by Kyla Stone
It was true. Every word of it. She hadn’t trusted him.
She couldn’t trust anyone else with her fate. She’d learned that the hard way. The people who were supposed to care for you the most were the ones with the most power to hurt you. The ones who died and left you behind, alone and defenseless. The ones who trapped you, who lied and betrayed you. The ones who hurt you, just because they could.
“You can’t have it both ways!” Logan said.
She bit her lip, suddenly unable to speak.
“I didn’t know some psycho was after you. I didn’t know he was dangerous because you didn’t tell me. I was unprepared. I was unprepared and someone got killed. Do you understand that? Nancy Harlow is dead. And it could’ve been Eden. It could’ve been all of us.”
That finally got through to her.
Her mask disintegrated. Her face crumpled. Everything she’d been holding back behind a tough, stoic wall collapsed.
She was left as raw and vulnerable as an open wound.
“I know.” Her voice cracked. “I know.”
21
Dakota
Dakota wasn’t any good at apologies, but she was sorry. She was sorry with every fiber of her being. She’d take it back if she could. All of it.
Logan was right. He’d read her like a book. She was stubborn, shortsighted, and cagey. She was distrustful of everyone, and her skittish, suspicious nature had put them all in danger. She’d tried to control a situation that was far beyond anything she could handle.
It had cost a life. Next time, it could cost even more.
But the thought of trusting him, of being vulnerable, filled her with complete and utter terror.
“I’m not asking you to tell me your life story,” he said, as if reading her mind. His voice softened. “But I can’t do what I need to do if I don’t know what’s going on.”
Her heart throbbed, bruised and tender. Hot tears stung her eyes. She blinked them back furiously. “That’s…fair.”
“Will he keep coming after you?”
“As long as he’s alive.”
“Anyone else? Or is he alone?”
She ran her finger along the cool, hard metal of the Sig in her lap. “I don’t know.”
That old fear clawed at her, strangling her throat, filling her with cold terror. She yearned to run until her legs collapsed, to scream and scream until her voice box gave out, to hit and punch and batter something with her bare hands until her flesh was mangled, bruised, and bloody.
Until her outsides hurt as much as her insides did.
Her fear still gave them power over her. She hated that. She hated how they’d changed her, made her afraid to depend on anyone but herself, made her suspicious and distrustful of everyone and everything—like a beaten dog, wretched and cowering, always expecting the next blow.
It was pathetic and mortifying, and only left her miserable, bitter, and alone.
She risked a sideways glance at Logan. He was still watching her. Quiet, waiting.
She looked quickly away. Her throat was dry and painful. She opened the bottle of water he’d offered her and took a swig.
Off to the east, another fire had started up. Now there were five fires burning on the horizon. From this distance, they looked like campfires, the glow warm and inviting.
Maybe she could take it back—everything the compound had stolen from her. Take herself back; one slow, halting step at a time. Maybe it started with a stop to the lies—layers and layers of lies piled so high she couldn’t begin to dismantle them.
Except she could. She could start by telling the truth. If not all of it, then at least in part.
Her resolve grew with each ragged breath.
Just breathe. That’s how you got through things. One breath, then another. She could get through this, too. One, two, three. Breathe.
“You wouldn’t have believed me.” She couldn’t stop her voice from trembling. She hated that weakness in herself, but she couldn’t stop it. All she could do was keep going. “You wouldn’t have come. If I said, ‘Hey, I was trapped in an abusive cult, but I ran away with the cult leader’s daughter. I didn’t have their permission, so yeah, call it kidnapping if you want. Oh, by the way, the leader’s son is also after me, and he just happened to find me right before the whole damn city exploded. He’s a tenacious psychopath, so he’s probably still after me and the girl I stole. You want in on this hot mess?’
“What would you have done? You would have run in the opposite direction. You would have thought I was crazy. You probably do now.”
He didn’t speak for a long time.
She listened to his slow, steady breathing and the beat of her own heart.
“Tell me,” he said finally.
She shivered despite the heat. It felt like she was hanging over the edge of a cliff with no rope and no spotter. One false move and she’d plummet hundreds of feet, splitting her skull open on the harsh, unforgiving rocks.
She couldn’t break through her own tough, impenetrable exterior she’d been forced to cultivate to survive the compound, the streets, and the group homes, couldn’t unravel the beliefs that kept her going: Everyone’s out to use and abuse you. Trust no one but yourself. Survive at any cost.
Rosemarie’s words came back from all those years ago. “I’m scared,” Dakota had said in the moments before Rosemarie had thrust the gate keys into her trembling hands and told her to take Eden and run. “The fear won’t go away.”
“Child, the fear never goes away,” Rosemarie had said gently. “You just have to do it anyway. Do it afraid.”
Do it afraid.
Something released inside her chest. She opened her mouth, and before she could think better of it, the words spilled out. “I moved to that place with my aunt when I was ten, after my parents and my—after my family died in a car accident. I didn’t have a choice.
