Page 7 of Scatter the Bones (Lost Kings MC #26)

Finally, she accepts the pile of papers I shove at her and starts sorting them into separate stacks. “The kids…Mary’s husband left her here with her children. He was supposed to?—”

“He’s probably dead.” I stare at the papers in her hand. “How many kids are hers?”

“Five.”

“How many vehicles are still on the property?”

She shakes her head slowly. “The old truck. The Keesee’s car. A van…”

“Enough for each family to leave?”

“I think so.”

“Good.” I return to the vault and grab two of the shoeboxes of cash. At my father’s desk, I crouch down, searching the drawers. I find a stack of long, yellow envelopes in the bottom drawer and grab a handful.

Ruth’s eyes bug when I flip the lid off one of the boxes, revealing the neat bundles of hundred-dollar bills. “Where did that come from?”

“No idea.” I lift my chin toward the door while shoving stacks of cash into envelopes.

I try to split it evenly. Except for the woman with five kids to support.

I step into the vault again and grab another box to fill her envelope.

“They can use it to start a new life, join another cult, I don’t really fucking care. ”

“What about you?”

“Don’t worry about me.” I don’t want to tell her how much cash is actually in the vault. “Did you find your documents? Your son’s?”

She shakes her head. “They’re not here.”

Fuck. “Okay.” I grab the stacks of birth certificates and driver’s licenses, shoving them in the correct envelopes, and use a Sharpie to scribble the names on the front. “Pass these out and help them pack. I’ll keep looking for your papers.”

“Jensen, what am I supposed to tell everyone?”

“Tell them my father ran off and you found these packages on his desk.” I stare her dead in the eyes. “Or tell them I found him trying to drown my sister out in the barn and punished him accordingly. I really don’t give a fuck what story you give. Just get rid of them.”

She recoils in fear, like a dog wary after being kicked in the ribs too many times. Regret pokes at me. I shouldn’t be so harsh with her.

Painfully aware how much bigger I am than her now, I take a breath. I left a scrawny kid and returned a man. I tower over her by a lot. I force some calm into my lowered voice. “Please?”

She nods slowly and backs away, clutching the envelopes to her chest. Her gaze drops. “Stay here with Jensen.”

I lean over the desk and find Cain sitting cross-legged on the floor, staring at the wall. Scared, bored, indifferent—I can’t tell what’s going on in the kid’s head but at least he’s quiet. He briefly glances in Ruth’s direction and nods.

Ignoring both of them, I return to the vault and start tearing through the other boxes.

I can’t decipher any pattern to how my father stored things.

Nothing’s filed alphabetically or by date, just stacks of envelopes and a mixture of boxes.

The system probably made sense to him but it’s frustrating as fuck for me—the person trying to find anything of value in a hurry.

Finally, I locate Jezzie’s birth certificate, Social Security card, and a bunch of progress reports from school. Those might help Angela get Jezzie enrolled in school. I add them to my pile.

I move to the shelf closest to the door and pull a green file folder into my hands. It flips open and papers flutter to the ground.

Ruth and Cain’s papers. Birth certificates.

A high school diploma. The last piece stops me cold—a marriage license signed by what must be Ruth’s father, giving her permission to marry my father when she was a teenager.

My stomach heaves with disgust. She’s younger than I thought.

Only two years older than me. What kind of sick fucking parents did she have who’d let her marry my father?

It doesn’t matter. She’s free now and not my problem.

I grab two more shoeboxes and carry them into the office.

Cain’s standing right outside the door, still staring at me with those wide, blank eyes.

I shift the boxes to one arm and gently ruff my hand over the top of his head. “You go to school, little man?”

He nods slowly.

Still watching him, I drop my armload on the desk. “You like it?”

He shrugs, then nods again.

“You know how to talk?”

His serious little face screws into a scowl. He’s got some Killgore fire in him after all. “Yes.”

“Good.” I return to the vault and pull two of the metal boxes off the shelves. I dump the papers on the desk and transfer the cash into one of the sturdier boxes. Then stack everything for Ruth on the corner of the desk.

Footsteps pound over the floor above me and I glance up. Hope that means people are moving their asses and packing their shit, not grabbing their guns and coming for me.

No. Ruth wouldn’t have left her son here if she planned to get the whole compound to take me out.

Outside a car engine rumbles to life.

I blow out a sigh of relief.

I search every drawer of my father’s desk—Bibles, keys, coins, scraps of paper with half-written verses or angry, ranting sermon notes. Most of it, I toss aside.

