1975
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In 1975, society turned a blind eye to the suffering of women and children enduring domestic abuse. Law enforcement and the legal system offered little recourse for those who bore the scars of violence, and for children, the indifference was even greater. The bruises and cuts went unseen, their pleas for help unheard.
Jack learned early that, after his mother's death, things could only worsen. He understood this truth the night he woke up in the hospital, staring at his sleeping brother Graem in the next bed. The shadows that filled the sterile room felt darker, deeper than ever before without the prospect of seeing her ever again. Returning to their house (later on he refused to call it a 'home') filled him with a dread. Perhaps he should have been grateful to be in the hospital—at least here, under the watchful eyes of nurses and doctors, he was still temporarily safe from his father's wrath the he was sure would be unleashed on him. Marianne had tried to leave him. Jack couldn't think of anything that would have the potential to hurt his father even more. She had done it. She had finally brought up the courage – and failed, leaving him back alone with this monster.
The fragile safety ended three days after the crash when Jack was discharged. He limped out of the hospital, and was driven home. Graem had to stay behind—at least three more weeks, they said. Jack felt his heart sink with the knowledge that he would be completely alone with their father during that time. The road sign pointing towards Glenn Canyon Drive, the path to Philip Bauer's residence, loomed like a harbinger of doom. Each turn of the car brought Jack closer to the nightmare he knew awaited him.
Philip's rage began as usual. He spewed venomous words, this time not at her, but at Jack, as if it was the most natural thing, that he had become the number two in this house, the one who'd be the target. He accused him of having been the cause of his mother's decision to run, even of driving her into that fatal crash. Jack tried to shut out the words, focusing on anything else, but Philip was relentless. He wanted Jack to hear every hateful syllable.
"Look at me when I'm talking to you!" Philip bellowed, grabbing Jack by the shirt and shaking him. Jack's resolve crumbled, and he locked eyes with his father, though at that time, it already felt like giving in, like compromise, like settling. He didn't want to settle.
The tirade continued, Philip's insults growing harsher and more targeted. He ranted about Marianne, calling her a whore, blaming her for every failure in his life. His voice cracked with rage as he accused her of having had an affair with his brother, Jack's uncle.
"Do you know what she did?" Philip shouted, his face twisted with anger. "She was with him, your precious Uncle Jack. They were together behind my back, making a fool of me."
Jack tried to process what he was hearing. He had loved his uncle, who had always been kind to him, a rare source of happiness. He couldn't understand how his mother being close to someone he cared about was a betrayal. It just didn't make sense.
Philip sneered, seeing Jack's confusion. "You think she cared about you? She was going to leave us, leave you and Graem, for him. She didn't give a damn about this family."
Jack stood there, feeling lost and hurt, but not in the way his father intended. Lies. Every single word a lie. She would have never left without him. His mother had been his protector, the one person who tried to shield him from this nightmare. But even if she would have left without him - if she had found any happiness, even for a moment, with his uncle, not even then Jack could ever hate her for it.
"She would have abandoned you," Philip pressed on, his words dripping with spite. "But you're too blind to see it. You're just like her, weak and selfish."
Jack clenched his fists, anger and sadness mingling inside him. His mother had been everything to him. She was a lot, but not weak and definitely not selfish. She would have never left him. Nothing Philip said would change that. He wouldn't let his father's words destroy the only good memories he had left. Defending his mother was the line Jack could not help but cross. The moment he spoke up, denying Philip's lies, his father's fists came down on him like hammers. Each blow was harder than the last. Jack stumbled, falling to the floor. He lay there, throbbing with pain, his mind racing. Should he stay down, play dead, or fight back? It would be smarter to lie still, to endure it. It would be smarter not to defend her, to fight for a dead person. But then the image of his mother's last moments flashed through his mind—her angry cry for him to put on his seatbelt, these tearful eyes, the panic written all over her face during these last hours. It was the last thing she had ever said to him. That memory fueled his rage, ignited something fierce and unyielding within him.
The night concluded as many would in the coming weeks: Jack, naked and shivering on the porch. He found the blanket his mother had hidden under the porch, her final act of protection for him. He wrapped it around himself, curling up, until sleep got the better of him. Sometime in the early hours, Philip found him like this. His father's rage reignited at the sight, tearing the blanket away, leaving Jack exposed to the icy night. He didn't let him back inside until dawn, when it was time to get ready for school. Not a word passed between them.
The next night, Jack found the blanket gone. The cold was unbearable. At two a.m., his father unlocked the door and, without a word, let him back inside.
The funeral brought a brief reprieve. His grandmother, Marianne's mother, stayed with them for a few evenings in a row. To him, she was like a stranger. In the earlier years, they had barely ever visited her. He had seen her on Christmas, birthdays, she was an old lady he had barely noticed. Not even his mother had seemed to be close with her.
