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He glares at me with the confidence of man who thinks God will send his angels to swoop in and save him at the last minute. “I did what was right to protect my flock.”

That’s the only confirmation I’ll probably ever get from him. The rage and grief I’ve carried for so long collide, chilling me to the bone. “ Where did you bury them?”

“They’re with the Devil now.” He closes his eyes as if he’s so meek and pious. “Paying for their sins.”

Tired . I’m so fucking tired of his twisted religious shit.

“I really hope Hell is real. That’s definitely where you’re going.” I pull the Glock from my side. “Any last prayers?”

His chin jerks upward, defiant. Still arrogant but a hint of fear shadows his eyes. “You’ll break God’s heart.”

As if he’s ever cared about anyone’s heart before. “Yeah, well, he never stopped you from tearing out mine over and over in his name, so I guess this will make us even.”

“You c-can’t,” he stutters. “You won’t get away with killing me. You’ll be locked up.”

A heavy ache settles in my chest, warning me not to give him too much information but needing to purge my soul.

“I’ve felt imprisoned my whole life. By you, your god, memories of you, the scars on my back.

” A bitter laugh catches in my throat. “If it ends up being official, I’m fine with it.

As long as you’re no longer walking the planet. ”

“God will welcome me with open arms.” He tries to wave his hands, his chains scraping and rattling against the stone.

“Doubt it.” I raise the Glock, leveling the barrel at his chest.

A glint of gold catches my eye.

I lower the gun.

His fearful expression shifts to relief. “I knew you’d see the light.”

But it’s not his life I want to spare.

It’s the ring on his pinky. A solid gold band—thick, severe, and heavy-looking.

The years have dulled its shine and worn the edges smooth, but the symbol at its center is still clear.

I remember it well—a sword driven through the spine of a serpent, its coiled body twisted beneath the blade.

What he always claimed was a symbol of his dominance over sin.

As if sensing my intention, he curls his fingers into a fist. I pin his wrist to the wall and tug the ring free.

“This sin will haunt you for the rest of your miserable life,” he spits out.

“You have no idea how many times I’ve thought of this. Every time you whipped me. Starved me. Made me bleed.” I pull the Glock out again and press the muzzle to his chest. “I promised myself I’d come back one day and show you real sin.”

I let that sink in. Watch it register. No one’s coming to save him.

“No.”

“Yes,” I whisper. “You’re finally reaping what you sowed all these years.”

Slowly, I squeeze the trigger, savoring the final moment—the one I’ve fantasized about for most of my life.

A single shot echoes violently around us, deafening in the still basement.

He slumps against the chains, the arrogance and false righteousness draining from his body.

The silence rings louder than the shot.

My hands tremble as I stuff the Glock into its holster.

Breathe. Just breathe.

There’s still so much more work to do.

Time’s tight. Anyone could come down here and see what I’ve done. Sure, they’re more likely to drop to their knees and start praying than call the cops but I’d rather not test out that theory.

There’s a slop sink down here and a barrel of lye out back just waiting for— fuck .

I glance at the slop sink. Old steel and rusted seams—useless. Lye would eat through it in minutes, spilling him out onto the floor before the skin’s even melted off of his carcass.

A slight ringing in my ears remains from the gunshot. But no guilt or remorse weighs me down. No, I can’t stop seeing Jezzie’s small body fighting under my father’s hand. How long has he been using drowning as punishment? Was that the first time he did that to her? The tenth? Hundredth?

It’s over now. She’s safe.

The tub in the barn . That’s a much better vessel. It’ll be a pain in the ass to haul my father’s body out to the barn but worth the effort.

I hurry through the maze of rooms in the basement and find an old, rough blanket on the floor of one of the cells.

My stomach recoils at the traces of blood on the walls, little slashes in patchy dark red—like someone with tiny fingers tried to count how many days she’d been locked down here.

Was it Jezzie? Another kid on the farm? One of my father’s “wives?”

Are they even still alive?

Forty minutes later, sweat slicking down my back, muscles screaming, I finally heave him into the barn. His lifeless form thuds onto the bench in front of the makeshift pulpit—the very spot he preached hellfire and punishment morning after morning.

The large white tub waits silently for me in the center of the room. Still half-full of the water he used to almost drown my sister.

Her terrified gasps replay in my head as I approach the tub.

A grunt escapes me as I lift one end. Water gushes onto the wood, seeping through cracks and grooves, staining the floor dark.

