Page 2 of Scatter the Bones

No. If I get any hint Andrea’s nuts, I’ll keep Jezzie with me.

Where? At Boone’s place? Where his motorcycle club buddies drop in to visit with alarming frequency. What’s she supposed to do, bring her math homework to the bar after school? So I can help her with equations while I’m busy serving beer to bikers until one in the morning?

While it might be better than living under my father’s thumb, it’s still not a life for a young girl.

The truck bounces and dips as I steer from the road onto the long driveway leading to the small farm I remember all too well. Dirt and pebbles fly up, pinging against the side of my truck.

What if we need to make a quick getaway?

Slowing down, I jerk the steering wheel, executing a sloppy three-point turn, and stop the truck in the overgrown grass bordering the driveway.

I silently slide out of the truck, my boots barely scraping against the gravel. My gaze travels up the driveway. Who the fuck knows what I’m going to encounter.

Digging under the front seat, I pull out a holster and shrug it over my shoulders. I slide a black case out, flip it over and pull out a 9mm Glock and slap in a full magazine, rack the slide, then tuck it into the side of the holster. A second 9mm rests in the case. I glance up the driveway again.

Fuck it.

I check the second gun and nudge it into place on my other side. Better to be over prepared than under.

Although, I don’t want to put a bullet in my father. Not unless I have to.

No, the fantasy that’s played over and over in my head for years—chaining him to the wall in the basement and whipping him raw, then justleavinghim there—is so close I can taste it.

Maybe he gnaws off his arm and escapes. Maybe someone rescues him. Or maybe he slowly starves to death and someone years from now finds his skeleton.

The possibilities are endless.

I stick to the grassy side of the road. Memories of hiking up and down this driveway to or from the school bus return. Dread followed me both ways for different reasons back then. I hated school where I was relentlessly bullied for being “weird,” but I feared home—the endless chores, scripture reading, and predictable punishments for any sin.

Weak, pale sunlight spears the gray clouds above but my mood’s blacker than midnight.

My footsteps slow as I round the corner and the old white farmhouse comes into view.

Fewer animals and children roam around the yard than I remember. The few pieces of playground equipment have rusted. The grass left to grow so tall, the tops of the merry-go-round bars are barely visible.

Three figures seem to be tending the field at the side of the house. In their white, shapeless garments, silently and slowly moving, they look like ghosts.

Beyond the dilapidated white farmhouse I grew up in, the big, red barn my father used as a “church” seems to be the only building that’s had any attention in the last few years. Now, it’sa crisp white with a huge wooden cross nailed above the barn doors.

Not an improvement.

Screams from the church pierce the air.

Some things haven’t changed.

I turn, scanning the area. The people in the fields continue working.

More screams. High. Girlish.

Fear slams into my chest.

Jezzie. Jezzie. What if that’s my sister?

Forget stealth. I sprint through the tall grass, dry blades whipping against my jeans.

Another gasping, desperate scream.

My footsteps slow as I approach the barn doors. They’re cracked open wide enough for me to slip through. I grip the Glock tight in one hand. Stale air hits me, dry and suffocating.

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