The Prodigal contains villainous politicians. These congressmen are completely fictitious and do not represent or resemble anyone who has been or currently holds positions in Congress. At the time of this novel, there are no congressmen named Tooney and Albrecht.
It should also be noted that The Prodigal deals with sensitive themes—though very fleeting—in portions of the story. If child abuse could be triggering for you, please use your best judgment when choosing to continue. Otherwise, I hope you enjoy Eden and Remington’s story.
For the girl in the mirror.
Don’t let fear be your future.
Do it afraid.
The one who has an ear, let him hear what the Spirit says to the churches. To the one that overcomes, I will give some of the hidden manna, and I will give him a white stone, and a new name written on the stone which no one knows except the one who receives it. Revelations 2:17 Bible NASV
Remington
Five years ago.
Her face is ashen as she struggles to breathe, her chest rising faster. “You aren’t who he says you are,” Mom assures me, easing the white stone into my open palm. “It’s time, my love.”
I close my hand around the stone, its weight carrying a freedom I never imagined I would have.
“You remember what I said about the white stone, right?”
I nod, fighting to keep my emotions in check. “A new name.”
She smiles, finishing the quote like she always has, “One only you will know.”
I never understood the meaning of these words she started whispering in our nightly bedtime story several years ago. I only knew that I wasn’t ready for a new name.
Not until now.
“You are strong, my love. You can do this. You can be victorious. Find your name, and never look back.” Her hand feels cool as she squeezes mine weakly. “There’s cash under my bed.”
“No,” I beg, “I won’t leave you here—not alone with him.”
The smile I’ve known for years emerges, offering me the strength I need. “You will leave me,” she demands, “and you will run far away. Pay cash at motels off the highways—the ones that won’t ask for ID.”
She reaches up and strokes my face with the back of her hand. “You must never let him find you.”
“I can’t. I don’t feel—”
She presses a kiss to my hand. “You are healthy, my love. Stronger than any boy I’ve ever known. I failed you. I didn’t protect you like I promised.”
“You did protect me,” I argue.
“Not like she would have.”
I can feel a tear drop down my cheek. “I don’t want to leave you.”
“Nor I you.” She gasps. “But, I promise, we’ll meet again.”
I can tell she’s lying, but maybe that’s just the panic setting in. “I don’t want to be alone.”
“You won’t be, my darling. Run until you find home.”
“How will I know where that is?” I choke as raw and overwhelming emotion clogs my throat. “How will I know when I find home?”
“You’ll know,” she wheezes, “you’ve found it when you find peace.”
Peace? What is peace?
But I never get to ask her.
Cradled in my arms, my adoptive mother takes her final breath, setting me free for the first time in my life.
But I’d soon learn freedom didn’t equal peace.
As a matter of fact, I wouldn’t find the peace she spoke of until years later.
After it was too late.
After I had a new name.
After I…had become the villain.
Remington
Present Day
I’ve never been good with boundaries.
They take away from getting to know the person behind the mask.
Or, in this case, behind the snoring.
Pulling out a handful of shit from the purse, I drop the items I don’t care about onto the counter.
A library card.
A frequent shopper card to some crappy coffee place.
A tissue.
Mints that expired two months ago.
And what looks to be an emergency tampon—I hear no woman should leave home without one. Apparently, Eden Da Luca from Atlanta, Georgia, is no exception. My friend, Halle, would be impressed with Eden’s tampon preparedness and unimpressed with the fact that I’m pilfering through the purse of the front desk clerk at Midnight Gardens Motel. I hear that’s unacceptable behavior—even for guests.
But again, I don’t live with boundaries, nor do I care if my behavior is unacceptable. If Ms. Da Luca didn’t want me going through her shit, she shouldn’t have fallen asleep on the job and left her purse on the counter while her phone played some true crime episode that clearly bored her to sleep.
Not that I blame her. It’s after ten p.m., and there are literally only two cars in the motel parking lot. The place isn’t exactly hosting the nightlife scene. Assuming the dark-haired clerk, with flushed cheeks and a slightly open mouth, is nineteen-year-old Eden Da Luca from Atlanta, she should be more aware of her surroundings. There are people in this world who would take advantage of the fact that she’s unconscious.
People like me.
I bang my hand over the old-school bell on the counter three times before it sends her shooting upright, her eyes widening as she takes a quick glance around.
“Can I get you a coffee or perhaps a nightcap?” I offer sarcastically. “I hate disrupting REM sleep, but some of us would like a nap, too.”
Those brilliant blue eyes snap to mine, lingering for a moment before they lower to my hand.
“Is that my license?” she snaps, noticing the other things I tossed out on the counter. “Is that from my purse?” Heated anger bleeds through her words, and it revs the shitty engine inside me that gets a cheap thrill out of irritating people. “Did you go through my purse?”
I can understand her shock. A stranger helping himself to the essential items you carry with you at all times could be considered invasive, but that’s if the person going through said items has a moral code. I’m sorry to say, Ms. Da Luca here is out of luck.
“That depends,” I drawl lazily, flipping her license between my fingers, “did you leave your purse on the counter where someone could go through it?” Let’s not split hairs here. We both are at fault in this situation. “Because if you did, you can’t dangle temptation and expect me not to accept the challenge.”
Her cheeks redden. “It wasn’t a challenge!”
She lunges for the ID in my hand, but she’s not fast enough to grab it. “You shouldn’t leave your shit on the counter. Someone could steal—”
Motherfucker. I sound like my father.
But Eden doesn’t give me time to dwell on that fact. “Is that what you were planning to do? Steal my purse.”
Please.
Narrowing my eyes, I try to focus on her nose, not on her mouth, which is very distracting under the dim lighting. “You have nothing I could possibly want,” I say flatly. “But the lint-coated breath mints are pretty tempting.”