Rhoda shook her head hard. “Selena. I’m Selena. Not Rhoda. Never again.”

DJ shrugged. “Whatever.” He tried to yank her to her feet, but her knees buckled.

“Ephraim will kill you for this,” she rasped.

DJ just laughed. “No, he won’t. He never does. He can’t.”

That made no sense, but Rhoda’s mind was spinning out of control and not much made sense. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because I can.” He tightened his hold on Rhoda’s arm and dragged her to the truck, hefting her to her feet, leaning her against its side. “Watch, Mercy.”

He pressed the barrel of the gun to Rhoda’s temple. This was it, then.

“Say bye-bye, Rhoda,” he said, humor in his voice.

“Selena,” she gritted out. “If you’re going to kill me, at least have the guts to say my name. Selena Reynolds.”

He chuckled. “Good-bye, Rhoda.”

* * *

Watch, Mercy. Brother DJ had commanded it, so Mercy obeyed as she’d been taught to do. She watched, a scream frozen in her throat. Mama! But her mother didn’t answer because her mother was gone.

Dead.

Her mother had collapsed against the side of the truck, a hole in the side of her head. For a moment she stared at Mercy, her eyes wide.

Dead.

And then Brother DJ lifted her mother’s body, his arm under her legs, and tossed her over the side of the truck into the bed. The bed where he’d taken her mother three times since they’d left Eden.

The only home Mercy had ever known.

Her mother hadn’t even protested. It had been the payment for getting them out. Mercy knew that. Her mother had told her so after each time. Mercy had wanted to answer, had wanted to tell her mother that it wasn’t worth it, that she—Mercy—wasn’t worth it, but she’d been unable to speak.

DJ hadn’t been gentle, but it was still better than . . . him. Brother Ephraim.

My husband. Just thinking the word made her shudder. And he was on his way. Brother DJ had told her so. Ephraim would find her here. He probably wouldn’t kill her. Although she’d wish he would.

She always wished he’d just kill her, but he never did.

Brother DJ rubbed his bloody hands on his pants and began walking her way. “Come on, Mercy.”

She just stared up at him, unable to say a word.

He leaned down, grabbed her arm, and forced her to stand, but her legs were like limp noodles. She hurt, everywhere. Her abdomen burned. She pressed her palm to her body, then stared at it dully. Her palm was covered in blood. I’m bleeding. Because he shot me. It was like a dream. Not real. Except it was. Her mother was dead. And I’m bleeding.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he grunted. “Not you, too.”

She continued to stare. She’d heard Ephraim use that “F”-word, but only when he was really angry. Never in as casual a tone as Brother DJ’s.