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CHAPTER ONE

Jigsaw

At a certain point in life, you reach an age when you realize being a man isn’t about strength, money, or respect. It’s about the awareness of how your actions affect other people.

No matter how you try to bury the past, the consequences of our actions—or inactions—often find a way to hunt us down.

More than six years away from my family’s farm and I couldn’t banish this place from my memory even if I wanted to.

The old white mailbox appears on my left. Rustier now. A little tilted. But still there.

Dread and fury beat against my skin. This isn’t a social call. It won’t be a warm family reunion.

I’m here for retribution and rescue.

One way or another, my baby sister’s leaving with me today.

I’m bigger now. Stronger. I have a little bit of money.

Nope. Don’t think about the money or where it came from. Rooster’s Aunt Em made it clear on her deathbed, she loved me like a son.

I’d rather have Aunt Em alive and breathing than all the money in the world.

She’d know how to take care of Jezzie. Instead, I plan to take my sister halfway across the country to stay with a woman she probably doesn’t even remember.

A woman who once tried to protect my mother from getting involved with my crazy-ass father.

He never hit the girls.

Girls were meant to serve. Be silent. Obedient. He never whipped them or locked them in the basement.

That you know of.

Ruth would’ve protected Jezzie. The woman who helped me escape. Who promised she’d look after my sister.

I was a kid. Fuck, I’m still a damn kid. Rooster’s Aunt Em and Uncle Boone saved my life by taking me in after my father’s last beating sent me to the hospital.

I owed them everything. After I graduated from high school, I planned to come back for Jezzie.

Then Em got sick. Really sick. I helped Rooster and Boone take care of her until she passed. Peacefully at home. The way she wanted.

Boone was a mess. The man who treated me like his son was lost without his wife. I helped Rooster take care of Boone.

Until Boone had a stroke.

Rooster was dealing with Boone’s estate. Learning the ins and outs of the bar and restaurant Boone left us. In a few weeks, I’ll return to help him figure it all out.

But now it’s time to get my sister. I can’t wait any longer. She’ll be approaching fourteen now. Getting too close to the age my father thought girls should be married off to start breeding the next generation of the Lord’s servants.

Before she passed, Aunt Em tracked down my real aunt.

My mother’s sister, Angela. Like the mama bear she was, Em hired a PI to learn everything she could about Aunt Angela before giving me the information.

She works a normal nine-to-five in a nice small town in Pennsylvania. No children. No husband. No cult .

I had a few fond memories of Angela. Her face. Her smile. A yappy dog who always sat on her lap when we visited. How she tried to convince my mother not to move to the other side of the country when my father got his first “vision from the Lord.”

Then later how she visited our farm when Jezzie was maybe two or three. The arguments she had with my parents. How she left in a hurry and we never saw or heard from her again.

That’s who I was trusting to take care of Jezzie now?

No. If I get any hint Andrea’s nuts, I’ll keep Jezzie with me.

Where? At Boone’s place? Where his motorcycle club buddies drop in to visit with alarming frequency. What’s she supposed to do, bring her math homework to the bar after school? So I can help her with equations while I’m busy serving beer to bikers until one in the morning?

While it might be better than living under my father’s thumb, it’s still not a life for a young girl.

The truck bounces and dips as I steer from the road onto the long driveway leading to the small farm I remember all too well. Dirt and pebbles fly up, pinging against the side of my truck.

What if we need to make a quick getaway?

Slowing down, I jerk the steering wheel, executing a sloppy three-point turn, and stop the truck in the overgrown grass bordering the driveway.

I silently slide out of the truck, my boots barely scraping against the gravel. My gaze travels up the driveway. Who the fuck knows what I’m going to encounter.

Digging under the front seat, I pull out a holster and shrug it over my shoulders. I slide a black case out, flip it over and pull out a 9mm Glock and slap in a full magazine, rack the slide, then tuck it into the side of the holster. A second 9mm rests in the case. I glance up the driveway again.

Fuck it.

I check the second gun and nudge it into place on my other side. Better to be over prepared than under.

Although, I don’t want to put a bullet in my father. Not unless I have to.

No, the fantasy that’s played over and over in my head for years—chaining him to the wall in the basement and whipping him raw, then just leaving him there—is so close I can taste it.

Maybe he gnaws off his arm and escapes. Maybe someone rescues him. Or maybe he slowly starves to death and someone years from now finds his skeleton.