Philip put on his best act, playing the grieving widower. For those few days, there were no beatings, no screaming. Jack almost allowed himself to hope it might last, but he knew better. She couldn't stay forever.
The day she left, the violence resumed. Jack's bruises, excused as lingering injuries from the car crash, went unnoticed by everyone—his teachers, the doctors who checked on Graem, even his grandmother. No one questioned why they never faded, why they seemed to change shape and color over time. No one saw that they were being refreshed, time after time.
Jack, meanwhile, had stashed a small bag of clothes in the woods behind the house, a desperate, half-formed idea to escape. He thought of it often as he sat outside, shivering in the dark. But where would he go? What would he do? He had no chance, no options, just the unending cycle of pain and fear.
As he sat there, his thoughts mirrored those of his mother before she had fled. Run, but to where? There was nowhere to go. He would be found, and then brought back, just like she had feared. He was trapped, alone against a world that neither saw nor cared about Philip's rages.
And so, he stayed. An army of one, locked in a battle he could never win.
As Graem returned from the hospital, Jack noticed a subtle shift in the household dynamic. His brother's presence brought a faint glimmer of hope, not because Philip had changed, but because of the nurse who now visited their home regularly. She came to monitor Graem's recovery, checking his wounds and administering care, but she also noticed Jack. Her concerned gaze lingered on the bruises that marred his small frame, the cuts on his head and arms. Jack felt a jolt of fear each time she examined him, knowing that drawing attention to his injuries could provoke his father's wrath.
To his surprise, Philip's reaction was unexpectedly restrained. When the nurse gently questioned the origins of Jack's bruises, he dismissed them as the results of a rough and tumble boy's antics, accidents from dirt biking and playground scuffles. Yet the very presence of someone who seemed to care, who noticed, was enough to keep his father's hands off him—for the time being.
But such reprieves were fleeting. On a Sunday evening, Jack returned home already battered from a harsh crash on his dirt bike, out in the oil fields, where he had spent every weekend since his mother's death. His father didn't wait long before he resumed his brutality, finding in Jack's hobby a convenient excuse for the new marks that marred his skin. That night, as Philip's fists rained down on him, Jack realized a hard truth: nothing would ever change.
His mother had hidden the truth, perfected a routine of concealing the abuse, applying makeup to erase the signs of their private hell. Jack refused to play that role. He refused to hide or lie about what was happening. His father would always find a reason, always a justification for his violence. His own passions—his love for riding, his enthusiasm for Karate, even the innocent skirmishes in the schoolyard—would forever be twisted and used against him.
That night, something inside Jack snapped. The taste of freedom had been teasing him for too long, always just out of reach. He rushed across the open field behind their house, his heart pounding like a drum in his ears. In the darkness of the forest, he found the hidden bag, stuffed with clothes. He put them on, grabbed his bike and headed towards his grandmother's house, the only refuge he could think of right now.
She listened, her face impassive, as he poured out his story, every word a desperate plea for help. But she shook her head, dismissing him with a tired sigh. It can't be true. She would have noticed it, if the things Jack said were true, she told herself.
Philip's poison had seeped into her, too. With stories like these – she said - he'd just cast a slur on her memory. She parroted his accusations, telling Jack he was acting out, that he should be grateful for his father's care. Whining wouldn't bring his mother back. Grateful. The word burned like acid in his throat. Grateful to be trapped in a house with a monster.
The ride in her car back to Glenn Canyon Drive felt longer than ever, but he hadn't dared to protest. He was tired of the long day, of being beaten up, of riding the bicycle six miles through the night, just to be ignored. Jack's heart sank as his grandmother's car slowed in front of the house, Philip waiting on the porch, his face a mask of feigned concern. The moment her car disappeared down the road, the mask fell away. Jack braced himself for what was coming, but it was worse than he'd imagined.
Philip soon decided Jack was too old for the porch: he would try to run away again. The attic, dusty and suffocating, was his new prison. As the door slammed shut, Jack already started to search for a way out. The third or fourth night, Jack used the small window and climbed out, sliding down the drainpipe. He hadn't given it much thought: just run. Get away. After his last, failed attempt to run, it had become clearer and clearer to him why his mother had always stayed. It was hard to find a way out.
He ran, heart pounding, slipping past the neighbor's yard, relieved the dog didn't stir. Reaching the main road, his steps faltered. Where could he go? Five crumpled dollars in his pocket wouldn't get him far.
He thought about just going to school, but Philip would look for him there. Bad idea, he didn't even have his books. Teachers would be suspicious. His grandmother's betrayal stung fresh in his mind—he couldn't go back to her. The oil fields, his sanctuary, 30 miles away, seemed impossibly distant. Not even with his bicycle (which Philip had locked in the garage) he could have covered that distance. He wasn't sure how to even catch a bus. Sergio, the worker from the oil fields who often took him home… that was a place he would have wanted to go to, but Jack had no idea where he actually lived. Every potential escape ended in a dead end, the hopes crumbling into the harsh reality of his situation.
