“In the back of Brother DJ’s truck,” Abigail added.

Amos smiled at her fondly. “We did indeed.” Sobering, he looked at Gideon. “You asked what I came to warn Mercy about. For the past six months, I’ve been . . . aware that things in Eden aren’t right.”

“Six months,” Gideon said, unimpressed. “Took you long enough.”

Amos flinched. “You’re right. It did.” He leaned down to Abigail. “Maybe you can go sit with Miss Zoya for a little while? Maybe she can show you another movie.”

Abigail’s lips firmed. “Gideon should be kind to you. You have his picture and everything.”

Amos’s mouth curved sadly. “Gideon has suffered quite a lot. He has a right to however he feels. Don’t worry about me, Abi-girl. I’ll be fine. I promise. Now go find Miss Zoya.”

“I’ll take her,” Karl offered. He extended his hand, smiling when Abigail took it without hesitation. Mercy wasn’t surprised. Karl Sokolov exuded kindness. “Besides,” he said with a meaningful lift of his brows, “I need to make sure Zoya and that boy are really studying.”

That boy. Jeff Bunker, the sixteen-year-old who’d splashed Mercy’s private life all over his blog page. But who had, apparently, done something good enough for Irina to stand up for him.

Oh. She remembered now. The retraction he’d written, along with offering survivors his platform to tell their stories. Had that only been this morning?

It felt like it had been a hundred years ago.

When Abigail was safely out of earshot, Amos continued. “Yes, it took me long enough. It took me seeing, with my own eyes, Ephraim murdering the Comstocks.”

Both Mercy and Gideon gasped at that. “We saw the cross,” Mercy said.

“You didn’t paint it,” Gideon murmured.

“No, I didn’t have time. As soon as Ephraim brought back Miriam’s body, we moved. It was very abrupt and harder than our other moves. It was November and we’d been at that location for seven years. We’d forgotten how to move quickly. I’d made a cross for Miriam—”

“Eileen,” Gideon interrupted. “She wanted to be called Eileen. That was her name.”

Once again Amos flinched at Gideon’s tone. “Eileen. I apologize. I knew her as Miriam for too many years. I’d forgotten that you called her Eileen when the two of you played as children.”

Mercy shot Gideon a glare and Gideon had the good grace to look a little ashamed. “I’m sorry I interrupted,” he murmured. “Please continue.”

“I’d gone to the graveyard to place Mir—Eileen’s cross and heard weeping. I thought it was Sister Dorcas. Eileen’s mother,” Amos explained when many at the table looked confused. “I saw Dorcas with her husband, Stephen, and their son, Ezra. Dorcas was weeping. Stephen was on his knees, begging Ephraim to spare Dorcas and Ezra. Ezra was standing, staring at Ephraim with hate in his eyes.” Amos swallowed. “Ezra was the first to die. Ephraim broke his neck with his bare hands. Snapped it like a twig. Then he did the same to Dorcas. He killed Stephen last, but first he told him how much he’d liked . . . hurting Eileen.” Amos dropped his gaze to his hands. “I can’t say the word again. I’m sorry.”