In reality, the boxes in his basement were filled with vacuum-packed weed, none from Eden. DJ had learned to diversify. He rented the house next door and a third house in the next neighborhood, both converted into grow houses. Tons of dirt covered the old 1970s linoleum and he’d added another set of fuses on both houses to carry the current for the grow lamps inside.

He grew a lot more pot this way than Eden ever had, and the profits belonged solely to him. But he’d still earned only a pittance compared to what Pastor controlled in Eden’s offshore bank accounts. And a good chunk of the revenue he earned from the grow houses was due back to the man who’d given him a start-up loan.

Kowalski had taught DJ more than Pastor ever had. DJ usually spent time in Eden during the week, venturing down the mountain to tend his plants the rest of the time. He’d learned to pad the estimates for how long his trips would take so that he could spend more time away from the compound than was required. He’d started out taking only the weekends, but was able to sell Pastor on the need for more time to sell Eden’s illegal products—the drugs they’d grown since he’d arrived at the compound when he was four years old.

He’d argued that allowing him more time away enabled Pastor to continue sending just one person from the compound each week, which kept their secrets safer.

He also shopped for supplies and sold Eden’s completely legit handmade goods, claiming that he had to travel far away to keep from raising any suspicion. In reality, he shopped and sold the legit stuff wherever the hell he wanted, used cash, and no one was the wiser. But his precautions—and the money he brought in—made Pastor happy and in return, Pastor would eventually make him very rich.

Until then, he cared for his plants, turned the harvest over to Kowalski, and deposited his cut of the proceeds into a bank account of his own.

“You look tired, dear,” Mrs. Ellis said. “I’ve got chicken soup that will fix what ails you.”

“Thank you, but I’ve got dinner plans.” Pizza sounded amazing. “You have a good evening.”

“Thank you, dear.” The top of her head disappeared abruptly as she climbed down from whatever stool she’d gotten up on to see over the fence. She was only four foot nine. Still, he didn’t want her angry with him. She was the de facto neighborhood watch queen, and had he known that, he would have bought a house literally anywhere else.

“Wait!” Her head reappeared. “There’s been someone in your house for the past few weeks. He said he was your friend and was watering your plants. He had a key and nothing seemed amiss when I checked, so I didn’t make a fuss.” Her lip curled in a pout. “I could have watered your plants. You didn’t have to ask someone else.”