Page 8 of Married in Misty Mountain

But to my surprise, a food delivery waits for me on my welcome mat when I open the door.

This is a dilemma because although I’m hungry, I feel as if I’m being watched. I didn’t order anything, but someone did.

I open the paper bag to find a soup container that emits the tell-tale aroma of Hank’s elk venison stew. There are also beans, rolls, and a slice of Clara’s chocolate pie.

My stomach might reach out and absorb all of it like a freaking starfish if I don’t set aside these feelings of paranoia and sit down right to eat it right now.

I devour everything, and then I text Clara.

Thanks for the dinner. And thanks for the job hookup.

Clara doesn’t read the text right away. She’s probably snuggled up with her hunky husband. Maybe they went somewhere for a late nightcap. Perhaps they’re in bed getting romantic.

I feel creepy thinking about that, but it’s only because I’m the most under-sexed 23-year-old on the planet.

Not that I haven’t been interested. I just never had any choices in the dating department.

And then the bottom fell out when I turned 18. The compound was suddenly no more. The church disbanded, and its members scattered, and at first, I’d thought I was home free to be whatever I wanted to be. Once the cult’s leadership all went to prison for abuse, financial crimes, and other atrocities, I’d thought it was time for all of us to regroup and heal and make a new life, far separated from the doctrines that shackled our family and still had a hold on a lot of our friends and relatives. A lot of families split up, and there weren’t enough men left to make the “sister-wife” system even work properly.

Special aid groups reached out and helped the women and children find places to live. Most men who stuck with their legal wives following the cult’s break up were eager to put the old ways behind them.

But to my chagrin, my mom and dad were not interested in “that kind of help.” My family was among the ones who picked up their lives and migrated to places under less scrutiny. They secretly spoke to others who wanted to keep the strict patriarchal system in place. As the youngest of six siblings who were all scattered to the winds — some single, some monogamous, but all having rejected the faith, I was the last hope of a legacy for my deluded parents.

So, five years after the church was split up, my dad had a surprise for me.

“Look who I found,” he said.

Derek Creevy appeared in our living room, looming so large as the walls closed in.

He held my hand while I sat in shock. “It’s so good to see you again, Shenna.” I still remember his clammy hand on mine. I disassociated while he talked about our future plans and our imminent nuptials.

Later that night, I got in my car and drove. I didn’t know where I was going. I just drove.

As I stare in the mirror and brush my teeth, I feel like I’m trying to scrub away the intrusive thoughts about my parents, Derek, and everything else that has shaped me.

Seeing Hurley Hanlon again has really messed with my head. Maybe I should be grateful. Maybe good things come in threes.Sure, I lost one job, but I got a better one. And my belly is full of good food.

And the good news is, I don’t have to see Hurley Hanlon all that often. He only comes by to check the client sign-ups and to pick up his packages. Well, I’ll have to work quicker and avoid him before he recognizes me.

I sit in my apartment and watch old movies on YouTube on my phone—the only form of entertainment I have to get to sleep.

The eerie sense that I’m being watched persists despite all the good things that have happened tonight. I got free food and a new job. What could be wrong?

Still, I get up and look out the window. There’s a truck parked on the corner, and when I look out there, I see that the driver quickly shuts off the headlights.

I do not like this.

I switch off all the lights in my apartment and look again. The streetlight shows an outline of the driver behind the wheel. I blow out a breath. Not Derek. He’s taller and bigger. Someone is probably arriving to pick someone up for a date; that’s all.

I curl up under my blankets and go to sleep with thoughts of Hurley Hanlon’s big shoulders, sparkling eyes, and hard mouth, wondering what it might be like to kiss someone who frowns like that.

I wake up an hour later to a text notification from Clara.

It wasn’t from me. But I’m glad someone is feeding you.

Was it Jack? No. Jack’s got a date tonight. And that would be pretty presumptuous of him.

No, I know who it was.

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