2. Prologue

Prologue

M ontgomery Ellis was late. Not that it mattered. No one was stupid enough to question him. Not even about the girl in the tight red dress hanging from his arm.

Montgomery snapped his fingers and pointed to the last pew on the right.

The girl scrambled to do what he told her. He was happy to get rid of her. The way she shook annoyed him. She was new and still showed fear, although she’d accepted her status weeks ago, but it had taken her longer than most.

His mother always sat near the front. She’d given a lot of money to the parish over the years. According to her, she had bought the right to sit as close to God as she wanted.

Many members of the congregation had stayed home. These who attended the service averted their gazes as he walked down the center aisle.

The pastor stumbled on a bible verse upon seeing him. He darted his eyes to the girl and his face flushed. He probably had a boner underneath his robe. It wasn’t as though Montgomery hid who he was. His last name was Ellis, which meant something in Duchester. As long as the pastor kept laundering money for him, he’d support the pastor’s perversions.

Montgomery sat next to his mother and her stupid dog, who was sleeping in one of those purse-type carriers. Upon sensing him, the dog trembled much like the girl had. Mother must have felt it because she picked the dog up and comforted it.

The dog stayed in her lap through the sermon, which was about original sin and how they were all born with it. Montgomery liked to think his sins were extraordinary.

Would providing his pastor with a girl fast-track him into hell? If it didn’t, then the pastor before this one, Pastor Clawson, would. He had liked boys and girls, and he liked them young. Not that anything about Montgomery’s business was legal. Even so, he’d only ever stolen one child in his life and that was a fourteen-year-old boy.

He ran his fingers along the scars on his cheek. They were a constant reminder to never bring a child into his operation again. They were a pain in the ass to deal with.

Montgomery didn’t believe in God. He came for business reasons and because his mother expected it of him. If he wanted her money after she died, he had to do as he was told. His inheritance might as well have been a carrot tied to a string. She pulled on it whenever she wanted.

One of these days, he’d kill her. All he had to do was make it look like an accident. It wouldn’t be difficult, what with her age and how frail she appeared. Montgomery was sure he could accomplish it. The only reason he couldn’t execute a plan was because she always changed her will and she did it randomly. She wasn’t predictable.

Montgomery stared straight at the pastor but didn’t listen to his fire and brimstone sermon.

His mother always stayed a step ahead of him. She knew him too well.

She handed Montgomery a manilla envelope.

He kept the envelope out of sight when he peered at the papers inside.

The first thing he saw was a picture of Landry Dorsson, the kid he’d taken all those years ago. His scars pulled tight when the anger took hold. The picture was of Landry on a motorcycle. He was in a group. They were all dressed similarly in leather and denim, but Landry stuck out because of his long blond hair the color of wheat. Montgomery remembered how it had felt to wrap it around his fist. And how the blood had looked streaking it.

One paper outlined Landry’s life. He’d joined a motorcycle gang called the Dragon Skulls. They were petty criminals, mostly. Dealing drugs and moonshine. Montgomery knew them. They had stolen his livelihood, snatching it right out from under him.

Montgomery had kept the scars instead of having plastic surgery. They were a reminder to bide his time. Revenge required patience.

“Let us pray.”

Montgomery bowed his head and folded his hands together. “I’m still rebuilding, mother.”

The day the Dragon Skulls had raided his clubs and stolen his boys and girls was the day he’d lost everything. They’d helped send him to prison. Four fucking years. He would have gotten more time if not for the DA being on his payroll. Evidence was evidence, and not even Harold Bench could erase the charges.

“It’s time.” Her voice was almost inaudible. “You have until Christmas Eve. After which you will have surgery to fix that ugliness on your face.”

Everything was on Abigail Ellis’s timeline.

She’d be dead already if not for that stupid will.