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My father’s eyes narrow on me, stubborn rage burning in their dark depths. “You always were corrupt. Defiant. A devil.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I groan, tired of the litany of insults I’ve heard my whole life. “You never change. Always worried about the thorn in someone else’s eye, instead of the plank in yours.”

“The Lord’s will is always righteous, unchanging. It’s your rebellious spirit that will face judgment.”

“Abusing children is the Lord’s will?” I step closer, my gun steady and aimed straight at his heart. “On your knees.”

“I won’t kneel before Satan’s spawn.”

I stay back a few feet, wary. Evil or not, my father’s quick, cunning, and expert at handling weapons. One careless move could be fatal to me and Jezzie.

“Jezzie,” I say in my calmest voice without taking my eyes off my father. “Go into the house and pack all of your things. Anything you want to take with you.”

“Don’t you dare move, girl!” my father shouts, his voice booming with self-righteous fury. “You will obey your father. Not this heathen who’s been corrupted by outsiders.”

Jezzie stands, her nervous gaze darting between us. “Jensen? It’s really you?”

“It’s me.” I glance briefly toward her, heart twisting painfully at the sight. The wet, shapeless white dress clings to her, accentuating her fragile, emaciated form. Anger boils hotter within me. “Please, Jezzie. Get your things quickly. Don’t speak to anyone. You’re leaving with me.”

She bursts into tears. “Okay.”

Guilt threatens to choke me.

No, there’s time for that later.

Jezzie bolts through the side door without another word and doesn’t look back.

“Destined to be a harlot,” my father mutters. “If you take her from here, you condemn her soul to eternal fire.”

“How many lost souls are following your twisted gospel now?” I ask, eyes narrowed. “How many people are you taking advantage of here on the farm?”

My father puffs out his chest and returns my glare, defiant and unyielding.

“You still torture kids in the basement?” I wave the gun toward the house. “Still claiming it’s discipline?”

“You were a stubborn, evil child,” he spits back. “I did my best to cleanse your soul.” His tone shifts to a lower, poor, pitiful me tone. “But some demons are too strong, and I am just a flawed human.”

“Maybe it was your soul that needed cleansing?” My voice hardens, memories of that dark basement flooding my mind—chains, bloodstains, echoes of desperate prayers. “You’re nothing but a sick, twisted old man who gets off on torturing women and children.”

“Blasphemer!” he shouts.

“Hit a nerve, did I?” I taunt. “Let’s see how righteous you’re feeling while you take your punishment.”

“The Lord will protect me.” His chin lifts in defiance but uncertainty flickers in his eyes.

“Great. Let’s test that theory out. Maybe you’ll get lucky, and the Lord will strike me dead.” My tone’s mocking, the smile stretched across my face deranged.

Unease crawls through me. Jezzie could be doing what I asked. Or she could run and warn the others. I need to move fast.

I step closer, jerking the gun toward the house. “Move.”

His jaw tightens. Resistance vibrates through every tense line of his body, but he slowly moves toward the same door Jezzie used.

Several men used to live here on the farm. In outbuildings my father converted to “guest houses.” Their wives were often allowed to stay in the main house. Were those men still here, ready to defend the homestead? Or had my father driven them away and kept their wives?

“Move,” I order again.

His steps are slow, his body rigid as he shuffles toward the house.

“No, use the side door to the basement,” I warn as he turns toward the front porch.

The door screeches as he pulls it open. He hesitates at the threshold of the basement steps, his body stiff.

“Down you go.” I press the tip of the gun between his shoulder blades.

Our feet scuff over the dusty, old stone steps. I turn and close the door behind us. The air grows heavier, suffocating as we descend into the darkness.

Every heartbeat thumps a painful reminder of the past. The days and nights I spent alone locked up in one of the rooms down here.

At the bottom of the steps, he opens another door.

The familiar sickening scent of rust and decay fills my lungs. Underneath it something chemical and unpleasant burns my nostrils.

I reach up and tug on the string dangling from a single naked light bulb. Harsh, yellow glare bounces around the makeshift dungeon.

For a second, I can’t breathe or move. I’m a kid again, terrified of whatever punishment my father’s come up with.

Nope. Not today.

“To the wall,” I order, keeping my voice cold and steady.

He turns slowly, extending his arms in a mocking gesture of martyrdom. “Just shoot me.”

“A bullet’s too good for you.” I jerk the gun toward the iron shackles embedded in the stone wall. Dark stains trickle over the bumpy stones—proof of the years of suffering that’s happened in this room. “Strip off your shirt.”

