Page 1 of A Lesson In Beginning

CHAPTER 1

“On all charges, this jury finds the Defendant guilty.”

Inky clouds filled the corners of my vision as I watched the courtroom erupt into a maelstrom of emotions; I should have felt those emotions alongside them, but nothing penetrated the shock that held me frozen in time and space. All movement in the courtroom slowed as I watched the convicted man’s form turn in his seat, the vibrant orange jumpsuit a stark contrast from the sea of neutral-colored suits around him.

His eyes met mine.

Brow furrowed and eyes narrowed into slits of rage, he stared directly at me.

I felt that any other woman’s husband would look to her for strength, for hope in a desperate situation, even perhaps for pity.

But not my husband.

No, Josiah Price was not that kind of man. The roaring, rushing sound of chatter, gavels pounding, and cries of joy and anger in equal measure made my ears ring. Bodies moved around me as the weight of such a conviction descended upon the inhabitants of Courtroom Two.

And still I sat there, frozen and unmoving, as the weight of dozens of judgment-filled eyes leveled on me, holding me down, tortured by the dagger-like, piercing glare of the man who had sworn before God and congregation to love me and protect me for all of my days.

“Adah? Adah!” The social worker beside me — Jenn, I think her name was — shook my arm, pulling me back to the present, tearing my attention away from the rage my husband silently threw at me with mere looks alone.

“What did you say? I apologize. I did not hear you.” My tongue moved against my gums and teeth like sandpaper against dry wood, barely able to form the words in anything resembling an articulate manner.

With a roll of her eyes, she repeated herself.

“I said that they will be taking him away now. If you’d like to arrange a meeting to speak with your husband, I can arrange that for you. The judge will schedule a sentencing hearing, and now that it’s official, you’ll need to make a decision on those divorce papers we’ve been discussing for the past month.”

“I understand.” The words were past my lips before I could really think about the words she had spoken. It was all muddled in my mind, twisted and gnarled by the tangled web laid out by the Elders of the community I had loved my entire life.

“I’ll reach out to you tomorrow about signing the papers to make everything official, but you will probably want to go home and rest now.” There was a glint of kindness in her eyes, though from where I sat, it was looking less like kindness and more like pity with each passing moment.

My stomach pitched and yawed like a ship on the sea as the thought of signing those divorce papers settled over me.

“I need a moment, please.” I leaped from my seat, covering my mouth as I fled from the courtroom. To any onlooker, I was simply the wife of a criminal, upset about her husband, but as I raced down the courthouse hallway, flinging open the door to the bathroom before the contents of my stomach came bubbling back up out of me the way they had come in, I knew the truth was much more complex than simply that.

I barely had time to fling open the stall, the metal door clanging loudly as my knees nearly cracked against the hard stone tile flooring, my stomach rebelling as I retched into the toilet.

It was too much. Too much, too soon, and with too little information.

I felt completely discombobulated. The Temple family had ripped apart my home, the brothers having brought down the law of the ungodly lands around Zion upon our home, our refuge. Agents of the law had descended upon our town in swarms, pilfering through the businesses, private homes, and even our sacred church in search of every scrap of evidence against those most esteemed in our community. It was barbaric. It was invasive. And it felt like the most gross misconduct of justice I had ever witnessed.

Until the trials began.

Until they laid the evidence out for all to see.

Until my parents were on the stand, accused and convicted.

Until my own husband was the one facing the jury.

And he was guilty. On every count, guilty. The man I had sworn to trust, obey, and honor all the days of my life — the man I had born a child for — had not only been privy to the information, but had actually taken part in the kidnapping of other people’s children. And to make matters worse, he had been a part of the masterminding of it all. He had helped to plan it out. He had actually sat down and thought of ways to lure innocent lambs from the protection of their parents and take them away. He had worked with the Reverend and the other Elders to sell those children. To whom I did not know, nor did I want to.

I retched violently into the toilet for the second time, beads of sweat pearling against my brow and the small of my back as my very body rebelled against the evil doings of those I loved most in this world.

Slumping over onto the cool tile of the floor, my mind raced with the truth that I could no longer deny. My husband had committed atrocious acts that went against everything we believed — or, everything I thought we believed. He had made a willful choice to kidnap those children, those infants. And not only that, but our own child! Our eldest, the beautiful little girl we had adopted; he had stolen her away from her parents, indifferent to the tattered remnants of once-happy lives he left in the wake of his crimes.

Finally, gathering what was left of my wits about me, I wiped my mouth off with a piece of toilet paper, flushing as I stood back up on wobbly legs. I cleaned up at the sink, taking deep breaths and allowing my heart to settle back into a more normal rhythm. The cool water washed away any mess, and helped to clear my head further.

I looked into the mirror, taking in my appearance. My hair was pulled back into a simple French braid, but the edges were loose, frayed, and frizzy from my near constant fidgeting during the hearing. I looked like a mess.

But no more.

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