“Yeah, I would. Because you also sexually harassed my wife. Yes, Kerry and I are married now, and she would love to get even with you.”
“Oh, come on. That was a decade ago and stupid guy stuff. My dad is dying, and I know you have the money to help me.”
“Here’s another idea,” Greg shot back. “Find a rich donor for your charity, then funnel twenty grand to me, so I can give Kerry a baby. You owe her, you prick.”
What the hell was he talking about? Some fertility crap? “Fat fucking chance.” Deacon started to hang up.
“I’ll report you!” Greg shouted. “If you don’t send the money in the next two weeks, I’ll turn you in for theft. The army may not prosecute you, but they will strip you of your medals.”
The fucker! The Distinguished Service Cross and the Silver Star were the only decent things he had to show for his life. “You won’t do that.”
“Yes, I will. It would make Kerry quite happy. She would rather have the in vitro treatments and the baby, but seeing you dishonored would be almost as good.” Greg let out a harsh laugh. “Thought you would blackmail me, huh? Not your best idea, Deacon. Get the money, you son of a bitch.” Greg hung up.
What the hell had just happened? Shaking, Deacon put his phone back in his pocket and pulled onto the road again. Would Greg really report him for selling fucking gas to the locals? He had to be bluffing. Fuck! What a disaster. Now he needed more money than ever. And Emma’s parents had it. Time to turn up the heat and get between that girl’s legs. Once he’d fucked her and the oxytocin was flowing, she would bond to him and give him whatever he wanted.
CHAPTER 7
Thursday, April 20, 8:05 a.m.
Emma put down the last pan of muffins and joined the other girls at the cafeteria table. Only seven people this morning. Who was missing? Deacon hadn’t joined them, but he often didn’t. Or sometimes he came late. Oh, Bethany wasn’t there, but she might have just slept in. The sisters ate in shifts, with soup kitchen workers and house helpers like herself eating first, and the donation takers eating an hour or so later. Emma cooked and served both meals, then cleaned the kitchen, alongside either Jewel or Skeeter.
They joined hands and said their own version of a serenity prayer, ending with, “I give my life in service so that I may find peace.”
After a quiet moment, Emma asked, “Where’s Bethany?” She leaned forward to catch Ronnie’s attention.
“How should I know?” Ronnie shrugged and kept eating. She was twenty-three, but looked forty. Most of her back teeth were missing from meth use, and her face was pockmarked. She’d been with Sister Love since it started and was the only member who had her own car and didn’t have to wear scrubs all the time. Emma tried not to be jealous.
“Bethany’s still sleeping.” Skeeter barely looked up from her eggs when she spoke.
“Oh right. It’s her day off from the soup kitchen.” Ronnie gulped coffee and made a face. “What is this crap? What happened to the good stuff?”
“I don’t know.” Emma knew it wasn’t her fault. “Margo does the shopping. I just brew it.”
“Just be grateful we have coffee,” Skeeter chimed in. “None of us deserve the good life.”
For once, Ronnie had nothing to say. The conversation at the other end of the table went quiet too, and Emma lost her appetite. She would never forgive herself for the accident. She rubbed her thigh, the tenderness still with her. The cut to her leg from windshield glass had not been life threatening, but she wished it had been. Thoughts of suicide had controlled her life for months, but only her mother’s watchful eye and the guilt of hurting her parents had kept Emma from following through with her death wish.
Then Deacon had found her online and offered her a chance to atone—and a new life that would help her undo some of the damage she’d done. Emma had moments when she hated the confinement of Sister Love and moments when she hated herself. But most of the time, she felt peace—content to take care of the house and the other sisters, who understood and shared her guilt and were giving their time to homeless people. Someday she would go out and serve at the soup kitchen or collect donations, but for now, Deacon wanted her home, where he could counsel her and keep her safe from self-harm.
Just as she thought about him, she heard his voice and looked up.
“You’re not eating.” His handsome face looked concerned.
Emma’s mood lifted. “I’m having a Guilt Episode.”