Two days passed in a haze of aimlessness and exhaustion. He realized quite soon that being out in the city alone wasn't so much better than being back home. Jack spent the last of his money on some food and tried, unsuccessfully, to hitch a ride out of town, towards Palmdale, where the oilfields lay. The police found him wandering near a bus stop, dirty and exhausted, his spirit battered but not broken. They brought him back to the house he had tried so desperately to escape. His grandmother and father were already waiting, her face stern, his a mask of rage barely held in check. Jack thought, briefly, about telling the officers the truth. But he bit his tongue. Why bother? No one believed him. No one had ever believed him, except for his mother. He heard her words: the police couldn't take his dad away forever. They'd only stir up dirt, but nothing would change. Nobody in this country got locked up forever, just for beating their wife and kids.
Philip's fury was volcanic the moment the police left, but at least only verbally. He didn't dare use his fists while his mother-in-law was around. Yet Jack's grandmother's presence did nothing to temper his rage. Jack stood silently, absorbing every hateful word he said and she echoed. How could she just be on his side? How could she side with the man who had ruined her own daughter's life? She was blind to everything that had happened in this house. To her, he was just the rebellious boy who had ran away again.
It was his grandmother who proposed the final solution, the words that felt like a lifeline to Jack at the time: Philip was busy, she said, too busy to care for two boys. Maybe it would be best if Jack went to boarding school, somewhere strict and structured. Somewhere away from home.
Away from home. These three words sounded like heaven. Jack eagerly packed his belongings, his heart soaring with the thought of leaving this nightmare behind. The prospect of escaping Philip, of moving to St. Vincent Convent Secondary School, was almost too good to be true. He couldn't wait to leave Glenn Canyon Drive and everything it represented.
Audrey listened to the silence on the other end of the line. Jack had stopped talking so abruptly that, for a moment, she thought the call had dropped. But her phone screen still showed the call connected. He was there—just not speaking.
He had been telling her about the aftermath of his mother's death, and with each sentence, his words had become shorter, his tone more detached, as if the weight of those memories had worn him down. His voice had sunk lower and lower until there was nothing left but silence.
"Jack?" she said softly, breaking the stillness.
"Yeah?" His response was barely more than a murmur, as if he had to drag himself back from somewhere far away.
"Tell me it got better." She needed to hear something hopeful, anything to break the grim pattern of his story. Every chapter of his life seemed to spiral deeper into darkness, and she couldn't stand the thought that it had always been this way for him.
"It got better." His words were flat, emotionless. It was hard to tell if he meant it or if he was just giving her what she wanted to hear.
Audrey hesitated, her heart aching. She didn't know what to say, didn't know if she could push him to talk more without reopening old wounds. But she also didn't know how to let go of the hope that maybe, somewhere, there was a moment of peace in his past.
She needed to be sure. "Really?" she asked gently, knowing she was pushing him toward memories he'd probably rather forget.
"Yeah. Two and a half years later, I got out of there," he said, a bitter laugh escaping him.
Audrey winced at the sound of his laughter. She could sense the pain behind it, the way he brushed off what had to be yet another nightmare in his life. The name St. Vincent Convent Secondary School had immediately struck her as Catholic, and her mind filled in the blanks. There had been so many stories, so many scandals and lawsuits over the years. The mere thought made her stomach tighten. If what she suspected was true, Jack had endured yet another kind of hell there.
She wanted to ask—needed to know—but even the most basic question felt like prying too deeply. Instead, she forced herself to stay quiet, feeling helpless.
Jack lay in bed, trying to keep his mind from wandering back to those years. Remembering his mother's death and his father's brutality was painful enough, but the abuse that followed at St. Vincent was a different kind of torment. It was worse because it came from people who he had seen as his rescue. He had dreamed that being sent away would be a form of salvation, a way to escape his father's rage. He'd thought the Convent boarding school would be a sanctuary, a place where he would finally be safe again.
"It really got better after that," he said, more to convince himself than to reassure Audrey. He wanted to turn the page, to leave that chapter closed. He silently hoped she wouldn't press further, wouldn't make him drag those memories into the light.
She didn't.
But the memories were relentless, surfacing despite his efforts to keep them buried. He recalled the night in May 1978, when he and Bill—a boy a grade below him who shared the same crowded dormitory room—had been caught on the rooftop. Jack shuddered at the mere thought of the man who had been closing in on them that night.
1978
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After two and a half years, Jack had learned how to navigate the halls of the convent boarding school: when to stay silent, when to hide away, when to just go along with the crowd and to keep the head down, not to attract any attention. He had arrived at age nine, and now, at twelve, he understood that different ages brought different kinds of torment. Opening up to someone, he had quickly realized, was pointless. Just as his grandmother had dismissed his pleas about his father's abuse, everyone here seemed to know what was happening and chose to look the other way.
