PROLOGUE

REDDING, CALIFORNIA

THIRTEEN YEARS AGO

TUESDAY, MAY 22, 4:30 A.M.

She was going to die. Rhoda knew it was true. There was no way Brother DJ would take her back to Eden, and, even if he would, the result would be the same. She didn’t want to go back. Ever.

She cursed the day she’d first climbed into the bed of this truck, all those years ago. How many? She struggled to remember. DJ’s father, Waylon, had been behind the wheel that night that she’d gathered her children in her lap, promising them that everything would be okay. That they were going to a new home where everything would be wonderful and they’d have toys and food and a warm bed to sleep in.

How stupid was I? Naive and stupid.

Mercy had only been a year old, so she’d never known the scary time before when they didn’t always have dinner because Rhoda hadn’t turned enough tricks the previous night. But Gideon had seen her come home from a night on the streets of San Francisco with bruises on her face and no breakfast for them because a john had refused to pay. When she’d promised her son a better life, he’d believed her, willingly—eagerly—climbing into the bed of the truck that would take them to paradise. To Eden.

To Eden. She’d spit, but her mouth was too dry. Eden had been no paradise. It had been hell.

Gideon had only been five years old that day, so precious and smart. Wise before his time. My beautiful boy. He’d be seventeen now. Well on his way to becoming a man. She hoped. Prayed.

Gideon. My beautiful son. She’d never see him again in this lifetime. She hoped he was well, that he’d survived. She’d cursed herself every night for the past four years for leaving him alone on his thirteenth birthday, injured, maybe even dying. Watching Waylon dump his limp body behind a dumpster, trying to catch one last glimpse of her son as Waylon tied her hands behind her, pushing her face-first into the truck bed, then taking his payment for Gideon’s escape from Eden, leaving her torn and bleeding . . . It had been the worst day of her life.

Until she’d climbed into the bed of this truck a third time, her daughter in her arms. This time it was being driven by Waylon’s son, DJ, who’d inherited it when Waylon died. DJ’s price for the ride out of Eden had been the same as when Waylon had driven her to this same bus station while she clutched at an injured Gideon.

And even though she’d been married to other men both times, she’d complied. She’d sold her body before Eden for a lot less. What was food and shelter when the lives of your children were in danger? Nothing. So she’d paid without complaint.

The day she’d gotten Gideon out, Brother Waylon had taken her back to Eden to pay for her crimes. She had a sick feeling that today’s outcome with DJ would not be the same.