“Food deprivation is not how we punish ourselves.” Their leader sat down and helped himself to eggs. “I’ll have a special guilt reliever for you after you finish your work this morning. So come to my office.”
What did he have in mind? Emma shivered with both anticipation and dread. “Thank you.” She picked up her fork and forced herself to eat.
Skeeter, a quiet girl with a freckled face, reached for more eggs, her arm crossing the edge of Deacon’s plate. He grabbed the wooden spoon from the bowl and smacked Skeeter’s forearm.
“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I should have said excuse me.”
Emma wondered if Skeeter had been impolite intentionally, just to be noticed. Or to be punished. Some members wanted to feel physical pain. Emma accepted it when Deacon meted it out, but she preferred other types of atonement.
They all held their breath in case there was more punishment coming.
“You’re excused,” he finally said. Deacon picked up his fork and gestured for all of them to do the same.
They ate in silence for a moment. Then Ronnie said, “Let’s get going. We need to stock the van with greenhouse goods.”
The soup kitchen girls stood and cleared their plates. Emma got up too, grabbing an empty serving bowl with her free hand. While Ronnie and her crew loaded garden vegetables from the panty, Emma and Skeeter cleaned the table. Deacon hugged them both before leaving the room. His embrace felt wonderful, but left Emma conflicted. She didn’t deserve his love. As she walked to the kitchen, the darkness of shame overwhelmed her, and the accident replayed in her mind—in full-color slow motion, as usual.
The text from Jason. Looking down to read it, then laughing at his goofiness. Hearing Marlee yell, “Hey!” Glancing up to check the road. Panic, when she realized she was driving off the asphalt. Jerking the wheel back to the left, then spinning out of control. Sickness in her stomach as the car flew off the road and the rock cliff came out of nowhere. Explosive pain in her head as she snapped forward, then back. Sheer horror as she saw the mangled, bloody mess that used to be her best friend. Screaming and screaming until she blacked out, partly from hyperventilation and partly from blood loss.
“Are you okay?” Skeeter stopped washing dishes and put an arm around her.
“Yes. Just reliving a bad moment.”
“We all do. You have to let it go. Being here and serving others is how we make it better.”
Emma gave her a small smile. “Thanks. Is your arm okay?”
Skeeter glanced down at the red welt. “Of course. I deserve far worse.”
Emma’s heart ached for the poor girl. Skeeter had killed her own sister in a driving accident. She would probably punish herself for her whole life. Emma hugged Skeeter. “You can atone for it.”
“Yeah, but she’ll still be dead.”
So would Emma’s best friend. She didn’t know what to say. Or what would eventually become of them. Would they both grow old here? She shook it off. She couldn’t see her future, but worrying about it was selfish and pointless. Thinking about her parents made her heart ache, so she simply didn’t do it. “We’d better get to work.” Emma started mixing another batch of muffins for the second breakfast.
Two hours later, when all the sisters had eaten, the chrome in the massive kitchen gleamed with polish, and the floor looked clean enough to eat off, Emma checked the work list on the wall to see what else she was assigned that day. Margo created color-coded schedules to simplify the oversight of the house, gardens, and livestock care. Emma had laundry today. No
t bad. Thank goodness she rarely had to feed the cows or collect eggs from the hens. She hated the barnyard smells. Before moving here, she’d never interacted with animals. Her parents hadn’t even let her have a kitten. She hadn’t done many chores in her previous life either.
Footsteps behind her made Emma turn. Margo, a petite woman with a heart-shaped face, had a big voice that always surprised her. “When you run my load of clothes, please use the fabric softener I bought.”
“I will.” They’d never had softener before. It was too expensive.
“And do them right away.” Margo gave Emma a tight smile.
Was something wrong? She decided not to ask. “Sure thing. Right after I see Deacon.”
Margo’s lips tightened. “No, start the laundry first.”
Were the founders fighting? She’d never seen them argue. “Okay.”
“Then come to my office for your last iron injection. Tomorrow you give blood again.”