Talking was useless. They probably looked away because they believed no one was actually getting hurt. And compared to the beatings he had already endured, maybe they were right. Well, most of these things didn't leave any obvious bruises and cuts. But certain situations had made his skin crawl right from the beginning, even though he couldn't articulate why.
From his first day, he'd felt uncomfortable, especially during the group showers, overseen by watchful, predatory eyes. The rules were strict: any insubordination, any misstep, was met with punishment. The beatings they handed out with their sticks were almost laughable compared to what he'd been through at home. Or kneeling in a church bench or on a sharp piece of wood for hours. Should he pretend it hurt? Cry like the others did? He never did. He had faced so much worse. In a way, St. Vincent was better than home. He was one among many, and their rage was evenly distributed, it seemed to him.
Isolation felt worse. Being forced to endure the shower routine alone, under their gaze, not with warm, but with freezing water pouring down—that was humiliating, dehumanizing. But he refused to cry even then. He had seen what happened to those who did. When they broke down, they were taken away, supposedly to be "comforted." But when they returned, they were never the same. They'd come back hollow-eyed and silent, like Bill. He was younger, smaller, and cried easily. When it all got too much, when he broke under the punishment, they seemed to have reached what they wanted. Their moods would change, immediately. They seemed gentle with him, soothing even. But when he came back, something in him had changed. His movements were slow, his gaze vacant.
In 1977, the entire convent was shaken when a 13-year-old student fell from the roof. They called it an accident, explaining that he had been sleepwalking, as he often did. Two boys confirmed the story to the police, claiming they had seen him wandering the halls in his sleep before. Both of those boys were among the ones who broke under their rule and were taken away to be "comforted."
Jack watched them, suspicion gnawing at him. The boy who had fallen was also one of them. He couldn't help but feel uneasy, his mind, fueled by the detective novels and spy thrillers he loved to read, spinning theories. It just didn't add up. When Bill began returning with that same empty look, Jack's concern grew. Something wasn't right, and he needed to find out what. It didn't happen in another dorm – it suddenly was happening right before his eyes.
As much as Jack longed for some kind of "comfort", he instinctively knew that the kind of comfort they handed out here was not the good kind. His young mind couldn't even imagine the horrors that happened all around him.
He started shadowing Bill, getting himself into trouble deliberately to stay close. He wanted to see what happened, when they "comforted" him, because he was curious. One day, Bill broke down during one of their usual punishments, and they took him away. Jack was left kneeling on a wooden brick, the punishment for his supposed disobedience. His knees ached, but his mind was racing. Should he fake tears too? Try to get the same "comfort" the others did? It was a dangerous gamble, one he wasn't sure he wanted to take.
Father Finnegan, the one responsible for their dorm, would pass by occasionally, glancing at Jack to ensure he remained in the agonizing position. Jack hated him with a visceral intensity. There was something in the priest's eyes, a slickness that made his skin crawl. Even at twelve, Jack sensed something deeply wrong, something he couldn't yet define.
One evening, Father Finnegan disappeared with Bill for a long time. When no one checked on him for over ten minutes, Jack abandoned the spot where they had told him to kneel, his curiosity overcoming his fear. Sneaking through the quiet halls, he peeked through a gap in the wooden walls of the chapel vestry, a place more often used for punishment than prayer. He saw Bill and Father Finnegan. The scene before him made his blood run cold.
Jack returned to his dorm that night, trembling, hugging his knees on the bed. He realized now just how deep the horror of this place ran. He couldn't stop thinking: why hadn't it happened to him? Was it just a matter of time? What would he do if it did? Was he next in line?
From that day on, the isolated cold showers became even more terrifying. Being exposed, vulnerable, with their eyes on him, he feared every second that his turn would come. He doubled down on his resolve, refusing to cry, refusing to break, knowing that usually those who broke were taken away to face something far worse than any physical punishment.
One night, after weeks of watching Bill, Jack discovered his journal. He had noticed Bill sneaking under his blanket every night with a flashlight, writing in a small book. When Jack finally got his hands on it, the contents shook him to his core. It wasn't fiction, like the X-rated books Jack sometimes smuggled into the school. These were real events, things that had happened right there in the convent, things Jack had barely escaped himself. It was a chilling revelation.
His detective novels had taught him one crucial lesson: evidence. Without it, there was no escape. It was why his mother couldn't run from Philip. Bruises fade, and in court, it's only her word against his. And now, it would be the word of a ten-year-old against the respected priests of St. Vincent. He needed proof, something undeniable. But even then, who would believe him? The odds felt impossibly stacked, and the fear of what might happen next hung over him like a dark cloud.
Jack witnessed what was going on around him for months, feeling too numb to do anything about it. What he witnessed shook him so deeply that he tried to transform himself—becoming a better student, a less rebellious one, doing whatever it took to avoid ever facing the monastics alone in the chapel of punishment.
