Page 4 of Scatter the Bones

“Jensen?” my sister cries.

“Stay back, Jezzie,” I warn.

She shuffles farther away, still coughing and shaking violently.

My father’s eyes narrow on me, stubborn rage burning in their dark depths. “You always were corrupt. Defiant. A devil.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I groan, tired of the litany of insults I’ve heard my whole life. “You never change. Always worried about the thorn in someone else’s eye, instead of the plank in yours.”

“The Lord’s will is always righteous, unchanging. It’syourrebellious spirit that will face judgment.”

“Abusing children is the Lord’s will?” I step closer, my gun steady and aimed straight at his heart. “On your knees.”

“I won’t kneel before Satan’s spawn.”

I stay back a few feet, wary. Evil or not, my father’s quick, cunning, and expert at handling weapons. One careless move could be fatal to meandJezzie.

“Jezzie,” I say in my calmest voice without taking my eyes off my father. “Go into the house and pack all of your things. Anything you want to take with you.”

“Don’t you dare move, girl!” my father shouts, his voice booming with self-righteous fury. “You will obey your father. Not this heathen who’s been corrupted by outsiders.”

Jezzie stands, her nervous gaze darting between us. “Jensen? It’s really you?”

“It’s me.” I glance briefly toward her, heart twisting painfully at the sight. The wet, shapeless white dress clings to her, accentuating her fragile, emaciated form. Anger boils hotter within me. “Please, Jezzie. Get your things quickly. Don’t speak to anyone. You’re leaving with me.”

She bursts into tears. “Okay.”

Guilt threatens to choke me.

No, there’s time for that later.

Jezzie bolts through the side door without another word and doesn’t look back.

“Destined to be a harlot,” my father mutters. “If you take her from here, you condemn her soul to eternal fire.”

“How many lost souls are following your twisted gospel now?” I ask, eyes narrowed. “How many people are you taking advantage of here on the farm?”

My father puffs out his chest and returns my glare, defiant and unyielding.

“You still torture kids in the basement?” I wave the gun toward the house. “Still claiming it’s discipline?”

“You were a stubborn, evil child,” he spits back. “I did my best to cleanse your soul.” His tone shifts to a lower, poor, pitiful me tone. “But some demons are too strong, and I am just a flawed human.”

“Maybe it wasyoursoul that needed cleansing?” My voice hardens, memories of that dark basement flooding my mind—chains, bloodstains, echoes of desperate prayers. “You’re nothing but a sick, twisted old man who gets off on torturing women and children.”

“Blasphemer!” he shouts.

“Hit a nerve, did I?” I taunt. “Let’s see how righteous you’re feeling while you take your punishment.”

“The Lord will protect me.” His chin lifts in defiance but uncertainty flickers in his eyes.

“Great. Let’s test that theory out. Maybe you’ll get lucky, and the Lord will strike me dead.” My tone’s mocking, the smile stretched across my face deranged.

Unease crawls through me. Jezzie could be doing what I asked. Or she could run and warn the others. I need to move fast.

I step closer, jerking the gun toward the house. “Move.”

His jaw tightens. Resistance vibrates through every tense line of his body, but he slowly moves toward the same door Jezzie used.

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