Emma nodded. She’d donated blood three times already since joining, and the procedure was creepy, but not painful and didn’t take long. But she hated needles, and iron injections beforehand were the worst part. Still, she was happy to do it. Giving her blood to save lives was an easy sacrifice. “I’d better get started on your laundry.”
Margo suddenly stepped forward and hugged her. “You’re doing well here, Emma. I’m so proud of you.” The founder hurried off, her sandals flapping against the tile floor.
A hug and praise! From Margo, her mentor. Emma stood for a moment, basking in unexpected pleasure. But she had no right to feel joy, so she shed the hug like a dirty shirt and hurried to the laundry room at the end of the concrete building. The founders had done their best to soften the building with peach paint and houseplants, but it still had a prison-like feel. The dorms especially.
Ronnie stepped into the wide hall from Deacon’s office and said, “Hey, Emma. Would you like to play cards with me this afternoon?”
“If I have time. Deacon said he had a special atonement for me today.” Emma had mixed feelings about Ronnie’s offer. A game of Spades would be a nice diversion, but Ronnie wasn’t the best company. She could be nice, but she was unpredictable, and often jealous. Like right now. Ronnie was scowling because Emma would spend time alone with Deacon.
“Whatever.” Ronnie walked off.
Emma hurried to the laundry room, found Margo’s basket near the door, and opened one of the industrial-size machines. A load of towels was in the bottom, so she pulled them out and tossed them in the dryer. She started Margo’s load, then filled the other two machines with the sisters’ clothes. They all wore hospital scrubs in various colors, and everything was community property. Every member surrendered her personal clothes when she joined, except for one outfit, which they were all allowed to wear on special occasions. Ronnie, being older, sometimes ran errands for the founders, so she often wore jeans. Some of the other girls were jealous of her special privileges, but Emma felt sorry for Ronnie. She wasn’t very pretty and hadn’t found inner peace yet. Not that her looks mattered, Emma reminded herself. Sometimes her old life, and judgmental way of thinking, still crept in.
A few minutes later, she knocked on Deacon’s office door. “It’s Emma.”
“Just a moment.” She heard shuffling, and then he opened the door.
So handsome! Big blue eyes, smooth skin, and the cutest dimples. He was the only old guy she’d ever thought was attractive, except for maybe Brad Pitt.
“Come in.” He stepped back and gestured for her to enter. His office held a desk in one corner, but otherwise it was more like a den, with a sofa, television, and minifridge. She’d spent a lot of time in here during her first few weeks, getting counseling and learning to make peace with her guilt and crime. She’d lost her driver’s license, but her parents had hired a good lawyer. And she’d only been given a year of bench probation, which meant she didn’t have to check in. Emma knew she owed society more than that, and she was happy to be here doing good work instead of sitting in jail.
“Have a seat. Would you like something to drink?”
A soda! A rare treat. “Yes, please.”
She sank into the soft leather couch, and he handed her a can of generic root beer. She opened it eagerly and drank a third in one big gulp.
“You were thirsty.”
A moment later she burped, and they both laughed.
Emma remembered why she was here and set the can on the end table. She didn’t deserve its sweetness. “What’s my special atonement?”
Deacon sat beside her, his leg pressed against her thigh. Emma loved the warmth and pressure of his body. She knew the pleasure was wrong, but she couldn’t shut down this feeling the way she could others.
“I’m a little worried about you.” His voice was soft, almost caressing.
“Why?”
“Maybe you sacrifice too much.” He gently squeezed her leg. “We’ve talked in counseling about why we don’t punish ourselves with lack of food.” He paused.
She liked how he always said we. He was one of them. He’d harmed others too when he was in the military, and that’s why he’d dedicated his life to charity work.
“But we haven’t really discussed our bodies’ other needs.”
Was he talking about sex? Emma’s chest tightened, and a shiver of excitement ran through her. She tried not to think about sex—or anything she wasn’t entitled to—but her body often betrayed her. “What are you saying?”
