The eye was new, but the voice was familiar. So damn familiar. You like it, don’t you. Tell me you like it. Tell me. Tell me or I’ll break your fucking arm, you little whore.

Mercy stared up at him, her mind beginning to fuzz, little black dots dancing in her vision. Ephraim. It couldn’t be true. It couldn’t be real.

“Nothing to say?” he mocked. “No greeting for your husband?”

A snick seemed to echo in the silence between them and Mercy had only a split second to wonder what it was before feeling the bite of a blade against her wrist. He grabbed her other hand and yanked.

“You’ll come with me,” he growled, “and you won’t say a word. Nod once if you understand.”

Her brain was telling her to run, but her feet were made of stone. She stood there, able only to stare at him, her heart beating like a wild thing in her chest.

He yanked again, pulling her hand through his arm. The knife now pressed against her side, through her blouse.

He’s going to ruin it, she thought numbly. He’s going to make me bleed on it.

Her feet still didn’t move, even when he yanked her again.

“Move your ass, bitch,” he whispered in her ear.

And then another voice, one that made her shiver. “Mercy?”

Oh God. Rafe. He spoke in her best daydreams, deep and musical. But she didn’t respond. Couldn’t respond. She was . . . not there.

“Mercy!” He was shouting now, from behind them.

Her feet were finally moving. She was walking to the door. With Ephraim.

I’m not going to get the chance to be brave. I’m sorry, Mama. I’m sorry, Gideon.

And then there was a loud crack and the arm holding hers was gone.

EDEN, CALIFORNIA

SATURDAY, APRIL 15, 5:05 P.M.

Amos Terrill rubbed his thumb over the lines of the script he’d just carved into the lid of the hope chest. He was almost finished with it, this special project on which he’d been laboring for the past five months, mostly in secret. He’d made countless hope chests, coffee tables, kitchen cabinets, armoires, and jewelry boxes over the thirty years he’d lived in Eden. All of them had been gifts for the membership or items to be sold to bring money into the community coffers.

This was the first time he’d ever made something for himself. Something he didn’t intend to share with anyone.

No one except his Abigail. His heart.

A splinter caught at his thumb and he pulled it out, sucking at the small wound before returning to his task. He could sand the hope chest later. He didn’t have much more time to himself. Everyone knew he stopped working at suppertime, and then people would start dropping by.

Amos, can you fix this? Amos, a minute of your time? Amos, need a pair of strong hands to help with . . . It didn’t matter what. It was all the same after thirty years.