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Mrs. Dubois shot a stinging glare across the church aisle. Nell paused from mouthing the hymn to wonder if it was because the old woman could smell the alcohol on her breath, or because, like the rest of this town, she knew Nell had blood on her hands.

Whatever the answer, both possibilities made Nell bow her head in false reverence to blend into the crowd. But that was impossible. She was easy to pick out in a crowd of disciples; the black box dye she’d used was starting to wash out, leaving green tints in her natural golden roots.

The rest of the congregation was better at hiding it than Mrs. Dubois, but Nell could hear their whispers, even if they thought she couldn’t.

Even the kids stared for too long; that was the only evidence she needed to know that though they kept their voices low in the house of God, they didn’t do the same in front of their families.

Not very “love one another” of them but, to be fair, she wasn’t exactly deserving of that love—godly or otherwise.

The song came to a close, and the pastor nodded his thanks to the musicians as he took the pulpit.

Dressed to the nines, with a full head of blond hair held down with gel, he looked out into the crowd.

For a split second, his eyes landed on Nell then flicked away like he couldn’t bear to look at her.

She knew he couldn’t smell the alcohol from there, but her father, Pastor George Duncan, had to have noticed by now that his secret supply of whiskey behind his toolbox in the garage was shrinking quicker than he was used to.

She’d been careful at first, but now she didn’t care if he noticed. He wouldn’t dare reveal his own secret just to tell on her to her mother, who sat oblivious next to Nell and nodded along to everything her husband said.

Nell blocked the sermon out and took to picking at her nails and blinking slowly as she started to sober. She should have brought some whiskey with her to make this weekly torture a little more bearable.

This time, her dad said yet another thing that was meant to distill the community members but only egged them into hating her more.

“Forgiveness is no easy feat.” Pastor Duncan walked around his pulpit, his voice holding an air of authority that came from years of being a community figure.

“Sometimes people do things that leave us wondering how we could accept them as a person, much less forgive them for what they have done.”

The staring eyes poked at her skin like thousands of needles.

Being the pastor’s daughter always put weight on her shoulders, ever since she’d learned the difference between right and wrong. It had compounded as she grew, but for the past three months, being the pastor’s daughter was the only thing that kept people from running her out of town.

That girl, Janelle Duncan , they would say. I never imagined she’d do such a thing.

Neither did I , she would say back.

Her father continued. “While we sit and wonder if another is worth our forgiveness, wonder instead if they are worth God’s forgiveness. The answer will always be the same: yes. We, his children, are his most precious creations, and he will forgive us as long as we ask for it.”

Nell wrung her hands together and stared at them.

He always did this, always tried to plant seeds into others’ heads so they would either forget what she’d done or ease up on her.

Her mom’s soft hand, smelling of sweet vanilla, covered hers and paused their fidgeting. “He’s just trying to help, sweetheart.”

Help whom?

Help them find another thing to judge her about, or help her want to tear her hair out?

They always did this.

Her parents were staple community figures. Their images mattered more than anything else. Nell had done a number on their reputation, and since then, they’d been performing a balancing act of keeping her safe, secure, and alive, and keeping themselves in good social standing.

It was exhausting to watch, and it was exhausting to be on one side of it.

But she couldn’t bear to hurt them any more than she already had, so instead of saying anything, Nell kept her mouth shut and pretended to listen to the rest of the sermon. She didn’t bother to pretend to sing the hymn as the rest of the alcohol wore off, leaving her unbearably sober.

* * *

“I’m going to leave first,” Nell said, desperate to get out of the church.

Her fingers fiddled impatiently with the hem of the dirty denim jacket her mother had told her not to wear over the pretty frilly pink dress that had once been her favorite.

The dress’s puffed sleeves made the denim ones clunky and put more weight into Nell’s arms than there really was.

She wouldn’t have been caught dead in this outfit before, back when she’d enjoyed pampering herself and making sure her hair was perfectly teased, makeup expertly applied, and image as pristine as a catalog family portrait.

Her mother excused herself from conversing with the other members and turned to Nell, a strained but concerned smile on her face. “Why don’t you ride with us today? It’s been a while.”