“You look a little pale, and you seem tense.” His arm slipped around her shoulders, and he pulled her close. “I think you need some physical pleasure.”
His body felt so good. Too good. She pulled away. “But how is that serving others? I don’t deserve pleasure.”
“If we don’t stay healthy, physically and mentally, we can’t do our best social work.” His blue eyes drank her in as though she were a cool glass of lemonade. Deacon leaned in and pressed his lips into hers.
Little fireworks exploded in her chest. Emma kissed him back, unable to stop herself. One of his hands slid under her shirt and cupped her breast. This had to be wrong. Did he do this with other sisters? Bethany had hinted at it, but no one ever talked about it explicitly.
A loud knock on the door made them both pull back. Deacon jumped up and yelled, “Who is it?”
“Margo. This is important.”
Deacon let out a harsh breath, stood, and opened the door. “What’s going on?”
“Bethany’s gone, along with her personal things.”
CHAPTER 8
Thursday, April 20, 5:55 a.m.
Rox woke to the sound of beeping. She sat up and glanced at the clock. Not even six yet. Why, oh why, had she taught her stepdad to text? At least with phone calls, he waited until eight, a time by which “all decent people were up.” She ignored the message while she took a few minutes to pee, make coffee, and take her vitamins. Then she remembered Marty’s locked-knee episode the night before and hurried back to the bedroom to pick up the cell. He’d texted: I’m coming with you on the recon this morning.
She couldn’t tell him no after making him lie on the floor during her stakeout the night before—and he knew that. Had he always been this manipulative? No, but he’d apparently watched and learned from her dear mother, and now he was making it work for him. She texted back: Research first, then we’ll see.
After a shower, she sat down at her computer and sipped coffee. She was supposed to be taking walks or dancing every morning for exercise, but she was hit-and-miss. It was easier to skip breakfast, which was usually a bowl of Frosted Mini-Wheats that made her feel guilty anyway. But she just couldn’t bring herself to eat an “adult” breakfast like soft-boiled eggs and grapefruit.
She opened Google Maps and scrolled to the approximate location where the van had disappeared and reappeared the night before, then switched to Earth view. After ten minutes of staring at close-ups of each home, she hadn’t spotted a white van. But the Google images could have been
taken years earlier or when the van wasn’t home. She had to focus on likely places where a group of people could live. Large homes with lots of bedrooms or properties with multiple dwellings.
Two possibilities emerged. A newer three-story overbuilt home with a matching smaller guesthouse, and a two-story farmhouse with a run-down mobile home behind it. Rox bet on the farmhouse, which also had several outbuildings on the property, as well as livestock, a hen house, and a big garden. Sister Love was feeding a lot of people, so producing their own food made sense. Rox moved her cursor over the house and clicked. An address popped up, and she memorized it as she read it. But she needed to know for certain who lived there. The post office had that information. So did the local utility company and probably an internet provider. Time for a little phishing.
Not keen about lying to a federal agency, she started with the utility company that served the area, a little outfit with the cheesy name of Daybreak. For this to work, she had to pretend to be their client. If Deacon Blackstone wanted to be off the grid, he would likely set up the utilities in his partner’s name. Rox called their customer service, cleared her throat, and said, “This is Margo Preston. I wanted to report a power outage this morning.”
“What’s your service address?” A sweet female voice.
“2835 Barton Road.”
“I’m locating your account.”
A moment of quiet, with coworkers laughing in the background. If the woman came back and asked Rox to repeat her name, the property address probably didn’t match the ID she’d given.
“We don’t have any sign of a disruption in service there. What did you say your name was?”
“Never mind. I’m sorry to bother you.”
Surprised and disappointed, she went back to scrolling Google Earth over an expanded area. In a moment she spotted an oddity. What the heck was that? Three concrete buildings, laid out with two perpendicular ones behind the main structure. The setup seemed like an old jail—except for the windows on one end of the main building that overlooked a huge greenhouse. The two bunkers in back had only high narrow windows. Was it an abandoned county work camp? It sat at the base of a dead-end lane off Barton Road.
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