“They live like the Amish—living off the land, homesteading. I’m not saying that’s bad, that wasn’t it…it was everything else. They’re crazy religious people. Strict and…terrible.”
“Where does Eden come into all this?”
“Eden’s father is Solomon Cage. He’s the leader of the River Grass Compound. He’s—he’s a horrible man. But he’s not the leader of the whole thing. That’s the Prophet, his brother. He’s worse. He says God sent him to save America. Everyone worships him like he’s an angel…or maybe even God himself.
“The Prophet travels around. He has other compounds. It’s a big group. I don’t know how big. They’re Shepherds, what the ‘chosen ones’ call themselves. They have weapons. They act like soldiers. God’s army. I don’t know the details. The women didn’t get to know that stuff.
“All I know for sure is that Solomon isn’t going to forget about his daughter. And the Prophet…he’s not going to forget about her either.”
It was quiet for a moment.
A car alarm went off. She watched the fires glowing on the horizon.
“What do you mean?”
Her words were bitter as ashes on her tongue. “It’s what every cult in the history of the world does, doesn’t it? Use and abuse its women and girls. It’s the same old twisted story. The leader manipulates his adoring, brainwashed followers for money and sex.
“The Prophet picks certain girls to be one of his wives, says God chose them. He preaches that the Bible is literal. If the so-called heroes of the Bible did it, then as the chosen prophet of the Lord, it’s okay for him, too. Jacob had two wives. David had a bunch. Solomon had like seven hundred.”
“Are they Mormon?” Logan asked quietly.
“No, they’re something else. Do you remember the David Koresh cult in Waco, Texas? All those kids that died? We’ve got a couple of men who survived that cult in the compound. They splintered off another religion around twenty years ago. I don’t remember which ones. Mennonites or something like that. I doubt it matters, anyway.
“The Prophet started preaching God had revealed a new present truth to h
im, that certain people were special, the pure, the chosen ones, called out of the church to begin something new, ordained by God to save them from the time of trouble—the reign of fire and brimstone that’s coming.”
She stared down at her hands wrapped around the grip of the Sig. She wasn’t helpless. She wasn’t back there anymore. Still, even talking about it filled her with anxiety and flooded her mind with the awful memories—the constant fear, shame, and guilt.
Her chest tightened. It was hard to breathe.
“It sounds crazy when you say it out loud,” she whispered. “But to live it…these people actually believe in him. They believe he speaks for God. They believe he’s going to save them from the end of the world. So whatever he says…it’s like God Himself is saying it.”
She took a deep breath. “Right before we fled…The Prophet said God told him to take Eden as his bride.”
Beside her, Logan stiffened. “She’s this Prophet’s niece.”
“Maddox told me once his father was adopted, that they weren’t birth brothers, so he’s not her blood uncle. But that doesn’t make a difference to me. Not when Eden’s just a kid. She’s fifteen but she’s been so sheltered and traumatized that mentally, she’s more like twelve.”
“Fifteen is still a kid no matter who they are or what they’ve been through.”
“Mary was only fourteen when she married Joseph. That’s how they justified it.” Dakota felt sick even speaking the words aloud. “They were going to wait until she started her period, the sacred mark of womanhood or whatever. But she was promised to the Prophet immediately. She was going to live with his other wives in one of his compounds.
“As soon as I found out, I knew I had to do something. I…I couldn’t just let that happen.”
“No,” he said slowly. “I guess you couldn’t.”
She couldn’t tell him the rest. It was too much, too dark and ugly.
“And the brother? The one Maddox said you murdered?”
She closed her eyes against the vision of the body, the wide staring eyes, the blood so red it was almost black. “Collateral damage.”
22
Dakota
Neither of them spoke for several minutes.
“I know it sounds unbelievable,” Dakota said.
“I believe it,” he said without hesitation.
She barely heard him. “I know it feels like the world is ending right now, but atrocities on a smaller scale happen every day. You just don’t hear about them on the news or Facebook or Twitter.” She took a breath. Just say it. “The Prophet was going to take her to Missouri to marry her.”
“How is that even legal?”
“With a judge’s consent and a parent’s signature, it’s allowed in about half of the states. There’s no minimum age that’s against the law. With parental consent, even twelve-year-olds can do it—thousands of children get married here every year. No one thinks it happens here, but it does. Out in the boonies, in rural areas like the Everglades, no one cares what happens anyway. Not the governor, not the sheriff, no one.
“They make you think it’s normal. That that’s how it’s supposed to be. Girls and women are good for cooking and cleaning and raising babies. Men are the ones made in God’s image. The Prophet only allowed women to read certain parts of the Bible. He said some parts were written ‘beyond our comprehension’.”
She smiled bitterly. “He left out all the parts about love, forgiveness, and equality. And mercy.”
Memories of the mercy room stained her mind like blood. She pushed them away.
“What about Maddox?” Logan asked.
“Maddox, he…wasn’t always like this. He was angry and possessive, but not a killer, not like he is now. He was the black sheep of his family, always breaking the rules and getting in trouble, like me. We were the only ones who didn’t fully drink the Kool-Aid—who doubted the hogwash the Prophet shoved down everyone’s throats.