The possibilities are endless.

I stick to the grassy side of the road. Memories of hiking up and down this driveway to or from the school bus return.

Dread followed me both ways for different reasons back then.

I hated school where I was relentlessly bullied for being “weird,” but I feared home—the endless chores, scripture reading, and predictable punishments for any sin.

Weak, pale sunlight spears the gray clouds above but my mood’s blacker than midnight.

My footsteps slow as I round the corner and the old white farmhouse comes into view.

Fewer animals and children roam around the yard than I remember. The few pieces of playground equipment have rusted. The grass left to grow so tall, the tops of the merry-go-round bars are barely visible.

Three figures seem to be tending the field at the side of the house. In their white, shapeless garments, silently and slowly moving, they look like ghosts.

Beyond the dilapidated white farmhouse I grew up in, the big, red barn my father used as a “church” seems to be the only building that’s had any attention in the last few years. Now, it’s a crisp white with a huge wooden cross nailed above the barn doors.

Not an improvement.

Screams from the church pierce the air.

Some things haven’t changed.

I turn, scanning the area. The people in the fields continue working.

More screams. High. Girlish.

Fear slams into my chest.

Jezzie. Jezzie. What if that’s my sister?

Forget stealth. I sprint through the tall grass, dry blades whipping against my jeans.

Another gasping, desperate scream.

My footsteps slow as I approach the barn doors. They’re cracked open wide enough for me to slip through. I grip the Glock tight in one hand. Stale air hits me, dry and suffocating.

Loud splashing echoes from the “altar” at the front of the church.

My father’s voice fills the air. “I cast out these demons!”

Memories slice through me like barbed wire as his words slap me in the face.

I close my eyes, forcing the memories of hours of torture away.

Splashing, struggling gasps, and my father’s voice split the air. I open my eyes and edge forward, my eyes slowly adjusting to the gloom.

Only my father’s head and shoulders are visible over the rows of benches.

“Submit and repent your wicked ways!” He’s bent over a large, white, heavy-duty plastic tub—the thick kind of industrial plastic used for the chemicals used to clean farm equipment.

Now, it’s full of what I hope is water. His arm’s plunged in up to the elbow and he’s holding someone’s head below the surface.

Seems the old man’s getting more creative with his torture.

“I cast you out, demons!” His voice is harsh and raw with the same violent fanaticism that filled my childhood.

As I approach, thin legs kick, feet thumping against the floor. Pale arms thrash weakly. Small hands desperately clutch the sides of the tub, fingers slipping against slick plastic.

He yanks whoever it is out of the water by a mass of wet black hair.

“You will obey!” His voice thunders through the air.

I have to stop this. Now. Before he shoves her under the water again.

The girl gasps and screams, clawing at the air and coughing violently as he yanks her backward.

Water cascades over his arms, splashing onto the wood floor. “Are you ready to repent, Jezebel?”

Jezzie. No, no, no.

“Stop!” A raw, broken shout explodes from my chest. Anything to draw his attention away from my sister.

My father’s body jerks at the sound of my voice. He releases Jezzie so fast, her arms splash into the water. Her panicked gaze bounces between our father and me as she scuttles away from the tub.

Across the distance, I meet my father’s cruel gaze. Hate’s aged him more than I expected. Thinning hair and wrinkled skin drooping from his skull. But I’d still recognize him anywhere. As we stare each other down, indignation flares across his evil face.

My finger strokes the trigger. No. A bullet through the heart is too easy. He needs to die much harder.

“Get back here, girl!” he shouts at my sister, pointing to the floor in front of his feet. “You’re not finished.”

I raise the Glock, aiming at his chest. “Yes you are.” My voice and hold on the gun remain steady despite the panic coursing through my veins.

“Leave her alone.”

He tears his gaze away from my sister and stares at me. Surprise flickers over his face, then slowly, recognition seems to wash over him. He stands taller and curls his lips into a familiar sneer.

“And who are you trespassing on my property?”

“You know damn well who I am. Your third son.”

“Jensen’s dead,” he says in a hollow voice.

Choking sobs tear from Jezzie’s throat.

“You’re going to wish you’d killed me when you had the chance,” I promise.

“Jensen?” my sister cries.

“Stay back, Jezzie,” I warn.

She shuffles farther away, still coughing and shaking violently.