“The kids are gone. Half of them sold at rock bottom price to Kyle Harold and half poisoned by the creek. At least none of them will escape and tell the world what we’ve done.
Then again, I don’t care what happens after I’ve gone. I don’t care that everything will come to light, and the church will turn on us, and our friends will know the truth.
I don’t care because I stopped caring the day I married into this evil and went along with my husband’s plans.
I’m not entirely to blame. After all, I did become the buyer and seller of our little worker bees. As far as I was concerned, we needed labour and labour ain’t cheap…unless you buy it young.
I could’ve continued with what we were doing. This isn’t the kind of letter where I confess to my crimes and beg for forgiveness.
There is nothing to forgive. We lived our life the way we wanted.
I don’t care Willem raped those little girls. I don’t care he mutilated those little boys. Everyone needs discipline in their lives. Even if those lives were short.
I know I have a one-way ticket to the devil, and I’m not going fill this page with lies.
But I am going to admit a secret that Willem never knew. The secret that’s the reason why I’m pulling the trigger.
Della Donna Mclary.
My baby girl.
She wasn’t supposed to be born. I tried to kill her. I tried to starve her out. But the church says thou shall not abort, so I let her come into our dark world.
And for a time, I didn’t feel any different.
I didn’t see her in the girls screaming as Willem molested them. I didn’t see her in the kids starving in the barn.
She wasn’t like them.
But then one day, I did see her like them. I saw her eyes flicker as Willem booted that boy from the kitchen. I saw her scream when Willem shot the kid for letting the sheep out.
And I knew she’d either end up in her father’s bed, or worse, become like us.
Just because I’m not apologising for what we did, doesn’t mean I didn’t know it was against the Lord’s teachings.
And for once, I wanted to do right by God rather than just sing pretty hymns in church.
I was going to do the world a favour.
I was going to kill her before she became me.
For weeks, I tried to do it.
Holding her under in the bath until she blew bubbles.
Clamping my hand over her nose and mouth until she kicked.
I could inspect a child from some white trash family and offer money for their offspring, yet I couldn’t kill my own daughter.
Then I saw that skinny runt of a boy think about escaping. He snuck into the house one night, scurrying like a rat in the dark, stealing food and placing them in Willem’s backpack by the door.
Normally, I would’ve told Willem to shoot him. To kill him dead before the sun rose.
But…he was my chance.
My one chance at killing my daughter without having her blood on my hands.
So…I let him believe he wasn’t noticed.
I held my tongue when he looked at my Della, and I watched that scrawny toad make his move.
When he slipped from the locked barn the next night—revealing a security issue—I knew it was time and grabbed my sleeping daughter and stuffed her in the backpack where his rations were ready to escape.
She was a good girl. She didn’t wake up as I zipped her in and hid her in the darkness.
That little rat poked his head into my house, sniffed around, then slung on the backpack with surprise in his eyes from the extra weight.
He looked as if he’d take it off again and check his supplies.
I couldn’t have that.
So, I yelled for my sleeping husband. I told him we had a runaway and to get the shotgun.
And then, we had some sport as that little boy took off in the corn, bounding like the rat he was, carrying my daughter with him.
I hoped a bullet would take them both out.
I hoped two mistakes could be fixed with one.
But Willem missed.
And to this day, I don’t know if the boy and my baby are dead.
I like to think they are because she was born to evil, and he was sold to the devil. Nothing good can come of them surviving.
But now, my secret is on paper, and I’m ready to kill my husband. I blame him for not knowing if she’s dead or not. I blame him for this life of dirt and destitution. I blame him for everything, and I’ve had enough.
I’ve had enough of the raping, killing, and struggling. We have labour, yet the farm doesn’t grow food anymore. We have stock, but they get sick and die.
Consider this my intent to cancel the missing person’s report that Willem filed. Turned out, that man rather loved his daughter. He loved her enough to want her in all the wrong ways. I knew. I saw it before he could touch her.
At least I saved her from that fate.
I am Marion Mclary, and I don’t apologise for what me and my husband are.
I only apologise for letting my spawn run away and not knowing if she’ll grow up to be like us.
She deserves to die.
Just like that boy who took her.”
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
REN
* * * * * *
2020
A WEEK PASSED where we returned to Cherry River, kept our heads down, and tried to move on. I wasn’t arrested with the strict provision I stayed in town and didn’t travel.
John hired a lawyer on my behalf—just in case the state decided to go ahead with prosecuting me for Della’s disappearance, and I did my best to repay him by preparing the fields for a good rest over winter for a bumper crop come summer.
John and Cassie asked questions that first afternoon, but Della and I didn’t know how to answer them.
Our minds were still messed up from what we’d seen. Images of dirt-smeared bones, time-tattered clothing, and the bay of cadaver dogs replayed on a loop inside my head.
What happened back at Mclary’s had affected both of us.
Della more so than me.
She’d learned she hadn’t, by some miracle, chosen to belong to me by crawling into the backpack, after all. She’d been placed there by her homicidal mother.
