Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 141464 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 707(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141464 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 707(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
“Jensen,” Ruth says, tugging the boy forward, “this is—”
“We don’t have a lot of time.” I turn and head for the wall safe. Irrationally afraid I wouldn’t be able to open it again, I’d left the door open a crack. I push it open wider. “How many people are on the farm now?” I ask without looking over my shoulder.
“Uh, eight adults,” she says. “Ten children, including Jezzie and Cain.”
Cain. Of course that’s what he named his youngest son. A name to let him know he’s bound to be cursed.
I clear my throat. “Everyone needs to leave the farm. Can you help me talk to them?”
“Leave?” She rushes up behind me and grabs my shoulder. “And go where?”
“Wherever you want.” I gesture toward the shelf with the boxes of money. “Help me sort through these documents and split up this money for everyone.”
Confusion clouds her dull blue eyes. “Where’s your father?”
“Don’t worry about him.”
“What did you do?”
I yank two of the boxes off the shelf and carry them into the office, tossing them on the desk with a hard thud. “Ruth.” I snap my fingers to yank her out of her frozen trance. “Help me go through these documents.”
“How did you find—”
“It doesn’t matter.” I cut her off and grit my teeth. “Hurry.”
Finally, she accepts the pile of papers I shove at her and starts sorting them into separate stacks. “The kids…Mary’s husband left her here with her children. He was supposed to—”
“He’s probably dead.” I stare at the papers in her hand. “How many kids are hers?”
“Five.”
“How many vehicles are still on the property?”
She shakes her head slowly. “The old truck. The Keesee’s car. A van…”
“Enough for each family to leave?”
“I think so.”
“Good.” I return to the vault and grab two of the shoeboxes of cash. At my father’s desk, I crouch down, searching the drawers. I find a stack of long, yellow envelopes in the bottom drawer and grab a handful.
Ruth’s eyes bug when I flip the lid off one of the boxes, revealing the neat bundles of hundred-dollar bills. “Where did that come from?”
“No idea.” I lift my chin toward the door while shoving stacks of cash into envelopes. I try to split it evenly. Except for the woman with five kids to support. I step into the vault again and grab another box to fill her envelope. “They can use it to start a new life, join another cult, I don’t really fucking care.”
“What about you?”
“Don’t worry about me.” I don’t want to tell her how much cash is actually in the vault. “Did you find your documents? Your son’s?”
She shakes her head. “They’re not here.”
Fuck. “Okay.” I grab the stacks of birth certificates and driver’s licenses, shoving them in the correct envelopes, and use a Sharpie to scribble the names on the front. “Pass these out and help them pack. I’ll keep looking for your papers.”
“Jensen, what am I supposed to tell everyone?”
“Tell them my father ran off and you found these packages on his desk.” I stare her dead in the eyes. “Or tell them I found him trying to drown my sister out in the barn and punished him accordingly. I really don’t give a fuck what story you give. Just get rid of them.”
She recoils in fear, like a dog wary after being kicked in the ribs too many times. Regret pokes at me. I shouldn’t be so harsh with her.
Painfully aware how much bigger I am than her now, I take a breath. I left a scrawny kid and returned a man. I tower over her by a lot. I force some calm into my lowered voice. “Please?”
She nods slowly and backs away, clutching the envelopes to her chest. Her gaze drops. “Stay here with Jensen.”
I lean over the desk and find Cain sitting cross-legged on the floor, staring at the wall. Scared, bored, indifferent—I can’t tell what’s going on in the kid’s head but at least he’s quiet. He briefly glances in Ruth’s direction and nods.
Ignoring both of them, I return to the vault and start tearing through the other boxes. I can’t decipher any pattern to how my father stored things. Nothing’s filed alphabetically or by date, just stacks of envelopes and a mixture of boxes. The system probably made sense to him but it’s frustrating as fuck for me—the person trying to find anything of value in a hurry.
Finally, I locate Jezzie’s birth certificate, Social Security card, and a bunch of progress reports from school. Those might help Angela get Jezzie enrolled in school. I add them to my pile.
I move to the shelf closest to the door and pull a green file folder into my hands. It flips open and papers flutter to the ground.
Ruth and Cain’s papers. Birth certificates. A high school diploma. The last piece stops me cold—a marriage license signed by what must be Ruth’s father, giving her permission to marry my father when she was a teenager. My stomach heaves with disgust. She’s younger than I thought. Only two years older than me. What kind of sick fucking parents did she have who’d let her marry my father?