Page 310 of Redeemed

Shit.

“N-no one.”

“Don’t lie to me. Was it Julie?”

Julie.She may have gotten me out of here the first time, but that was when Cornerstone’s services were still open to the public. She’s not a threat to my father—not in the same way the boys were.

“Yes,” I whisper.

With a sigh, he steps into the room. “What did you do in here? And why are your feet bleeding?”

“I… I don’t know.”

He clenches his jaw. I’m lying, and he knows it, but he doesn’t understand. He’s a man. He’llneverunderstand.

“We need to go or you’ll be late for your appointment. The doctors can take the IUD out.”

“No. Papa, please don’t make me do this.”

“You have your duties,” he says as he pulls me to my feet, “and I have mine.”

Numbness wars with panic in my head as he brings me downstairs. My heart wants to protect itself—to bring up the walls to shield me from the pain. But my head is scrambling to find a way out of this.

The boys are coming. I can’t die. Not when they’re so close.

“Where are your shoes?” my dad asks.

And just like that, a plan kicks into gear in my head.

“The kitchen,” I lie.

Dad sighs but heads in that direction. Once he has a view of the shattered dishes, he stops. “Heaven, what did you do?”

“Maybe I’m not the one who did it.” I purposefully keep my voice small and timid.

He swears under his breath. “Well, where are your shoes? I don’t see them.”

“They’re over in the mudroom,” I say.

“All right. Stay here. I don’t want you cutting up your feet more than you already have. They should be able to fix you up at the clinic.”

As my dad crosses the kitchen, I quietly follow him, picking my way through the broken dishes until I reach the cast iron pan my mother gave me on my wedding day. It’s heavy as I grip it tightly and tiptoe over to my father.

“I don’t see them,” he says impatiently. “Where—”

I bring the pan down on his head with enough force to make his body crumple to the floor. “I’m sorry,” I whisper as I step over him.

I don’t think he’ll be unconscious for long, so I bolt out the back door. Praying I’m making the right decision, I race through the row of backyards to Ruth’s house. I can’t think of anywhere else to go.

As I stumble up the stairs of her back porch, I wince at the pain from the little cuts on my soles making contact with the hard wood. It doesn’t stop me, though. I have a chance of survival—a chance of seeing my boys again.

I open Ruth’s back door slowly so the hinges don’t creak and then quietly step inside. She’s in the kitchen with a jar of applesauce in her hand. When she sees me, she yelps in surprise and drops the jar, the glass shattering on the tile.

Ruth takes one look at me and jumps into action. Opening the cabinet under the sink, she shoves all her cleaning supplies to one side.

“It’s my dad,” I tell her shakily.

“You’re safe here. Get in.”

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