Page 5

No one will call the cops. My father’s always managed to instill a fear of law enforcement and government agencies in his people. That doesn’t mean I want to deal with their questions.

Nothing’s changed in his office either. Same heavy, dark wooden desk with a Bible and telephone. Nothing else to clutter the surface. Same sick, twisted paintings of hell—naked men and women hanging over open flames—on the walls.

The vault’s on the far wall, concealed behind a piece of wood paneling. I run my fingers over the slick surface, searching for the groove to reveal the hidden door.

Click . Cheap wood panel scrapes against the thin carpet as I drag it open, revealing a thick steel door with a combination lock.

Fuck.

I grip the Glock and stare at the safe. I don’t want to add to my scars or accidentally kill myself if the bullet ricochets off the steel door.

People are simple creatures. Always use a number that’s easy to remember. Birthdays, anniversaries, wedding dates. First, I punch in various versions of my father’s birthday.

A sharp bleat and flash of red after each number says I’m wrong.

He’s not sentimental enough to use my mother’s birthday, is he?

I try that anyway.

Nothing.

Should I return to the basement and try a few different torture devices? He used a cane on my bare ass one time. That stung like a motherfucker, and I couldn’t sit down for a week.

Whoever spares the rod…

Proverbs 13:24.

My breath steadies as I approach the keypad again. I punch in 1-3-2-4.

The lock beeps twice and a small green light flashes.

Damn, I should’ve known to start with Biblical numbers.

The heavy vault door swings open with a metallic groan. Gideon and I never went inside when I was a kid. I always envisioned it as a shallow space in the wall where he stored some extra cash. Maybe a weapon or two. My parents never had flashy jewelry or anything else you’d normally stick in a safe.

In reality, it’s a walk-in vault the size of a large storm shelter. Maybe it was originally intended to be a safe room for the end of days. I have to duck through the doorway, but once I’m inside I stand tall.

Nope .

While it’s big for a safe, it’s still an enclosed space. I step out and push the heavy door all the way open, pinning it in place with my father’s large, leather office chair.

Reassured I won’t accidentally lock myself inside, I return to the hidden room.

Guns line one entire wall. Not a surprise. He taught me to shoot when I was barely old enough to hold a gun. Never knew he had enough weaponry to outfit a small army stashed away, though. Long arms, shotguns, and handguns. Shelves at the back hold boxes and boxes of ammunition.

While I’d love to take this arsenal with me, I can’t risk driving across the country with Jezzie, my father’s bones, and a truck bed full of guns.

And I don’t plan to leave this house standing when we go.

The opposite wall holds more shelves and what looks like more personal items. Backpacks, duffle bags, folders, boxes, women’s purses.

I start at the far end and open a shoebox.

Stacks of cash.

Now this I’ll happily take with me. The stacks appear to be hundred-dollar bills. Quick math adds up to at least sixty-thousand dollars in this box alone. What the fuck?

I flip the lids off the other shoeboxes and find more stacks of cash. Another holds gold bars.

He made us live like peasants when he had this much money stashed away. Where did it all come from?

Can’t get distracted.

I move on to a gray metal box. Thankful it’s fastened with a simple clasp, I flick it open and stare. Documents. Identification.

I sort through driver’s licenses, Social Security cards, and birth certificates. Some names I recognize. People who lived on the farm for short periods of time.

My father would say they left for the temptations of the outside world. Their hearts weren’t pure enough to accept God’s salvation or whatever bullshit.

Why would they leave this stuff behind?

Uneasiness crawls through my stomach.

I flip the lid of another gray box on a higher shelf.

The first birth certificate freezes the blood in my veins.

Gideon Killgore.

My older brother. Who ran away without saying goodbye.

I set that one aside and pull out the next.

Joshua Killgore.

My other brother. Who supposedly influenced Gideon to leave. Both gone when Jezzie was so little, I doubt she even remembers them. My father certainly never allowed anyone to utter their names after they left.

A yellow envelope rests at the bottom of the box. With trembling hands, I take it out and set the box back on the shelf.

Fear crackles through my veins as I slide the yellowed certificate out.

Elizabeth Williams.

My mother.

At the bottom of the envelope a few rectangular cards are stuck together. I shake the stiff paper over one of the shelves and the cards flutter and plop onto the metal surface.

My mother’s driver’s license. Social Security cards for my brothers and mother.