“He used to take me out in the airboat when no one was looking. We spent hours and hours in the wilderness of the Glades. Out there, it didn’t matter what his father said about either of us. He was…different.
“But his father twisted him with his hatred and his guilt, made him believe love was a weakness to be snuffed out with a good whipping. And when that didn’t work, his father forced him to…” Her voice trailed off.
Logan went completely still. “What do you mean?”
But she only shook her head, unable to speak the ugliness into being.
The Prophet’s idea of discipline was biblical. If your eye sinned, carve it out. If your hand sinned, cut it off. He didn’t actually go that far, but he went far enough.
Beatings, whippings, brandings. Given to save the souls of the wicked, so it could be called merciful.
The skin of her back prickled, the scars suddenly itchy and painful. The images rushed in, whether she wanted them or not. The dark, rank room, the concrete floor stained with spatters of red like paint. The thick wooden plank table in the center. The handcuffs.
For the rest of her life, she would never forget the distinctive, singed stench of burnt flesh. That, and the pain—pain throbbing through her body, each burn pulsing like a tiny heart, with a furious, white-hot heat.
Sweat would pour down her face and back, her heart pounding so hard she felt it in her toes, her fingertips, her skull; her legs trembling and kicking in vain, her body writhing uncontrollably, the metal of the handcuffs abrading her wrists; her breath jerking from her chest in short, ragged gasps, her lungs collapsing as the pain clamped over her whole body.
She could never get enough oxygen. It felt like drowning on dry land.
She would fight to focus on something other than the pain, to anchor herself to something, anything. One, two, three. Breathe.
Each breath another moment, another second she’d endured, that she would never have to endure again. Get through this breath, this moment, and then the next and the next.
I’m sorry, Maddox would whisper, out of earshot of his father. Or, It’s over now. It’s over. Only toward the end would he say, You made me do this. You deserve this. It’s all your fault.
It was a twisted curiosity of psychology that a tortured soul could ever bond with her torturer, and yet it happened. A moment of softness, a bit of compassion in the midst of agony, like manna in the desert.
Logan cleared his throat, bringing her swiftly back to the present.
“It was bad,” she said softly. “For both of us.”
“You…did you love him?” he asked.
She sucked in a sharp breath. “Not like that. But he did. I didn’t understand it at the time. But looking back…I know he did, in his own broken way.”
“And now he wants to kill you?”
She didn’t say anything about the look on Maddox’s face when he’d strode into the room and caught sight of his brother bleeding out on the floor. The betrayal in his eyes. The fury. “Sometimes love twists into an even stronger hate.”
“I guess that’s true.”
“There are people who endure horrific things. Things other people can’t even imagine. Some can break free and forge a different life. Some are broken, lifelong victims who never believe anything different than what they’ve been taught. Others see the truth, but are too hurt to do the hard work to fix themselves.”
“Which one is he?”
“Maddox Cage is the last one. They twisted him all up until they snapped something crucial inside him, something that can’t be repaired.”
“That’s… a lot to take in,” Logan said.
“I didn’t understand it back then. I was just a teenager.”
“Aren’t you still?”
“What?”
He cocked his brows. “How old are you?”
She grimaced. “Still nineteen, though sometimes I feel like I’m forty.”
“You act like it.”
“A person can endure a lifetime of suffering before they’re old enough to drive.”
/> He stared out in the darkness. “True enough.”
Gunfire chattered several blocks away. It sounded closer.
Dakota’s heartbeat quickened. Her eyes strained to make out any potential threats. They were both quiet for a full minute as they studied the dark shadows all around them, searching for movement.
There was nothing.
“Those people in that place.” Logan’s voice was soft, the anger from earlier gone. “They’re wolves masquerading as sheep. They’re pure evil.”
“That’s the crazy thing. They weren’t all bad. They weren’t all evil.” She turned the gun in her hands, over and over. Her fingers were trembling. She couldn’t make them stop.
She kept seeing the mercy room, kept feeling the scorching burns.
One, two, three. Breathe. She breathed in, breathed out. That place was gone. She’d escaped them. They couldn’t hurt her anymore—not unless she let them.
“It made the evil things that happened that much worse,” she said. “Because the rest of the time, people were kind and almost normal.”
“Sounds like you’ve forgotten the definition of normal.”
She let out a snort. And then, before she could stop herself, she laughed. It was a high, hysterical sound, bubbling up from the center of her chest. She covered her mouth with her hand to keep from waking anyone inside the motel.
“It wasn’t that funny,” he said.
She could see the gleam of his teeth in the dim moonlight. He was grinning.
On the streets and in the group foster homes, she’d learned to keep to herself real fast. Self-preservation at all costs was the name of the game.
Be tough, show no weakness, never reveal an ounce of vulnerability to anyone. Keep your spine to the wall or you were liable to get stabbed in the back.
It was an incredibly lonely way to live.
But now, for the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel so alone.
“I’m sorry,” she said, meaning everything. “I’m sorry.”
