He’d been out searching for Gideon, who’d gone missing after running from his punishment for murdering Edward McPhearson. Everyone had been searching—everyone except his father, who’d disappeared some time during the night with his truck. Pastor had told them that Waylon was searching the forest road.

DJ had believed him—until he’d come upon his father’s truck in the forest near the river. Gideon’s mother had been curled up in a corner of the truck’s bed, sobbing. His father had looked up, wild-eyed and equally shocked to see DJ as DJ had been to see him.

And in that moment of unguarded shock, guilt had flashed across Waylon’s face, crystal clear in the dim glow of dawn.

What are you doing? Where have you been?

Driving around the forest. Go home, DJ. Go back to Pastor.

But DJ had been suspicious, so he’d checked the odometer. Waylon had gone more than two hundred miles since his last trip from Eden. DJ knew because he’d been tasked with keeping Waylon’s truck running. He knew every nut and bolt of the old vehicle.

No way you drove two hundred miles around the forest. You went into the city. Why?

Waylon had swallowed then, a grotesque sight all covered in blood and gore. Go home.

No. Tell me. And then a terrible thought had occurred to him. You were helping him?

His father’s guilty expression was the only answer DJ had needed. Why? he’d demanded. Why did you help him?

Waylon had stared at him miserably. Because I couldn’t help you, he’d said.

With McPhearson. DJ had known exactly why Gideon had been fighting the blacksmith.

Why wouldn’t you help me? It had been an agonized cry. Much like he was doing right now.

They know things. I’ve done things. Waylon had been babbling. All but confessing.

And then it had all clicked. His big, bad enforcer father had been afraid of what Edward McPhearson would say about him. He was afraid of what the bastard would reveal. Waylon’s fear of Edward had been stronger than any love he’d ever felt for his son.

You gave me to him, DJ remembered saying the words, dry-eyed and steel-spined.

I had no choice.

You had a fucking choice. You always had a choice. You just didn’t choose me.

Listen to me. I wanted to help you, but I couldn’t.

So you helped him? DJ had spat the words, pointing to the body that he now knew had not been Gideon’s after all. Why did you take him to the city?

Waylon’s gaze had flicked to the body. He died by the time we got there. They beat him bad.

Like that made the betrayal better, somehow. Easier to accept.

DJ had stepped forward, fists clenched. And if he hadn’t died? What would you have done?

His father’s silence was his answer, once again.

You would have let him go. You would have set him free.

That had been the brutal truth. His father had risked Pastor’s wrath for Gideon Reynolds. Because of some misplaced sense of guilt, of responsibility that he hadn’t felt for his own flesh and blood.