Over the months, he observed Bill withdrawing further, becoming a silent shadow, almost disappearing into himself. Jack wanted to help him, but couldn't think of how. He had already copied Bill's journal in a painstaking process, sneaking it out at night while Bill slept, transcribing page after page before carefully returning it. He had smuggled the copy out, hiding it in his favorite place: his locker at the oil fields. Evidence. He wasn't sure of what worth a copied journal was. He should have had pictures, but he had no camera.
At least Bill's journal prepared him for what to expect: their methods, the triggers. He used the information to avoid any single situation that could lead him down that road.
For a while, Jack's efforts to stay out of trouble worked. But that evening in May 1978 changed everything. For reasons he couldn't clearly remember later, he and Bill were once again led away for punishment. Father Finnegan didn't take them to the chapel, a sign that their fate lay elsewhere. A cold shower.
The priest shoved them into the changing room, his voice sharp and commanding. "Strip down. Now."
Bill complied immediately, his movements automatic, like someone who had long stopped questioning what was happening to him. Jack, however, dragged it out. His fingers fumbled with the tie of his school uniform, deliberately slow. He could feel defiance boiling up inside him. He wasn't going to go along with this. His mind was painting the picture of how this evening could continue – he wasn't willing to even make the first step down that road.
Father Finnegan's voice cut through the tense air. "Get moving!"
Jack glanced sideways at Bill, whose fear was palpable. "Hurry up," Bill muttered, his voice tight. "You're going to make it worse."
Jack shook his head, determination setting his jaw. "No way." It had been months since he'd had a real fight, months spent bottling up the anger. He thought about the earlier days, jumping into the fights between his mother and his father. Meanwhile, since he barely ever was home and hadn't caught a single of his father's blows in months, Father Finnegan had taken on the role of a new tormentor. Yet Jack had never fought back—until now.
The decision seemed to make itself. He wouldn't undress.
Father Finnegan's expression darkened. He took out the stick he often used on students, gripping it tightly as he strode towards Jack. Bill recoiled, edging away, his face pale with fear.
Jack watched the reflection in the mirror as the priest raised the stick high, aiming for him. He ducked just in time, the stick whistling through the air where his back had been a second earlier. Finnegan stumbled forward, thrown off balance, and Jack saw his chance. He kicked out, hard, his foot connecting with the back of the priest's knees.
Father Finnegan went down, sprawling on the floor. Jack stood there, his heart pounding, adrenaline surging through him. He hesitated, unsure whether to continue the attack or run. The thought of what the old man struggling to get up could do to them made his stomach twist. Despite everything, Jack couldn't bring himself to strike him again.
"Come on!" he shouted at Bill, who was frozen in shock. Jack turned and bolted for the door. For a second, Bill hesitated, then scrambled after him, the two of them sprinting down the hallway.
They ran blindly through the corridors, hearts racing. Father Finnegan's shouts soon echoed behind them, and the other priests reacted quickly. Jack heard doors slamming, footsteps pounding, and angry voices yelling orders.
Every route they tried seemed to end with another something blocking their way. Desperation mounting, they doubled back and dashed up a staircase leading to the attic and then to the roof.
Not much later, Jack and Bill found themselves trapped on the rooftop. The cold night air whipped around them, and Jack's thoughts raced back to the boy who had fallen the year before. The so-called accident they claimed had been sleepwalking. He didn't believe it then, and he didn't believe it now.
Father Finnegan appeared from the stairwell, his face a mask of anger and twisted satisfaction. Jack stepped in front of Bill instinctively, his heart pounding. He regretted not having finished the fight when he had the chance. His mind flickered with thoughts he hated to acknowledge—if he had just kicked harder, maybe the priest would still be unconscious. Maybe none of this would be happening.
"Where are you going?" Father Finnegan's voice was mocking, almost playful. Jack took a step back, the edge of the roof just a few feet behind him.
"Watch your step, or you might fall."
Jack kept moving backward, his gaze flickering between the priest and the ledge. The fear of Finnegan's grasp was more terrifying than the drop behind him.
"Wouldn't that be a pity," Finnegan sneered, "just like Peter last year?"
Jack felt Bill trembling beside him, sensed him wavering, ready to give in, to surrender. If Bill went back, he'd be on his own. Jack grabbed his shirt, holding him in place. "You stay here."
Father Finnegan advanced slowly, assured in his control over the situation. "Don't be foolish, Jack. Come here. You don't want to end up like Peter, do you?"
Jack's mind raced, desperately searching for an escape, but every path seemed blocked. He tightened his grip on Bill's shirt, his knuckles white with tension. Father Finnegan, confident and composed, continued to close in, believing he had them trapped. Jack felt a surge of panic, but he refused to give in or give up. If you can't retreat, attack. He remembered that line from one of the X-rated books he'd read.