He slowly works the buttons loose. I can’t even take pleasure in the shaking of his hands. I just want this over with.

I’ve dreamed about this day. Planned it. Obsessed over it. Fantasized about it every day since the first time he marched me into this basement and chained me to that wall.

I told myself I’d savor each lash and warm my hands with his blood.

But now?

I wish I’d taken Jezzie and left. I wish I was on the road. At Rooster’s place.

Anywhere but here.

No.

I caught him trying to drown my sister. He deserves this.

“God will punish you for this,” my father hisses, glaring at me.

I shove him forward. “How do you know he didn’t send me here to punish you ?”

“I’m his loyal, humble servant.”

“Loyal and humble are two things you’ve never been, old man.” I lower the gun slowly, aiming first at his left knee, then his right, finally settling at his groin. “Strip off your shirt now. Or I’ll put a few holes in you and then chain you to the wall. Your choice.”

“I should have known the wickedness could never been driven out of you. I should’ve broken you when I had the chance.”

A cold shudder races down my spine, memories exploding through my mind—the burning pain, chains biting into raw wrists, dark isolation, prayers whispered to deaf ears, my baby sister bringing me scraps of food and tending to my injuries.

“I caught you trying to drown my sister,” I remind him, my voice cold as steel. “Trying to drown a little girl. That’s evil. Stop fucking around and move.”

He flinches at the curse. Like most hypocrites, a word offends him more than evil acts. My resolve to punish him returns.

Wordlessly, he shuffles toward the wall. His shoulders slump, as if he’s accepted his fate.

The quick acceptance triggers my internal alarms.

I step back a second before he whirls around, throwing a fist where my face had been two seconds ago.

The punch arcs wildly, throwing him into a half-spin. I cock my arm back and smash the gun into the side of his head, knocking him to the floor.

“Nice try.” I stand over his dazed body. “I’m not a malnourished kid anymore. And I’m not afraid of you.”

“You need to fear the Lord.”

“I fear nothing,” I inform him. “You still have that vault in your office?”

Breathing hard, he raises his eyebrows as if he’s surprised I know of its existence.

“Gideon showed it to me when we were little,” I explain. Gideon. My big brother who let me tag along on all of his adventures, then one day just disappeared .

His jaw drops.

“Is that why you killed him?” I ask, taking a stab in the dark. “He knew about all the money you were hiding?”

His mouth snaps shut and his gaze slides away.

My stomach lurches. Gideon disappeared a long time ago. Father said he chose the devil and left the family. I was so angry at my brother for leaving, I didn’t give his departure a lot of thought. I accepted what I was told.

Only later did I wonder.

And now. That guilty look creeping across my father’s face seems to confirm my suspicions.

A solid whipping later, he still won’t give up the code to the vault.

Breathing hard, he slowly turns his head and fixes the full weight of his preacher stare on me. “You won’t win, son.”

“Don’t call me son .” I flick my wrist, cracking the whip over his shoulder blades. Hard enough to sting but not draw more blood. “Boone and Emily treated me more like a son than you ever did.”

Why the fuck are they gone when this sick bastard’s still alive and torturing children?

“Do your worst, Jensen. The Lord will protect me.”

“If there was a god, he wouldn’t protect a child abuser.” I step back, the whip slipping from my numb fingers, disgust churning in my gut. “Especially one who won’t admit his sins.”

He narrows his eyes and spits out, “Whoever spares the rod hates their children, but the one who loves their children is careful to discipline them.”

Brutal flashbacks slam into me as he utters the same words he used to justify torturing me as a kid.

“You know I’m right,” he says when I’ve been quiet for too long. His bitter laughter pulls me from the well of memories I’m slowly sinking into.

Enough of this shit.

I raise the Glock and steady it, aiming for his leg.

His twisted laughter stops. “You wouldn’t dare?—”

I squeeze the trigger once, cutting him off. A deafening crack echoes off the stone walls. The bullet slams into his thigh. He screams. Eyes wide with disbelief, he stares at the bloody hole.

“Still not gonna give up the code?” I aim for his stomach.

He grits his teeth and glares at me.

“All right.” I tuck the gun away and let out a hollow cackle. “Hang tight, I’ll be back.”

Leaving him alone in the darkness, chained to the wall and bleeding, the way he left me many, many times as a child, feels less like righteous retribution and more like a sick circle finally completed.

Upstairs, the house hasn’t changed much.

Not sure how much time I have before one of the disciples comes to investigate all the noise I’ve been making in the basement, I hurry to my father’s office.