiseptic. The light is low, the blinds half-drawn, and for a heartbeat I think she’s asleep. Then I see her face.

Christ.

She lies on her side, body folded tight as if she could make herself disappear.

Knees drawn to her chest, arms wrapped around her ribs, she curls into the smallest version of herself—fragile, breakable, a silhouette of someone retreating back into the safety of the womb.

The world has stripped her raw, and this is all that’s left: a foetal shape carved out of grief and exhaustion, clinging to the idea that if she stays small enough, the darkness might pass her by.

Her skin is paper-white except for the bruises—violet smudges along her jaw, a shadowed bloom across one cheek. Her lip is split. A strip of medical tape disappears beneath her nightshirt, where the neckline has been tugged awkwardly to hide more damage.

Her hair, usually braided, is a tangled curtain across her pillow. Someone’s tucked a blanket around her, but her hands are fisted tight in the fabric, like she’s holding on to keep from falling away entirely.

She stirs, lids fluttering. Her gaze drags toward me, glassy, and in a voice that barely makes it past her lips, she says my name.

“Lincoln.”

It’s a broken thing—plea, relief, apology all at once.

I cross the room in two steps and kneel beside her. My hand hovers over her shoulder, afraid to touch in case she shatters.

“I’m here. You’re safe.”

Her eyes fill. A tear slips down her temple into her hairline. She opens her mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. Just that shaking breath.

Maria reappears in the doorway. “She needs to rest, Lincoln.”

I glance back at her. “She needs justice.”

Maria’s expression is unreadable, but she doesn’t argue.

I stand. My hands are shaking, but it’s not fear. It’s pure, unadulterated rage.

I find Bentley in the kitchen. He’s standing at the counter, sleeves rolled up, hair still damp from a shower. Like this is any other night. He’s scrolling his phone like he’s looking for something.

He looks up when he hears me. “Lincoln.”

I don’t answer. I don’t even blink.

“Mother said you?—”

My fist connects with his jaw before he can finish. His head snaps sideways, phone clattering to the floor.

“What the hell?—”

Another punch. This one splits his lip. He staggers back, catches himself on the counter. “You’re insane?— ”

“She’s sixteen!” My voice cracks the air. “Where were you!”

Bentley’s smirk is gone now, replaced by something colder. “Watch your mouth.”

“I’ll rip your fucking throat out before I watch it.” I lunge again, but my father’s hand clamps around my arm, yanking me back.

“That’s enough,” he barks.

“It’s not enough until he’s in the ground.” I wrench free, chest heaving. “You’re protecting him? After what his friends did? After what happened to her?”

My mother stands frozen in the doorway, one hand pressed to her lips. Bentley wipes the blood from his mouth, eyes hard and unrepentant.

“Careful, little brother,” he says softly. “Remember who you are and who this family is.”

“Fuck you,” I snarl. “And so help me, if I find out you laid a hand on her, I’ll end you myself.”

He smiles faintly, arrogantly. I don’t know why his smirk never bothered me as much as it does now.

My father steps between us. “This family survives because we keep our own secrets. Remember that.”

I stare at all of them—my father’s control, my mother’s shame, Bentley’s arrogance—and realize something sharp and irreversible:

They’ll bury this.

They’ll bury her.

And if I let them, I’ll be complicit.