Without a glance at my father’s still form, I shake off the chill racing down my spine and stalk to the back of the barn.

Fifty-pound bags of lye are stacked right where I remember.

I’m not an expert but three bags should be enough to complete the job. I yank the collar of my shirt up to cover my mouth and nose as I dump the bags into the tub. My eyes sting and my nostrils burn as the fumes sear through fabric of my makeshift mask.

Behind the stacks of lye, I find the rusty propane heater. A pair of old goggles and a set of ragged gloves rest on top of the heater. Wish I’d seen these earlier. I slip the goggles into place, pull the gloves over raw knuckles, the ragged material tight and itchy against my sweaty skin.

Steam billows around me like thick, suffocating smoke as I pour scalding water into the tub. The goggles help but my nostrils still burn. I cough hard, throat raw, and turn away from the tub.

Prep work complete. Time for the main event.

My muscles strain as I heave his corpse into the tub. His body sinks into the bubbling solution with a thick hissing sound. Violent foam froths over the water, welcoming him into the deadly brew. In a few hours he’ll be nothing but bleached, brittle bones.

The acrid smell sears my lungs. Bile rises, scorching the back of my throat.

No prayers. No farewells.

Just chemicals devouring the monster who tortured his children.

The irony hits me—sharp, satisfying. He tried to kill his only daughter in this tub.

Instead, his son will use it to strip his bones clean.

Back inside the house, a fearful group of my father’s disciples have gathered in the kitchen and dining room. Wary eyes dart around as if they’re in need of direction from someone or they’re waiting to be punished. No sign of Jezzie. Ruth is the only person I recognize.

She’s aged a lot since I last saw her, and I can only imagine the horrors inflicted on her by my father over the last few years. Especially if he figured out she was the one who helped me escape.

Careful not to attract any attention, I walk up behind her and lean down. “Meet me in my father’s office.”

She whirls around, the long fabric of her dress rustling around her ankles. A sharp gasp breaks free as her wide eyes lock on my face. Her lower lip trembles like she’s staring at a ghost. “Jensen?”

I nod once, then turn away from the dining room and head toward my father’s office.

Ruth’s soft steps follow behind me. Inside the office, I quickly close the door behind me.

“Jensen? It’s really you?” Ruth whispers. “Your father told us you died.”

Of course he did.

“He wishes.” Or wished. “I went to live with a friend’s family up north.”

She runs her gaze over me. I can only imagine what I look like—splattered with blood and reeking of death. “You’ve…grown. You look well. They must have taken good care of you.”

Throat too tight to speak, I nod. Can’t talk about Boone and Emily here. Not now. Not with Ruth.

I open my mouth to change the subject. But Ruth shifts to the side and I realize she brought someone with her.

She’s holding the hand of a little boy. Maybe five or six.

Wearing the same too-short hand-me-down black pants, scuffed black shoes, and button-up shirt my parents used to force me to wear to school all the time.

The uniform that invited every school bully’s commentary.

But the clothes aren’t the only similarity. It’s his eyes. Wide. Curious. Hopeful. Eyes too similar to the man currently melting in a tub of lye out in the barn. If I’m not careful that look on his face will carve me wide open.

“Jensen,” Ruth says, tugging the boy forward, “this is?—”

“We don’t have a lot of time.” I turn and head for the wall safe. Irrationally afraid I wouldn’t be able to open it again, I’d left the door open a crack. I push it open wider. “How many people are on the farm now?” I ask without looking over my shoulder.

“Uh, eight adults,” she says. “Ten children, including Jezzie and Cain.”

Cain. Of course that’s what he named his youngest son. A name to let him know he’s bound to be cursed.

I clear my throat. “Everyone needs to leave the farm. Can you help me talk to them?”

“Leave?” She rushes up behind me and grabs my shoulder. “And go where?”

“Wherever you want.” I gesture toward the shelf with the boxes of money. “Help me sort through these documents and split up this money for everyone.”

Confusion clouds her dull blue eyes. “Where’s your father?”

“Don’t worry about him.”

“What did you do?”

I yank two of the boxes off the shelf and carry them into the office, tossing them on the desk with a hard thud. “Ruth.” I snap my fingers to yank her out of her frozen trance. “Help me go through these documents.”

“How did you find?—”

“It doesn’t matter.” I cut her off and grit my teeth. “Hurry.”