"If I fall, you fall," Jack said, his voice steady despite the fear churning inside him.
Father Finnegan paused, surprise flickering across his face before he gave a mocking smile. "Really? How so?"
Jack's heart pounded as he stared back at the priest. He knew he had to sell this, had to make it convincing. "I have evidence," he bluffed, drawing on every spy thriller and detective novel he had ever read. "Police will find it. They'll put you behind bars."
The amusement vanished from Finnegan's face, replaced by a sharp, calculating look. "What evidence?"
"I have pictures," Jack lied, hoping the confidence in his voice would cover the tremor he felt inside. Add a detail. To make it convincing. "The vestry," he added, making sure Finnegan understood exactly what he was referring to.
For a moment, confusion clouded the priest's features. "You're bluffing," he growled, but his tone had lost some of its certainty.
Jack's fear was almost overwhelming, but he forced himself to keep his composure. "Wanna bet?" He saw the doubt in Finnegan's eyes and pressed on, his voice low and controlled. He decided to give him a few more details – based on the notes in Bill's journals – to give him the impression that he really knew what he was talking about. "Three weeks ago," he said, pointing at Bill's body as if recalling specific details. "May 25th." He gestured again. "Remember?"
He could see the priest's mind racing, his expression darkening as the memory surfaced. Jack had never seen him so angry before, but he held his ground, refusing to back down. Finnegan's eyes burned with rage, and Jack suddenly realized he had pushed him too far. He had read about situations like this in books—a Mexican standoff, where neither side could back down without losing everything.
Jack watched Finnegan, his own resolve hardening. He had realized too late that he had also backed the priest into a corner, even though not a physical corner like the one he was currently standing on. There was no way Finnegan could let him walk away now, whether he believed the evidence existed or not. For the priest, it was a matter of survival. And for Jack, it was rapidly becoming the same.
Father Finnegan stepped forward again, his face twisted with fury. Jack realized it, as he saw the look in his eyes, saw the decision flash there. Finnegan was going to push him, to make sure the evidence—real or not—never came to light.
Jack braced himself, every muscle tense. This wasn't just about getting away anymore. It was life or death. He had to fight.
The priest lunged at him, but Jack moved first, ducking to the side. He didn't hesitate this time. He kicked out, his foot connecting sharply with Finnegan's shin, then swung his leg around, striking the old man in the back with a Karate kick. Finnegan staggered, his arms flailing as he tried to regain his balance. Jack watched, horrified, as the priest stumbled backward, teetering dangerously close to the edge.
And then, in an instant that seemed to stretch into eternity, Finnegan went over. His scream pierced the night air, a chilling, desperate sound that ended abruptly with a sickening thud on the asphalt far below.
Jack stood frozen, his heart hammering so loudly he thought it might burst. Beside him, Bill stared, wide-eyed and pale, his voice barely a whisper. "You killed him."
Jack couldn't move, couldn't speak. Had he? All he had wanted was to get away, to protect himself and Bill, but now the reality of what had happened hit him. The knot in his stomach tightened painfully as he tried to process it.
Just minutes later, two other priests appeared, their faces hard and cold. They grabbed Jack and Bill roughly by the arms, dragging them off the roof and down the stairs, hauling them through the dim hallways to the head office. Jack stumbled along, his mind still reeling, the image of Finnegan's fall burned into his memory.
Bill was already selling him out. "It was him! I didn't do anything!", the boy shouted, but he was torn away, too. They quickly found out that Bill would be the easier one to break and that Jack wouldn't talk at all. Bill eagerly told them everything, starting with Jack's reluctance to undress for the shower, the evidence that he seemed to have and the kick that - in Bill's eyes - sent Finnegan over the edge.
When he was finished, they brought him away and turned to Jack, who had sworn himself not to say a word.
"Jack?"
Her voice cut through the silence, and he felt an unexpected relief, like a lifeline pulling him back to the present. He took a deep breath, trying to shake off the hold the memories had on him. "I'm still here," he said quickly, and then, almost as an afterthought, he added, "sorry." He needed to keep talking, to find something to say that would distract him from the images playing in his mind. "It really got better afterwards," he said, referring to Audrey's last question, but even as he spoke, his thoughts lingered on that night.
The night they accused him of killing Father Finnegan. It still haunted him—how things had spiraled out of control so quickly. One moment they were just trying to avoid punishment, and the next, everything had changed. He had never been sure if it was his kick that had sent the priest over the edge, or if it had been an accident. He hadn't wanted to hurt him, but once they were on that roof, it felt like he was trapped in a situation where there was no going back.
"I'm glad to hear that," Audrey said softly, her voice a steady presence in the midst of his turmoil. She could sense he wanted to talk about the better times that followed, but something was still holding him back, keeping him anchored in that terrible memory.