The bottom drawer sticks.

I yank harder. It gives with a light squeak, revealing several stacks of small, black leather-bound notebooks. Each one identical in size and thickness. The only difference is the year marked on each spine.

Intrigued, I set them on top of the desk and open the oldest notebook.

Rows and rows of neatly written names, numbers, infractions, and punishments.

A ledger of my father’s brutality.

Most of my childhood memories are fuzzy but he must have started keeping this notebook the year after we moved here.

The earliest entries are deceptively mild.

Joshua—talked back to mother—two hours of silence.

Gideon—disobeyed father—write ten commandments ten times.

Jensen—neglected chores—Memorize and recite Romans 6:23.

Elizabeth—denied husband—10 lashes with belt.

Even my mother didn’t escape his punishments. My throat tightens. The implications of her entry turn my stomach.

I continue flipping pages. On and on the lists go.

After a while, other names pop up—people who must’ve stayed at the farm from time to time.

Sarah—refused to share with the community—stripped of bedding and warmth for three days.

Eli—coveted Sarah—three days of fasting and prayer. No contact with women for a week.

Lydia—questioned headship—Copy Ephesians 5:22 one hundred times.

Naomi—seen alone with Eli—confined to room. Hair cut to shoulder length.

Eli—whipped five times—Confined to barn for three nights.

The entries are cruel. Clinical. My father’s devotion to God twisted into justification for torturing people. I pick up another notebook and the insane ledger continues.

Thomas—stole bread—twenty lashes. Public apology before breakfast.

Leah—skipped chores—Forced to walk barefoot through fields.

Jensen—talked back—ruler to knuckles.

Gideon—interfered with Jensen’s correction. Must repent for idolizing family above God—seven lashes, two days of solitude.

My brother tried to protect me?

I glance down at my hands. Why can’t I remember that incident?

Joshua—caught sneaking bread to Gideon—fourteen lashes, confined to barn for two nights.

And my other brother tried to feed Gideon.

Jensen—failed to complete Psalm assignment—kneel on stones for four hours. No supper.

Christ, I can still feel the ache of those stones digging into my tender knees. Forcing myself to be still and not cry or he’d make me stay there even longer.

Gideon—caught sneaking bread to Jensen—ten lashes, four days of solitude.

I blink, my eyes burning. My brother still tried to feed me even after he’d been punished for trying to protect me before.

Not long after that entry Gideon and Joshua’s names disappear from the notebook entirely.

No final notation about what led to their departure. Did they actually escape? Or did he kill them?

I should have tortured him longer.

Until he gave me an answer.

I don’t have time to relive the horrors contained in these books, but I can’t seem to stop.

Jensen—disruptive in school—no supper, sleep on floor.

Jezebel—disobeyed mother. Sang during nap time—confined to room. No supper.

Jensen—interfered with Jezebel’s punishment—four lashes. No breakfast.

Jezebel—cried during morning worship—placed in silent pen. No contact with other children for one day.

Some of these memories return. Fuzzy and jumbled. Jezzie was so little. I didn’t understand how she could be expected to follow our father’s insane rules. But at least he never physically punished her.

I toss the book on the desk in disgust and pick up another one. I want to burn the whole stack. Another part of me wants them as a sick keepsake.

And maybe to use in my defense if I’m ever arrested for the death of my father.

A soft knock breaks the silence. I snap the book shut and lift my head. Ruth eases the door open, shoulders hunched like she expects me to throw a Bible at her.

Cain, now quietly sitting by the vault door, glances at her but the stoic expression on his little face doesn’t change.

“They’re gone,” Ruth says. “Everyone took the money, their belongings, and left without question. I didn’t mention your presence.”

“Good.” That’s better than I expected. As my father’s wife, Ruth must’ve held some power over the others. Enough for them to obey her.

She crosses the room slowly, eyeing everything I’ve laid out on the desk but not saying a word.

I clear my throat and nod to the corner of the desk. “That pile is for you. Cash and your papers.” I gesture vaguely at Cain.

Her eyes widen, but she doesn’t reach for the stuff. “Jensen…where am I supposed to go?”

I press my hands against the desk and lean forward. “Start over. Somewhere far away. Where you’ll be safe.” I pull the marriage certificate out. “I wouldn’t go back to your family. They obviously have poor judgment.”

It was supposed to be a weak attempt at a joke, but it comes out harsh.

Tears fill her eyes, but she snaps the paper out of my hand. “What about Jezzie? You can’t raise her by yourself.”