“Yes,” said Jeremiah, “but the Spirit was present in your mother as well. Some people wield that power for noble purposes. And some use it to hurt.”

I began to cry, thinking about Mom, how she had betrayed Jeremiah, how she had probably never even loved me at all. Murphy too, how strange she’d been toward me ever since the night in the church, the way she resented me for how beloved I’d become, for how important I was now.

Jeremiah laid his hand on my shoulder.

“You don’t need your mother anymore,” he said, “and you don’t need your sister either. You have me, you have your grandmother, and you have the Farm. We are your family now, your community. We love you so much, and we’ll never leave you.”

“Promise?” I said.

“I swear it,” he said, “with all of my heart.”

We stayed like that, Jeremiah’s hand on my shoulder, the light of him granting me peace.

Chapter 44

Come afternoon, I made Horace cry. I mean, big tears.

I spoke to him about our mother.

It was Grandma’s idea. I didn’t want to, not in light of what I’d learned about her from Jeremiah, but Grandma insisted that was the way to Horace’s heart. He still wouldn’t admit to killing Mom, but he was so full of pain, so full of sadness and regret. He told me how sorry he was for the way he had treated us back home, for how angry he always was.

It was a strange thing to hear. I mean, if he loved her so much, why did he kill her?

Then I remembered: Horace was an asshole, a horrible, horrible person. Sure, his father had been abusive, but that didn’t excuse the way he treated Murphy and me. It didn’t excuse any of what he’d done.

But I was winning him over slowly. I figured in a week or two I would break him. Maybe he wouldn’t love me the way Carl Urquhart had loved my uncle, but he would stay here, and he would serve us. Maybe I could make him live in the woods, only bring him around to shovel shit and dig ditches. Work like that would suit Horace, strong as he was. At the very least, I’d never have to look at his face again.

And yeah, it was all pretty fucked up, what we were doing. But something needed to be done about him, or else Grandma and Sheriff Bearden and the whole Farm would be in serious trouble. Wouldn’t it be better my way? I could probably make him happier too, make him love his shitty life out in the woods.

I could make Horace happy if I wanted to. I could be merciful like that.