There was no way he was putting his child in a chest and simply turning his back on her. She was no Moses to be hidden in the bulrushes, hoping for a good person to find her at the other end of her journey. Besides, they’d already tried to smuggle Miriam out. Amos had made the chest big enough for her to hide in, but something had gone wrong and there’d been no one to help her. Now she was dead, as was her whole family.

Surprise flickered in DJ’s eyes before he smoothed his expression to one of almost condescension, as if Amos were a small boy asking for a pet pony. “I don’t know. I’ll have to ask Pastor.”

Which meant no. Well, then. That answers that. Disappointment swirled with the panic in his gut, but Amos merely nodded, keeping his own expression smiling and mild. “Of course. Let him know that the piece I’m considering should bring a good price from any of the shops, but if he doesn’t believe it wise for me to accompany you, then I won’t plan to build it.”

DJ inclined his head. “I’ll tell him. When do you think you’ll have”—he startled abruptly, blinking as if something had shocked him—“something ready for me to take to town?”

“In a few days. Thursday at the latest.”

DJ smiled absently. “Thank you, Brother Amos.” He turned and hurried out the door.

Amos went to the window, watching as DJ crossed the common space, heading for the gate. You need to follow him. Find out what’s happening in this little corner of hell.

As casually as he was able, Amos ambled across the yard, then, looking both ways, slipped into the trees that bordered the community.

On instinct, he headed toward the boulder that hid the satellite dish, gratified when he spied DJ perched on the same fake rock where Pastor had sat on Saturday evening. Amos had passed that boulder a hundred times over the almost six months since they’d moved here, but he’d never really seen it. He paid attention to trees, not rocks. He might have passed by it another hundred, maybe thousand, times without ever thinking to check beneath it.

DJ had a device similar to the one that Pastor had used, tapping it as Pastor had. Putting the phone to his ear, DJ snapped, “What is it?”

He listened, his body growing more and more rigid as each second passed. “What did she look like?”

Who is “she”? Amos wondered, then stared when DJ paled.

“Are you sure? Mercy Callahan? Are you sure that’s what her credit card said? Mercy?”

Mercy? Mercy? Amos covered his mouth with his hand to cover his own gasp. He didn’t know the name Callahan, but how many Mercys could there be? Especially how many Mercys could make DJ this agitated?

But Mercy was dead. DJ had told them so. She’d died when Rhoda had smuggled her out.

A kernel of hope began to take root in his rapidly beating heart. What if DJ lied? Ephraim had lied. Pastor had lied. Why not DJ, too?