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“Keep her safe, which includes keeping her away from that dickwad. If you can do that, I’ll trust you again.”
Trust. Adam used to be big on that. Maybe he still is. To me, it’s just a word that can be used to control people, to bend them to your will. But for him, it’s something bigger. I don’t understand it, but I want it all the same. That and so much more.
The idea of helping Delilah burns like acid in my veins, but it doesn’t have to be all bad. After all, I’m the one on the ground, the one with leverage. Adam can’t call the shots from the cross. Not really.
“Here’s the deal.” I fold my arms over my chest. “I’ll keep her safe. You have my word. But when this is over and you’re the new Prophet, you will cast her out and marry me.”
His mouth hardens into a line. “Jenny, I can’t—”
I turn on my heel and walk away.
“Jenny!” he calls, his worn voice breaking.
I stop and face him. “What’s your answer?” My heart forgets to beat, hanging on whatever words spill from his battered mouth next.
He sags, pain twisting his face into an ugly mask. “It’s a deal.”
Chapter 2
Delilah
Warm water runs over me, though I can barely feel it.
Ruth, the apparent leader of the women in the Cathedral, stands behind me and asks, “Too hot?”
I shake my head and wrap my arms around myself. “I don’t know what to do.” My thoughts are fractured, but that one flows out with utter clarity. I’m lost. Adam is crucified. And no one can help either of us.
“You can’t do much. Not when you’re in here.” She leans against the white tile wall, just out of reach of the spray. “And not when you’re nearly frozen through.”
“I have to save him. He can’t stay up there like that.” I can see him so clearly, the anguish pouring out of him and painting everything in a desperate black.
“The Prophet will take him down.” She hands me a bottle of body wash. “Eventually.”
“When?” I just stare at the soap she’s offering.
“We have to wait.”
“Wait?” I take the body wash, my movements more mechanical than human. “That’s the only thing you’ve told me since I got here.”
She proffers a baby-blue bath sponge. “When you’re locked in, surrounded by armed guards, and scrutinized at all times, that’s all you can do.” She shakes the sponge.
I grab it.
A bell rings somewhere outside the wide, white bathroom.
She sighs. “I’m going to service. You’ll stay here, most likely. I doubt you’ll be allowed out of the Cathedral. I’d play sick and stay for you, but it’s one of the few times I get to see my son Ezekiel. Just stay put and warm up. I’ll lay out some clothes for you on my bed, okay?”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why are you being kind to me?” I glance around at the wide expanse of empty shower stalls. None of the other women have come near me in the short time I’ve been at the Cathedral. And even though I know Ruth is part of whatever Chastity has bubbling on the compound, that doesn’t mean it’s smart for her to take such an obvious interest in me. After all, I’m a problem.
“Sometimes that’s all we have left. Being kind.” She turns, her dark braid flowing down her back. “I’ll be back after service. Maybe I’ll know more. But don’t count on it.” She disappears into the tile labyrinth, and I’m left alone with my unwieldy thoughts and the hiss of the water.
I lean against the wall, and the vision of Adam nailed to the cross invades my mind and brings me to my knees. My heart is twisted and punctured, and I wonder if I can survive this? Can Adam? The tears don’t come. I must have shed them all at Adam’s feet.
My tears meant nothing to the Prophet, who oozed satisfaction as Adam suffered. “Let this be a lesson to any here who would think to defy me. I am the Lord’s Prophet, and I will punish the unjust!”
No one helped him. Not even Noah, his own brother. The man just stood stone-faced and stared. But maybe that fits. If he killed Georgia, what’s a little more suffering to him? Nothing. He was probably just glad it wasn’t him up there, naked and beaten. Something sparks beneath my despair, lighting it on fire with slow blue flames. Adam didn’t deserve his fate. But there are plenty of people here that do.
The same rage that fueled me to find Georgia’s killer begins to percolate in my veins, all of it directed at the Prophet. Any man who would torture his own son deserves a slow death. I drop the sponge and turn my palms over. Water trickles down my skin, and I feel every minute movement. Could I use these hands to kill someone? Yes.
