Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Jigsaw

Jensen Killgore, 14 years old

Run!

Despite the chains tethering me to the wall, my mind keeps screaming at me to run. Run.

Instead, I remain frozen in place. "Sacred fire, guide my whip." My father's low prayer sends a shiver of dread down my spine. "Consume all that is impure in my son."

"I fear no evil," I chant, even though I'm supposed to remain silent. You're the evil.

One day, I'll be at the other end of that whip.

A subtle, high-pitched hiss slices through the air, building to a rapid crack.

Intense, searing pain sizzles from my shoulder to my ribcage. Fire races over my skin, leaving a throbbing ache radiating over my back. This isn't the first, second, or even third time I've been whipped. It never hurts any less.

Another trail of fire blazes across my back. I twist my hands in the chain. Something in my wrist pops. A groan drags out of my throat.

I won't give him the satisfaction of my screams or tears.

Relax. Relax. It hurts more if you tense.

Bullshit. Unbearable agony burns my skin no matter how I position my body.

A sting kisses my eyebrow and my body jolts with shock. My back's already a scarred mess. But my face?

I squeeze my eyes shut and drop my head. Wetness trails down my back. My body sags against the cold stone wall in front of me. The sharp tang of copper fills my nose.

Blackness blurs around the edges of my vision. Chaos and fear rule my brain. My thoughts jumble, focusing on the agony in my body. Red and black swirls in front of me, and I mentally toss myself into the swirl.

Pain claims every inch of my body while darkness mercifully claims my mind.

Agony flames over my skin, straight down to my bones.

Cold, hard, filthy stone pushes against my cheek. I lift my head and blink into the darkness.

Infinite darkness.

I wait for my eyes to adjust. But still nothing.

No.

Despair wraps around my chest. The whipping wasn't punishment enough. He left me in the box—a small, narrow room with nothing but uneven, gritty stone to comfort my battered body.

I press my palms against the cold floor and try to push myself upright. Straight hellfire shoots up my arms. Every part of my body hurts so badly, I didn't realize my wrists are damaged from the chains. Carefully, I wrap my left hand around my right wrist, trying to assess the extent of the injury. Hot, swollen, rough skin. I press my thumb harder against the bone. Everything seems intact. I perform the same exploration on my left wrist.

I could be here for hours or days. Cataloging my injuries will make the time pass faster. Anything to keep my mind off the empty, dark, closet-sized room that locks from outside. Where my father always leaves me after my punishment.

Tears roll down my cheeks. How long will he leave me here this time? If I miss more school this semester, surely they'll send someone to check on me, right? The frequency and intensity of the punishments have escalated this year. No, not this year. Ever since my best friend's parents died and he was sent to live with his aunt and uncle. My father has it in his head that whatever demon possessed Logan's father to kill his wife, then turn the gun on himself, had somehow infected me with evil. Just because Logan was my friend? I never even got to say goodbye to Logan or mourn his mother—who I loved like she was my own. She was sweet, kind, and never quoted the bible.

My real mother's long gone. The harem of women my father replaced her with don't care what happens to me. My two older brothers left here as soon as they could, never bothering to return or check on me, even though they know what kind of damage our father likes to inflict. They don't even know how much worse it's gotten. How many more disciples my father's collected and has living on our family farm. How they spend every Sunday in the barn that's been converted into a "church" raging about sin and hellfire. How my father keeps threatening to take me out of school to save me from being "corrupted." Not that I love school, but at least it's something normal and gets me away from here for a few hours a day.

Logan's Aunt Em and Uncle Boone had always been nice to me. Could I call them? Would they let me stay with them if I confessed the true depths of my father's cruelty? Could I bare my scars to save myself?

One thing's becoming clearer and clearer with each "punishment" I receive.

If I stay, I'm going to die.

My neck aches and I rest my cheek against the cool stone floor again. After a few minutes of jumbled thoughts, I fall into another nightmarish sleep full of flaming demons.

A creak splits the air, bringing me back into my throbbing body.

The heavy door scrapes against the rough floor.

