After Pastor’s final amen, everyone looked up as one. Hayley still hadn’t gotten used to the synchronized movement. It was as if the crowd were a well-choreographed chorus line.
“We leave at dawn,” Pastor announced. “Pack what you can easily carry. Do not be tardy. This is not a drill. Anyone who isn’t ready at dawn will be cast out.”
The group gasped, again as one.
Cast out. That was bad, Hayley knew that much. She glanced at Tamar, who whispered, “Left in the woods for the wolves.”
Hayley shuddered. This was a nightmare. Worse than a nightmare. Worse than hell could ever be. God, please get me out of here. Help me save my baby.
“Our new home won’t be as nice as this one,” Pastor continued. “There will be some adjustments, but I promise you’ll be happy there. We’ll be together, and with God’s help and protection, we will prevail. Now go and prepare. We have only a few hours before dawn.”
Not as nice as this place? This was . . . hell. She met Graham’s gaze across the square. He looked taller, somehow. More grown up. And grimly determined.
As the crowd dispersed, Tamar darted back to her own hut without giving Hayley a chance to ask her a single question. She began to walk back to the hut she shared with Joshua and his three other wives and their seven children, trying to control the panic in her gut.
They were leaving. Cameron would get here with the cops and they’d be gone. She’d have to have her baby in a place even worse than this. And then Sister Rebecca would steal her.
Graham came to her side, taking her arm as if to guide her across the uneven ground. “You shouldn’t fall in your condition,” he said, loudly enough that anyone around them would hear. Then he whispered, “It’ll be okay. We’ll get away.”
Hayley nodded, her heart in her throat. Her twelve-year-old brother was telling her it would be okay, but it wouldn’t be. It couldn’t be.
They were leaving this place for somewhere even worse. She couldn’t imagine what that would be like.
I’ll find out soon enough. She smoothed her free hand over her stomach. Don’t worry, Jellybean. Your dad will find us. He has to.
ONE
EDEN, CALIFORNIA
ONE MONTH LATER
WEDNESDAY, MAY 24, 5:30 A.M.
DJ Belmont looked over the list in his hand. “It’ll take me forever to get all this shit.”
Sister Coleen shrugged in apology, unconcerned about the swear word he’d let drop. They were alone in the clinic—he, Coleen, and Pastor—so Eden rules did not apply.
Rules he’d grown up with. Rules he intended to shred the moment he took over Eden. He was one step closer to his goal, having killed Brother Ephraim a month before. He’d have taken care of all of his problems had he not been shot himself. After a month, his left shoulder still ached and the arm remained basically useless.
The first shot to his shoulder had hurt like fire, and for that he planned to hunt down the bitch who’d pulled the trigger. Her name was Daisy Dawson and her death would serve a dual purpose—payback for the injury and heartbreak for the man who shared her bed.
Gideon Reynolds. The very name had DJ seething with rage. He banked it, unwilling to have to explain it to Coleen and Pastor. Because Gideon was supposed to be dead. Supposed to be dead at DJ’s father’s hand, in fact.
Except now he knew that Waylon Belmont—DJ’s own father—had let Gideon go. He’d set Gideon free from Eden. Lied to everyone when he returned, saying that Gideon had died for the sin of murdering the Founding Elder Edward McPhearson as he’d attempted to flee. Everyone had believed him.
Even me. The banked rage flared anew and he shoved it back. He hadn’t realized the extent of his father’s betrayal until last month when he’d learned that Gideon was still alive.
His father had been punished, though. It had been DJ’s first killing and it had felt so damn good, watching the light dim in that bastard’s eyes. He’d been seventeen years old and had finally understood that true power lay in the ability to grant life. Or death.
DJ granted a lot of death.
“It’s been a month since your last trip,” Coleen said, unaware of his mounting anger. “And you came back wounded, so you couldn’t bring back the supplies you’d gone to buy. We had emergency rations, but they’re gone. The women stretched the rations as far as they could, but a hundred and fifteen people require a lot of food. We’ve run out of most of our essentials.”
“Yeah, yeah. I get it.” They were scraping the bottom of the supply barrels, and DJ was already tired of the jerky that seemed to be their remaining source of protein. “I’ll pick up the supplies and scout out a new place for us to live.”
That was the plan, anyway. The compound was freezing and hungry, huddling in the caves as they were. The caves had never been intended to be a long-term location, but DJ’s injury had forced them to remain far longer than was healthy for any of them. Especially me.
He had other priorities for this trip, however. He’d search for another location if he had time.
She studied his left arm, resting in a sling. “You’re sure you’re okay to drive?” A tiny brunette in her early fifties, she was Eden’s healer, their only medical “expert.” To his knowledge, she’d had no formal training, but she’d done the best she could with his wounds.
At least he wasn’t dead, although he’d apparently come pretty damn close.
“I’m fine,” DJ grunted. He flexed his left shoulder, then moved that arm around, swallowing the pain. “See? Full range of motion.”
Which wasn’t nearly true. Fortunately, he’d trained for years to shoot with either hand. He wouldn’t be completely helpless when he left the compound, but the pain was still excruciating. Sleeping on a pallet on a cold, damp stone floor wasn’t helping matters any. He couldn’t wait to get to civilization so that he could sleep in a real bed for a change.
“Not quite,” Coleen murmured, “but I gave up trying to tell you what to do years ago.”
Because she was not stupid and she valued her life. DJ didn’t suffer fools, nor did he allow anyone to give him orders.
No one except the elderly man in the chair. Pastor was the shepherd of Eden’s flock. He was the leader, and he gave the orders. DJ disobeyed him frequently, but Pastor never found out.
Like his father before him, DJ was the only person permitted to leave the compound—at least the only person the community knew about. The Founding Elders had taken leaves of absence four times a year, ostensibly to “pray on the mountain.” In reality, they went to the nearest city and fucked, drank, and gambled like sailors on shore leave.