I finally had answers to my how and why of how I ended up with a baby.
And she’d learned she’d been unwanted in a sea of mistakes and, despite her rage when we were at the farm watching police exhume such horror, a heavy shame and thick depression cloaked her.
She withdrew into herself, and there was nothing I could do about it.
The day we travelled the eight hours back to Cherry River, we barely talked. The day after, she didn’t want to discuss it. The day after that, she snapped at Cassie to leave it alone.
For a week, I let her stew and put up with her half-hearted smiles and weak assurances.
But she couldn’t hide from me because I understood more than she knew.
I understood she was searching.
Searching deep inside herself for a hint that she might be what her mother said.
A devil.
A monster.
Just like them.
And how could she not after seeing what they’d done?
But I also knew she’d find no trace of evilness because she was as pure and as perfect as they were vile and villainous.
On the eighth day of her despondency, I packed up the tent and sleeping bags and told John we’d be back in a night or two. Cassie was staying in town with Chip and her daughter, and Della fought me a little on leaving John on his own, but we needed to reconnect, and I needed to remind her of something.
As we walked, just the two of us, over the fields toward the treeline we knew so well, I clutched her hand hard. The fake sapphire I’d bought her had gone smoky with age and chipped from wear, but she still wore it religiously, just like I wore my leather band with its metal letters with a single diamante remaining.
As
we walked, I struggled not to cough.
I was fully aware how Della flinched whenever I did. It was an annoying sound, I agreed, but that was all it was—an annoyance.
I felt okay in myself. Nothing stopped me from living a life of physical activity and labour.
Her worry was a tad frustrating, but I could understand, just as I could understand her quietness now. They were circumstances outside her control, yet they affected her wholeheartedly.
Hopefully, I’d be able to reassure her on both accounts.
Once in the forest and far enough away from the farm, I pitched the tent, gathered her close, and made love to her like old times beneath the glittering stars.
At first, she resisted, claiming a headache. Then she lied and said she wasn’t interested.
Her refusal didn’t annoy me because yet again, I understood. “Della…”
She refused to meet my eyes, staring into the fire I’d built and coaxed into a warm blaze.
“Nothing has changed, Little Ribbon.”
Tears she’d bottled up cascaded down her cheeks as I went to her and cuddled her close. “Let me help…please?” Kissing her, I guided her onto the sleeping bag I’d spread on the ground, slowly undressing her, not making any sudden movements in case she ran.
My voice didn’t speak, but my body did.
It assured her that she was still who she believed and I was still who she knew. It convinced her, slowly, gently, that what we had outweighed any pain or terror from the past.
Hesitantly, she responded to my kisses, purred into my touch, and when she spread her legs and I slipped inside her, her gasp was full of sorrow.
We moved together, hands always touching, lips always kissing, our bodies thrusting in affirmation of life and love.
The cool air didn’t stop us. The owl hoots didn’t scare us. I didn’t care it was late in the season and snow seasoned the air. I didn’t care we shivered as we moved together, chasing an orgasm that wasn’t just about pleasure, but a declaration that we might have been touched by evil, but it hadn’t claimed us.
We’d chosen our own path, and we always would.
Afterward, with my body still in Della’s, I smoothed back her hair and cupped her cheeks. Lying over her with her trapped beneath me, I murmured, “You have never been, nor will you ever be like them, Della Ribbon.”
She flinched, the fire dancing in her eyes with golden spirals. For a second, a flash of ire said she wouldn’t talk to me. Then torment drenched her voice. “But how do you know? How do you know I won’t snap one day and—”
“I know because I raised you.”
“What if that filth can’t be changed? What if I’m lying to you and myself? What if I’m not a good person and could kill—”
“You are a good person.”
“But how do you know? Truly know?” Her gaze searched mine, desperate for an answer. “I’m so afraid I have no control. That I am what they made—not what you guided. That I have no choice.”
“You do have a choice. We all have a choice.”
“But genetics—”
“Have nothing to do with it.” I stared deep into her, needing her to believe me. “I know you are good and sweet and kind because I know you. I’ve known you your entire life.”
She squirmed beneath me. “That’s not an answer.”
“It is. It’s the best one. I’ve seen you grow, Della. I’ve seen you uncensored and undisciplined and uncivilized. I’ve seen you in every mood there is, and not once did you hurt anyone or anything. You weren’t malicious. You weren’t cruel. You were—”
“I was, though, don’t you see? I was cruel to you.”
I chuckled, hiding yet another cough. “You were never cruel to me.”
“But—”
“No buts.” Running a thumb over her pink lips, I whispered, “They had you for a year, Della. I’ve had you for almost twenty. Whatever they taught you or said to you is drowned out by the endless conversations and love we’ve shared.”
She frowned, running her tongue over my thumb. “Did you ever look at me like she did? Did you ever think I could be like them?”
“Never.”
“Not even when you didn’t want me?”
“Not even then.” Kissing her softly, I added, “And not wanting you lasted for a heartbeat before I became yours.”
“I’m sorry, Ren.”