Three months, actually. And if Nell had it her way, it would stay that way.

The thought of staying in the church any longer was nauseating. The thought of getting in a car more so.

“I’m okay. I need to grab some shampoo from the store on the way, so you don’t need to wait up for me.”

“Don’t take too long. We’re having guests over for dinner tonight, and you could help me get ready.”

Nell said nothing, just nodded.

It didn’t matter if hosting dinners and parties had become a chore. If she complained, the only thing that would happen was mild encouragement that she’d always been a great host.

Her parents’ discipline had grown soft, to say the least, though legally they had no right to discipline a nineteen-year-old for anything. She still lived under their roof, though, still ate their food and slept in her childhood bed.

Ever since the accident, she’d become a porcelain doll to her parents.

They’d seen firsthand how easily someone’s child could be shattered and lost forever, so now they held Nell with careful, gentle hands and hid the cracks in her porcelain by painting over them and declaring them fixed.

Nell smiled as best she could. “Okay, Mom. I’ll be quick.”

Nell left the foyer of the church and ignored the lingering gazes as she walked down the stairs. She stopped to grab her old red bicycle that was leaning against the shrubbery landscaping.

She walked the bike a ways from the church before she swung her legs over, mounted the seat, and began pedaling.

Getting away from the stuffy church should have eased her, but her chest remained tense. Nowhere and nothing felt normal anymore unless she had something numbing it.

Her mom didn’t need to know that she had plenty of shampoo left in the bottle in her shower.

But Nell didn’t want either of her parents to know that she’d run out of her cigarettes the night before, and she’d been itching to get her hands on some.

They were at least easier to hide in her pockets than alcohol.

The convenience store on Main Street had the kind she liked, and the cheapest ones. With the five dollars she’d brought from her allowance, she would be able to buy two, maybe three packs, which was enough to tide her over for a week or two.

She pedaled hard down the hill, away from the tall church building and into town, passing neighborhoods and other cars. She didn’t care if riding a bike in a skirt showed too much. She’d rather flash every passing car than get in one again.

Sundays in Gemsburg, unlike other days of the week, were slower. People drove slower, walked slower.

It was lucky, at least, that her reflexes remained quick enough to register a blue car that pulled into the road just meters in front of her, not paying attention.

She gasped and hit her bike brakes, her tires screeching on the asphalt as she lost her balance and fell over.

She landed on the road with a grunt, a stinging sensation running up her knees as the smell of burning tires filled her nose.

It was a familiar scent. It had ingrained itself in her.

She sniffed, trying to get rid of it, clenched her eyes shut, and laid her head back onto the sharp pebbles behind her.

The driver laid on the horn, as if she were the one who had cut them off, before they made a point to speed away.

Nell stayed still.

The smell wouldn’t go away. There was a sound in her ear that resembled the screech of her tires, and the longer she kept her eyes closed, the darker her imagination became.

Her breath grew heavy, and even though she knew her body was okay, she feared opening her eyes.

Her heart pounded. It ached.

She knew there was nothing in the road. No broken glass, no wrecked cars. Just a girl who had fallen off her bike and scraped her knees.

Yet still, she feared what her mind might trick her into seeing when she chose to look.

Nell remained there for a few moments until there was another shrill honk, this time followed by a kinder person who called out to check on her.

Their momentary concern brought her back to reality. It gave her an ounce of courage—enough to open her eyes.

There was nothing there.

She took a deep breath.

She needed those cigarettes. Desperately.

The driver stayed long enough to make sure she could get off the ground before they, too, left her.

Nell couldn’t get back on the bike, so instead, she picked it up and walked—with some difficulty because of her raw knees—the rest of the way on the sidewalk to the convenience store.

Nell’s eyes remained on the ground right in front of her feet as she willed herself to take each wobbling step forward.

Everything else came in bits and pieces.

There was the store. There was the machine where she vended three packs of cigarettes. There was the cashier, raising a brow at her bloodied knees.

There was her bike, on the ground outside of the store.

There she was, slumping on the curb next to her bike and tearing open the cigarette pack.