We drive down the rutted road, Noah keeping the Land Rover in check as I survey the construction along the back acres of the compound. Houses are going up, each of them with a basement that connects to the other houses, creating a subterranean world—yet another one of my father’s ideas.

“I didn’t realize it was going to be this big. He’s building enough houses for the entire congregation and then some.” Noah points ahead to the roads that had been bulldozed onto the ridge ahead of us, the red Alabama dirt snaking off in several different directions.

“That’s the plan.”

A whole new world created at the will—and existing at the pleasure—of the Prophet. He calls it the “Promised Land.” I see it for the prison it really is. Constant monitoring, families under scrutiny, children in the Prophet’s schools, any deviation from the norm stamped out. The Prophet’s police force will patrol these streets, and no one will be able to come in or out without Prophet approval. Even so, hundreds of families have signed up for a spot in one of the modest homes being built here, all of them desperate for the protection and guidance the Prophet appears to provide. Idiots.

We stop where a construction crew is digging a basement.

I roll my window down and wave the foreman over to me. “Tony.”

He’s a tall man, broad, used to play for the Crimson Tide until he got injured—and then he got something worse. Religion. My father’s brand in particular.

“Hi, Adam!” He bounds up, full of energy. Not the brightest, but he doesn’t lack for enthusiasm.

I hand him an envelope. “For supplies.”

He takes it, then pulls a rough-sharpened pencil from behind his ear and writes “supplies” on the envelope, as if he couldn’t remember what is was for otherwise. “You know, the Caldwells have been giving me some trouble about buying all our roofing stuff in cash.”

“Caldwells?”

“Yeah, they got a store off Gray’s Mill Road. Go to church and everything, but they always squawk about my cash payments. Am I doing something wrong?” He scratches his chin, his red beard full and ridiculous against his thinning blond hair.

“Not wrong. You’re doing fine.” I try to give him something verging on an encouraging smile.

He flinches. “Okay, then. I’ll just get on back to work.”

“Sounds good,” Noah calls before I can respond, then eases down the muddy road. He chuckles as he turns the SUV around.

I scowl. “What?”

“You scare the shit out of him.”

“I was polite.”

“Sure, but you still scare the bejesus out of him and he’s what, six-five, two-fifty?” His chuckles grow louder. “Like, when you tried to smile, I thought he was going to piss himself.”

“I smile.”

“No, you don’t.” We head back toward the heart of the compound.

I change the subject. “I guess this means we need to head over to the Caldwells’.”

“Ugh.” His laughter stops. “I hate to do that.”

We bump up onto the black pavement as a white work truck passes us.

“We have to. That kind of talk can lead to trouble. The Caldwells need to learn to take the cash and shut the fuck up. The last thing we need is the IRS getting wind of any irregularities.”

We wind through the property, both of us assiduously avoiding turning to look at the low gray cinderblock building buried deep in one of the hollows. The Rectory.

“Fine, we can go.” Noah runs a hand through his hair. “But just don’t hurt anyone, okay? I don’t think I can take it today.”

“Still pissed about Gregory, huh?” I pop my knuckles.

His mood sours even further. “I can’t believe Dad would make me do that.”

“Gregory lived to fight another day. All’s well that ends well.” I lean back against the head rest.

“Where did you get those bones?” He cuts me a sideways glance.

“I have my ways.”

“Seriously, man. I mean, it’s great. I’m glad we didn’t have to off Gregory. But why do you have a secret bone stash to pick from?”

“Maybe I’m the psycho that Dad always wanted.” I point toward the front gates. “Let’s get this over with. Drive.”

“You really aren’t going to tell me?”

“Nope.”

“Jerk.” But his grumble is only half-hearted.

A secret stash of bones? No. A knowledge of where the Heavenly PD dump all the roadkill they find on the property? Yes.

The guard at the gate that separates the private compound from the huge Heavenly Ministries Church building waves and opens for us. The wrought iron slides sideways, and we roll out into the wide parking lot, and then down the hill to the highway.

“It’s a left. Over near where the creek splits by the shopping center the tornado hit.”

“Aw yeah, I remember that. Had a great Chinese place before then.”

“That was a long time ago.” When we were still kids, when Heavenly Ministries was nothing more than a vast plot of acreage. When our father was up and coming, not clinically insane. And when we were “normal” kids who went to a religious school and had a preacher for a dad. “Mom took us one time.”

“Yeah.” He swallows hard and drives, the sound of the wind whooshing through our dark thoughts.

We pull into the shopping center and park in front of Caldwell’s, a mom and pop hardware store with a respectable lumber yard out back.

“Keep it level.” Noah has always been the peacemaker. But sometimes, peace isn’t an option. That’s where I come in.

“As long as they do the right thing.” We walk in, and a small bell at the top of the door chimes. The shelves are in neat rows, the merchandise front-faced. The Caldwells take pride in their establishment. Good. That’s something I can use.

“Can I help you boys find something?” A middle-aged man with salt and pepper hair leans over the cash wrap to my right. His cordial smile and John Lennon glasses give him a friendly air that suits him perfectly.

“Mr. Caldwell?”

“That’s me. Say, don’t I know you?”