“Nothing to apologise for.”
“I know…but I need to. Seeing that place. Seeing those bodies. Seeing how real it all was.”
I pushed those memories aside, just as I always shoved memories of that farmhouse away. “I accept your apology if it makes you feel better, but only if you accept mine.”
She frowned. “Why are you apologising?”
“Because I always blamed you for making my running all that much harder. I cursed you for being in my bag when all along, I should’ve been thanking you.” Pressing my forehead to hers, I hardened inside her, comforted by her body heat and already desperate for more. “Without you, I would’ve been shot before I ever crept back into the house to collect my supplies. My escape was all down to you being in that bag. You are the reason I’m alive, Della. Not the other way around.”
Her eyes softened, and the shadows that had lurked inside her dissolved. “Kiss me, Ren Shaw. I’m sick of apologies.”
I raised an eyebrow, my lips thinning in reproof. “Ask me again with the correct name.”
She smiled. “Kiss me, Ren Wild. Make love to me. Promise me you’ll never let me go.”
So I did.
And I promised.
And I never let go.
* * * * *
Another week passed, slipping us back into routine.
Della spent more time with Cassie discussing horses and Cassie’s future dream of one day opening an equine business, and I returned to my odd jobs around the farm.
The air was cooler now, making the frustrating ache in my chest three times worse.
Some days, I barely noticed it.
But then some days, like today, I felt as if lunch lodged in my throat and wouldn’t swallow. I willingly coughed, trying to eradicate the obstruction, forcing deeper coughs and longer barks, begging for a reprieve from the pressure.
It was there, while I hung onto a stable door, bent over trying to clear the weight in my lungs, that John found me.
I thought I was on my own.
I refused to cough so badly in people’s presence because I knew how annoying the noise could be.
But as John stomped toward me in his dirty overalls and a rusty tool kit to lend a hand, I’d destroyed any hope of stopping, thanks to willingly encouraging a coughing fit.
His eyes tightened as I held up my hand, swallowing back wracking heaves, clamping my other hand over my mouth and doing my best to stop.
“Ren?” John placed his tool kit on the cobblestones, coming to put a hand on my back as I rode out the final waves of affliction. “Take it easy.” His gaze travelled to the hose in the corner, his body swaying in its direction. “Want some water? Choking on something?”
I shook my head, smothering yet another cough and standing up with a gasp. “I’m—” A couple more coughs caught me unaware, lashing my chest with pain. Finally, when I could breathe again, I said, “I’m fine.” Smiling with watery eyes, I inhaled deep, fighting the tickle to cough again. “Just hay dust.”
Turning, I reached for the nails that I’d been using to fix a loose hinge only for John to fist my wrist.
“What is that?” His fingers latched tight, cutting off my arteries.
“Don’t touch me.” I tugged, feeling a residual thread of panic from being held against my will. No matter how many years passed, I doubted I’d fully have control over my attacks.
“Goddammit, Ren. What the hell is this?” He held up my palm, shoving it under my nose.
Red.
Liquid.
Blood.
My blood.
Fuck.
I froze
, running my tongue over my lip and tasting the nasty flavour of copper. My eyes met his, and I broke beneath the love there. The love he had for me. And the worry. Shit, the worry.
“It’s okay, John.” I yanked my hand free, wiping the blood on my jeans. “Don’t—”
Fisting his keys from his overalls pocket, he grabbed my bicep, once again layering me with a fissure of fear. “We’re leaving. Right now.”
“Leaving? To go where?” He pulled me from the stable.
So many parts of me wanted to shove him to the ground for manhandling me, but I understood his violence came from panic just like my panic came from violence.
“Doctor.” His eyes welled with fury and impatience. “You’ve been coughing ever since you got back home. I’m not putting up with it anymore.”
“But what about Della?” I twisted my arm free, raising my eyebrow when he tried to hold on to me. “Let go, John. I won’t ask again.” My gritted teeth and feral tone hinted I wasn’t coping.
He dropped his hand but didn’t stop his fast pace to the barn doors. “She’s with Cassie. They popped into town to see Chip at work. We have time.”
“I-I can’t make her worry.”
He stopped, turning to face me. “And you can’t make me worry, Ren. I’m not losing you like I lost Patricia. I love you like a son, but if you don’t see a doctor, I will kick you out of my house, so help me God.”
I smirked. “Winter is close. You wouldn’t dare.”
He didn’t smile back. “Try me. Now get your ass in the truck.”
* * * * *
It was as if my lungs knew they had an audience because I hadn’t been able to ignore the tickle and wheeze since John drove me above normal speed limits to his local practitioner.
There was no discussion over identifications or money.
No discussions period as his regular doctor called his name ten minutes after we arrived, and we were ushered into a small white office with posters of body parts and skeletons on the wall.
To start with, I resented John for dragging me down here.
I worried if Della was safe and what time she’d be home.
What would she do if she found scattered tools and no workmen to use them?
What the hell would I tell her about John’s kidnapping and the blood stain on my jeans?
The Girl and Her Ren Page 34
