Beach Day

58: You've Got Two Feet

A weird feeling washes over her. Her grandfather is in there; she can see him through the open door. And she hyped herself up. She did what she could to get herself in there. He was here the whole time, like he was waiting for her.

He looks the same as always. For all the world, they could be themselves. They could be a grandfather and his teenage granddaughter meeting in a church. The same nose, the same eyes, the same tanned, freckled skin— it's a reunion.

He doesn't turn around to look at her. She doesn't want him to.

Tiff stands a few pews behind him. The wood there is broken, eaten-through, and torn down to the ground in places. She holds her breath for a moment, then lets it out. "I know what you did, Peepaw."

"Is that any way to greet your grandfather?" he scolds. "Let's try again. Good afternoon, Tiffany May."

"Don't." She scowls. She doesn't want to do this. "We don't need to do the routine. I know what you did."

"Tell me, Tiffany May. What, exactly, did I do?"

"You know. You know what I'm talking about."

"Enlighten me."

She steps a little closer, a pew and a half up the aisle. "Tell me about Priscilla Cain."

There's a moment of silence, as if he's thinking it over— as if he is putting two and two together. "What about Priscilla Cain?"

"Who was she?" Tiff takes a step closer, hand reaching for her sword, for the handle of the blade her aunt's destiny handed her. She already knows the answer. She just wants to hear it from his mouth. "I know you killed her. Who was she?"

He doesn't bother answering the question. "I know you haven't been honest with me. I know you aren't engaged."

"Uh— good." She narrows her eyes, takes another step forward. "Newsflash, Peepaw. I'm not going to do that. Dad was right, who would love me?"

"You could change. It isn't too late for you. You could turn your heart to the Lord once more."

She laughs, a little shocked. "You really think I would do that?"

"You would have, once."

"People change."

"People change when the Devil interferes."

"The Devil isn't real, Peepaw. But we are. And Priscilla was." Frowning, she steps in front of him and removes her hand from the sword. This is her coming in peace and putting on the face of who she was raised to be.

Kepler pokes his head around the door and disappears back around it. She pretends he doesn't see it. She's glad he's here, but she doesn't want him to get hurt. She doesn't even want him to get involved. She looks back to her grandfather.

He notices the brief lapse in her concentration. "You never could focus, Tiffany May."

"No, I couldn't. I wonder why. It's almost like there's something wrong with me."

"Perhaps you should have learned to pay attention."

He moves quicker than a man his age should— up from the pew, some long knife held in the palm of one hand— and knocks her to the ground with the sheer suddenness of the action. It's just a threat; it's a way to topple her over so he can restrain her. And probably do what he did to Priscilla. Or try to convince her that he's in the right. Or—

She hits the ground, smacking her good elbow against hard stone. He isn't quick enough, though; she grabs for his ankle. Hand hooked around white tube sock under the leg of his khakis, she pulls forward, throwing him off-balance. He hits the ground, but somehow his hip doesn't break.