I pass photos of Mom and Luther, the three of us together as a family, and at the top is a photo of Luther and Lucas. Lucas looks so much younger than Luther. He could be mistaken for Luther's son. I stare at the photo of the two of them together, Luther standing behind Lucas with his hand on his shoulder. Lucas Wellman – posing with his friendly, smiling face – doesn't look sinister. His misdeeds are unreadable in the depths of those dancing blue eyes. He looks youthful, full of mischief, handsome – even likeable. “May you rot in Hell,” I raise my punch and toast his portrait before continuing.
I walk along the familiar hall. I know it well. I grew up here. I head for the bedroom that was once mine. I hold my breath as I open the door. Nausea grips me. I spent my childhood in this room.
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