"How did you get out of there?" she asked gently, hoping to give him an opening to move the story forward. Maybe a simple answer like, "the school year ended," would help him shift his focus away from the convent and toward the years that had come after.
"I killed him."
Audrey froze. Of all possible answers, she hadn't expected that one. Her heart skipped a beat as she tried to process what he had just said.
"Who?"
"One of the priests. I guess I killed him," Jack murmured. He had never said these words before. After that evening, he had never talked about it again—not once in the past 30 years. He didn't know why he was saying it today. Maybe because it was a secure line, or because he trusted Audrey so much that even a confession like this felt safe. Or maybe it was just because this conversation had felt so natural.
"Every story you ever heard," he continued, referring to all the scandals that had been in the news and media, "they're all true. They're barely a scratch at the surface." He sighed, trying to convey what he couldn't bring himself to say directly. "I tried to fight one of them. He cornered me on the rooftop. A year earlier, one of the students had already miraculously 'fallen' off that roof. There was a struggle, and eventually he fell."
Jack wasn't sure how much of his story he was simplifying or just cutting short, leaving out the details that Audrey's imagination could easily fill in on her own.
"That sounds like it was self-defense," Audrey added, her voice gentle but firm.
"Maybe to you. But not to them." Jack's jaw tightened as he remembered the night they'd cornered him. Five of them, towering over him, their faces twisted with anger. It wasn't like facing his father, where it had been one-on-one. This was five against one, and they were relentless. He had only one thing in his favor: the non-existent evidence they were terrified of.
That night, he'd relied on the information he'd found in Bill's journal, piecing together a story that sickened him but gave him the leverage he needed. Every detail he threw at them, each tiny piece of the truth, made them flinch. He managed to convince them that he had been there, taking pictures of their darkest secrets. And he realized then that they were just as afraid of him as he was of them.
They were brutal men, willing to do anything to protect themselves, but they were also cowards. They hid behind their power, their positions. In the end, it was a stalemate: he had evidence that could destroy them, and they had the authority to destroy him because of Father Finnegan's fall. It was another Mexican standoff, another fight for survival—this time with words instead of fists.
"I got kicked out of school." There was a strange relief in Jack's voice as he said it, like it was the best thing that could have happened. Jack told Audrey about the summer of '78, one of the best ones he had ever had. After being kicked out of the convent (everyone stayed silent about everything, as usual), he returned to the oil fields, where he'd spent his weekends and summers as a kid. The pumps were owned by his father's company, but out there, Jack felt like he was miles away from everyone he hated. The long days spent working the pumps and fixing equipment didn't feel like a burden, quite the opposite.
He loved the work – the tools, the machinery, the thrill of getting a complicated task done. He remembered getting soaked in thick, black crude oil, long lunch breaks with the other workers, Sergio's wife's chili, the men who had become his friends over the years. Despite everything else in his life, the oil fields were a place where he felt like he belonged, a place where he could just exist and not worry about anyone's rages, rules or punishments.
"I think they would have believed me if I had told them," Jack said, referring to the beatings he still sometimes got from his father. He was thinking about the workers at the oil fields—the men who had watched him grow up, who knew him better than most people ever had. They wouldn't have turned their backs on him, like his grandmother, he was certain. They would have known his stories about the abuse were true.
"Why didn't you tell them?" Audrey asked. She knew how hard it must have been for him to carry that burden alone.
"They all worked for Dad. Do you really think they'd act against their boss?" Jack let out a bitter laugh. As much as he believed they would have sympathized, he knew the impossible position it would have put them in. "What could they have done? Report him to the police? That wouldn't have stopped him." He paused, thinking back. He had never even considered telling them. Why mix these two worlds. Out in the oil fields, his usual problems just didn't exist. He didn't want to tell them, he never wanted them to know about his other world. "What choice would they have?" he continued, trying to explain to Audrey why he hadn't even tried. "They could either stand up to him, which would probably cost them their jobs, or they could keep quiet, pretend they hadn't heard anything.", he added, "I didn't even want them to know about it."
The line went quiet for a moment. Audrey just listened to his breath. She could hear the loneliness in his voice, the kind that comes from realizing, too young, that you're on your own.
"I didn't want to ruin my only good place.", she heard him say. It was hard for her to imagine herself in his position.
He told Audrey about riding his dirt bike between the oil pumps and over the dunes, the rush of speed as he tore across open fields, and how he'd even entered his first race at the end of the summer, finishing second, eager to go again in the next race. The thrill of the race, the challenge of pushing the limits—it was a kind of freedom to him.
He managed to keep his distance from his father, who seemed content to leave him alone as long as he stayed out of trouble. Graem, though, was different. Jack saw his younger brother only a few times that summer, and he barely recognized him. Graem had shot up in height, and there was a calmness about him, an ability to navigate their father's moods in a way Jack never could.