My brothers…I could see them leaving this stuff behind. Especially if they left in a hurry.

I’ve tried searching for Gideon and Joshua. Aunt Em hired people to search for them. And we never found a trace of my brothers anywhere.

He killed them.

The truth of it rattles my bones.

Maybe my brothers never abandoned me after all.

I was angry they left me behind. Surface anger. Underneath, even as a kid, I suspected they no longer walked the Earth.

That’s why when Ruth brought me my papers and encouraged me to leave, I did. Even though it meant leaving Jezzie.

Did he kill all of these other people too?

I pick up one of the ID cards— James Lamb . He disagreed with one of my father’s sermons. Not long after, he disappeared from the compound, leaving his wife and kid behind. My father said he wasn’t committed enough.

As I continue shifting through the documents, I encounter other names—both familiar and unfamiliar. Mr. Lamb’s the only person I have a specific memory about.

I stuff my family’s documents into one envelope, fold it in thirds, and shove it in my back pocket.

I know what I have to do now.

Barrels of lye. That’s what I need. My father stored them behind the barn. Kept them for making soap and other farm chores.

I’m about to use it for a much different purpose. Maybe my father did too.

Maybe I’m more like him than I want to admit.

My father’s where I left him. Shackled to the wall. Leaning on it for support, cheek against the cold bricks.

“Wake up.” I grab the bloody whip from the floor and crack it in the air.

He moans and turns his head, fixing me with a bleary-eyed stare.

I snap the envelope free and pull out Gideon’s birth certificate, shoving it right under his nose. “Did you kill Gideon?”

Pain or fear seems to break his stoic expression. He shifts his gaze away. “They were evil, wicked boys. Had the Devil in them.”

“Them?” I pull out Joshua’s birth certificate and hold it in front of his face.

“You’re about to find out if there really is a god—although if there is, I suspect you’ll be going in the opposite direction—so come clean now.

Unburden yourself,” I add, fighting hard to keep my tone more grave than sarcastic.

“I’ve always done God’s will,” he whispers.

“I’m sure you think so.” I shake the birth certificates in my hand, the thin papers rustling in the dank air. “Speak the truth. Did they really run away?”

“They were stubborn and rebellious.” His voice rises with conviction.

“So, what’d you do, stone them to death?”

“They dishonored us—your mother and me. The Scripture is clear, boy.” His voice trembles with the same righteous indignation that used to spark fear in my chest. “Deuteronomy tells us to purge the evil from our midst. A rebellious son is an abomination in the sight of God. It is my duty as your father to see that His justice is served.”

That’s probably as close to the truth as I’ll ever get out of him.

“What about Mom? She didn’t just up and die one day.” I ask. “What’d she do to deserve your twisted version of ‘justice’?”

Anger ripples over his face. Minutes away from death and he seems to be gaining strength.

“The woman who betrays her husband betrays God Himself.” The same imperious tone he used for his lengthy sermons fills his voice.

“Scripture demands death for her sin. ‘Both the adulterer and the adulteress must die.’ Elizabeth abandoned her duty to God and to me. Her punishment was just.”

“Bullshit! She never cheated on you. When would she even have the time? If you weren’t working her to death with chores, she couldn’t leave the farm without you glued to her side.”

“There are many ways a woman can abandon her duty to her husband, son.”

“What? What justifies murder? Taking a mother away from her kids? What? She didn’t want to fuck you anymore after you started bringing home teenagers to add to your harem? Was that how she ‘disobeyed’ you?”

He winces as if the curse word is the worst thing about my accusation. “There’s more evil coursing through you than ever, boy. Living with those people in the outside world has corrupted you beyond my wildest nightmares.”

“Don’t you dare say one fucking word about Boone and Em.

They treated me more like a son than you ever did.

” A fist of grief wraps around my throat, but I fight to keep my face blank.

I won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing Boone and Emily are dead.

He’ll see it as some sort of sign from God that he’s the righteous one.

“You killed my brothers. Did you kill my mother too?”

He says nothing. His silence as good as a confirmation for me.

I tilt my head toward the stairs leading into the house. “All those other documents you have in the vault. All those disciples. I remember some of them. They didn’t ‘leave’ like you always told us, did they? The ones who ‘failed the Lord.’ They challenged you and you killed them, didn’t you?”