I stroll down the aisle with the nails and screws as Noah leans against the front door, blocking it. Snagging a hammer from a rack, I grip up on it, feeling its heft, then return to the counter.

By now, Mr. Caldwell is standing straight up. “You’re the Prophet’s boys, aren’t you?”

“That we are.” I amble over to him and set the hammer on the nicked wooden counter.

“Need a hammer?” He glances down.

“That depends.”

He fidgets with the pockets on his khaki apron imprinted with Caldwell’s on the front in green letters. “Depends on what?”

“You.”

He stops fidgeting. “How do you figure?”

I don’t want to hurt this man. Not like I wanted to hurt Newell. But I will.

I run my fingertips along the hammer’s wooden handle, but keep my gaze locked with his. “I hear you’ve been complaining about the business you’ve been getting from the church. You don’t appreciate—”

“Now, wait a minute. All I said was that—”

I hold up one finger. “Shh. This is the part where you listen.”

The blood drains from his face, and I haven’t even raised my voice.

“When our guys buy anything from you, they will pay with cash. You will not have a problem with this. You will take our money and you will say thank you. Do you understand?”

He nods.

Someone knocks at the door, but one look from Noah has him backing away.

“If I hear of any more problems—” I lift the hammer “—I’ll have to come back. And I really don’t want to.” I make a show of looking around. “This is a nice place you’ve got here. Neat—loved, even. I can tell you take pride in what you have. So keep it looking nice. Keep your doors open. And keep taking our money while your mouth stays shut. Are we clear?”

“Y-yes, sir.” He swallows audibly.

I drop the hammer onto the wooden counter with a thud, and he jumps.

“Noah, we’re done here.” I back away, then turn toward the door. “See you at Sunday service, Mr. Caldwell.”

A flyer in the window catches my eye. A missing persons poster. I pause and peer more closely, only to find Delilah’s gray eyes staring back at me.

* * *

Grace perches on the edge of the wide conference table, her blue eyes focused on me as I strip off my suit jacket and drape it over the back of a leather chair.

“Nice of you to join me.” Her tone is silky, deceptive as always.

“Let’s get on with it.” I drop into one of the chairs, the back springy with disuse. I suppose the Spinners didn’t find much use for this part of the Cloister.

“That’s the only hello I get?” She purses her lips in a faux pout.

I rub my eyes, my knuckles throbbing from the damage I’d done just the day before. “What do you want from me, Grace?”

She walks around the table and leans next to me, her ridiculous black habit covering her from head to toe.

“I remember when you used to be happy to see me.” She slides her fingers up my bicep and gives me her best come hither look.

I knock her hand away. “I’m here for business. Nothing else. What did you and that idiot Newell cook up for the winter solstice?”

“So easy for you, isn’t it?” she snarls. “Just throwing people away?”

“There’s the Grace we all know and love.”

“The Grace you made me.”

“I didn’t make you into anything.” I don’t want to rehash the past. Not again.

She hikes her skirt up and throws one leg over my lap, the lace of her black thigh highs peeking from beneath the dark folds of fabric as she straddles me. “Have you forgotten us?”

“There isn’t an us.” I turn away from her, the monster I created.

She digs her nails into my jaw and pulls me to face her. I let her. Knocking her on her ass would be easy and satisfying. But she’s clearly put some effort into her theatrics this time. May as well let her get it out of her system.

“Is it because of her?”

“Her who?”

“Your new slut?” She grips harder. “Delilah?”

“Leave her out of this.”

She lets go and pulls her habit off, her blonde hair falling around her shoulders, reminding me of the stupid kids we used to be. They are dead and gone.

“It can be good again, you know?” She leans forward and whispers in my ear.

I grab the arms of the chair to keep myself from shoving her off and cracking her skull on the table until she stops moving. It would be so easy to break her neck. A slender, delicate thing, requiring less force than I’d ever needed before. The final snap would play like a blissful amen at the end of an aria from hell.

She lowers her lashes. “I can be your baby girl.”

My hand is at her throat before I can stop it. I squeeze. Hard. It feels good. When her eyes widen, and she claws at my hands, I enjoy the acrid scent of fear that colors the air around her. I want her dead. If she didn’t know it before. She knows it now.

“Keep your fucking claws to yourself.” I shove her away from me. She pinballs off the office chair to my right and lands on the floor, her chest heaving as she drags air into her lungs.

When she looks up at me, hatred burning in her eyes, I want to spit on her. “Did you think we could just pretend nothing happened. That she never happened?”

She flinches. “That was so long ago, and—”

“Shut the fuck up.” I snap my fingers. “Give me whatever shit you had planned for the solstice, and I’ll take it from here.”

“We’re supposed to work together.” She pulls herself up and straightens her dress. “That’s what the Prophet wants.”

“And we always do what he says, don’t we?” I snarl.

Her ire drains away and tears shine in her eyes. “Adam, please. If the Prophet finds out I didn’t do what he wants on this…” She takes a deep breath. “Please, let me work with you. I won’t try anything else. I swear. Just business, okay?”

I wrestle with my annoyance, but I give her a short nod. “Fine. Show me the plans.”