Graem had learned how to survive at home by giving in, by agreeing with whatever their father said, by pretending to be exactly what was expected of him. Jack could see it clearly now, and it bothered him more than he cared to admit. He had spent years trying to protect his little brother, but now it was obvious that Graem didn't need protecting. He had adapted. Maybe too well.
Jack thought back to his time at the convent, when he'd tried the same strategy. Following the rules, keeping his head down, doing everything he could to avoid punishment. It had felt like surrender. He hated it, but he knew sometimes it was the only way to get through the day, especially when it came to his father.
Graem didn't like having Jack back at home. Jack could see it in the way he avoided him and eyed him with distrust. Graem had carved out a space for himself in Jack's absence, a way to keep the peace, and Jack's return threatened to upend all of that. It was clear to Jack that he was now an unwelcome disruption to the fragile order Graem had established.
Audrey listened carefully as Jack spoke, her silence encouraging him to continue. She just lay beneath her blanket and listened as he continued. She didn't know what time it was, but it had to be late—well past her usual bedtime. Yet she couldn't bring herself to end the call. Jack was sharing something rare: memories of better times. He talked about his first year in junior high and how things started to change for the better.
Much to Jack's surprise, his father even gave him the money for a better dirt bike. It was a game changer. He poured himself into riding, spending hours perfecting his skills.
He recalled how the bike quickly earned him a reputation at school. He was no longer just another face in the crowd; he was the kid who had the chance to ride bikes even at that age, the one who knew how to handle it.
The races continued into 1979, and Jack found himself pushing further, testing his limits. Sometimes he'd get thrown off. Sometimes, he'd even end up in hospital. It didn't bother him a second. The thrill of competition and the satisfaction of crossing the finish line first were addictive. He even remembered the first time he rode a street bike at Willow Springs Raceway. At just fourteen, he felt the raw power of the machine beneath him, his love for speed growing, and the focus it demanded. There was no room for any other thought, when he mounted that monster of a machine. It wiped out everything else. It was just him, the bike, the race track. It was a taste of something greater, something that felt like pure freedom.
Over time, his successes on the track seemed to earn his father's respect. Philip, who rarely showed much approval, began to take an interest. He was willing to give Jack some money for it. It was a small but significant shift, one that didn't go unnoticed.
Graem, who had spent years navigating their father's volatile moods, was less than pleased. Jack noticed the changes in his brother. Graem had grown, not just in height but in his ability to handle their father. He knew exactly what to say, how to behave, to avoid any conflict. But Graem had never earned Philip's respect by just settling. Watching Graem interact with their father, Jack could see how his brother had perfected the art of compliance—never questioning, never challenging. It was as if Graem had decided that the easiest way to survive was to become exactly what Philip expected. That made it all the more hurtful for Graem, to see that his insubordinate brother finally got some respect of the man he had only fought, his entire life long. His compliance had brought him no respect at all.
Jack had always resisted bending to his father's will, but at age 13 and beyond, he found himself learning from Graem. He realized that there was a strategy in his brother's approach, a way to avoid the constant tension and anger that sometimes still simmered at home. Slowly, reluctantly, Jack began to do the same. He learned to play the role, to hide his true thoughts and emotions, to nod and agree, just like Graem did.
He remembered the shift clearly. By the time the school bus would turn onto Glenn Canyon Drive, he'd already be preparing himself. It was automatic. He'd straighten up, clear his mind, and get ready to be the person his father expected. It wasn't easy at first. It felt like he was betraying himself, like he was giving up on who he was. When his mother had died, Jack had sworn to himself that he'd fight Philip, for her sake. He'd never forget what Philip had done to her throughout the years. But years later, he gave it up. What for. It wouldn't make her come back. He still felt like betraying the memory of his mother. But it was necessary. It was the only way to keep the peace.
Over time, the resistance he felt faded. The role became second nature. He could navigate conversations without setting off his father's temper, keep the peace without sacrificing too much of himself—at least, that's what he told himself. He knew he wasn't exactly okay with it, but he had found a way to exist within the confines of his father's expectations without losing himself completely.
As he spoke, Audrey stayed silent, listening to every word, every pause. She could sense the weight of these memories, the years of learning to adapt and survive. The time slipped by as he continued sharing. Audrey didn't need to look at the clock to know it was late. It didn't matter.
As she listened, she felt the layers peeling back, revealing the complexities and contradictions that shaped Jack into the person he was. It wasn't just about the races or the victories. It was about the constant battle to hold on to himself while learning to play a role to survive.
It was 1981, and he was fifteen. She found herself wondering when he'd first speak of a girl. Maybe not tonight.
.
.
.
Author's note:
That was Jack's first 'kill' - even though only in self defense.
I lately read 'Trinity' (one of the 24 books in the expanded universe) and I thought this would fit the story of 24/Trinity as well.
And of course there was need for a way how to integrated his motorcycle racing - something we learned in S1.