A faint beam of light stabs through my endless darkness.

My body stills. Breath catches in my lungs. Is he back? Will he kill me this time?

"Jensen?" a little voice calls out.

Jezebel—Jezzie, my baby sister.

No .

She can't see me like this. I don't want to be the cause of her nightmares. She's already patched me up in the past—something a kid her age shouldn't even know how to do.

I squint into the light and crane my neck, trying to see her. See if anyone's with her.

The door opens wider.

Jezzie's tiny shadow appears against the faint light of the basement. She's hope, comfort, and guilt in a long, pink flannel nightgown that sweeps over the tops of her bare feet.

"Go," I croak.

My father saves the harsh, physical punishments for his sons. But he's not above depriving her of food or some other twisted punishment just for checking on me.

"Jensen!" she whispers a little louder.

The door creaks closed. A few seconds later, a weak beam of light illuminates my cell.

"You're going to get in trouble," I mumble.

A soft white pillowcase stuffed with something other than a pillow lands in front of my face. Jezzie kneels next to me. A knife of shame that she has to see my body in this condition twists into my heart.

"I brought you something to eat," she whispers. "And water."

Another tear leaks from the corner of my eye. "Thank you."

I flick my gaze up and find her staring at my back, silent tears rolling down her own pale cheeks. No words to comfort her come to mind and that crushes what's left of my soul. I'm her big brother. I'm supposed to protect her and reassure her. Not traumatize her.

For Jezzie, I bite through the pain in my wrists and force myself to my knees. My lips pull into a wobbly smile that probably looks more psychotic than comforting. She lets out a soft sob and quickly digs through the pillowcase.

"Here." She pulls out a wad of gauze, a bottle of antiseptic, and a tube of ointment.

I grit my teeth as she gently dabs at the wounds and carefully covers my back in the ointment. Finally, she lays strips of gauze over the worst parts. By the time she's finished, she's shaking.

"Why?" she sobs.

I don't have an answer.

"Father said you have bitterness in your heart, but I know that's not true."

It might not have been true before the whippings started, but I'm bubbling over with bitterness now. I don't waste what little energy I have correcting her, though.

My dry, cracked lips ache but I accept the mason jar of water when Jezzie pushes it into my hands. The tepid water slides down my throat, bringing little relief.

"Here." She unwraps a white cloth napkin and hands me two thick, rough-cut slices of homemade bread. An uneven layer of butter sticks out between the slices. Probably all she could get away with taking from the kitchen without anyone noticing.

"Thank you." I take a bite and chew slowly, savoring soft, squishy bread and the rich butter coating my tongue.

"It's fresh. Momma Ruth gave it to me," she whispers.

I lift an eyebrow, then wince as it pulls and stings.

"Jensen!" She gasps. "Your forehead."

"Is it bad?"

Instead of answering, she bites her lip and pulls out the gauze, antiseptic, and ointment again.

"It's okay, Jensen," she coos in her high-pitched, babyish voice. "Every scar tells a story."

"Ah, the tongue of the wise brings healing," I whisper. I still my body as she cleans the cut over my eye.

"Momma Ruth give you the supplies too?" At least one of the wives doesn't hate me. Ruth isn't much older than I am. My father just brought her home one day and added her to his collection of disciples who live on our family compound.

"Yes," Jezzie says. "I like her. She lets me sleep in her room." Her voice falters. "The nights Father isn't in there."

"Good." Pain and exhaustion pull me down to the floor again. "Thank you, Jezzie."

She lets out a hiccup-sob and curls her small hand around my fingers. "I love you, Jensen. Please get better. I miss you."

A devil wraps its hand around my throat, leaving me incapable of making any promises. But I manage to whisper back, "Love you too."

Even if I don't survive, I want her to know that much.

A few days later, I'm able to move without screaming. The door to my cell opens and I recoil. Fear races through my veins. But the long sweeping skirt all the women in the commune wear swishes across the stones.

Not my father.

I lift my gaze.

Ruth, her long red hair twisted into two complicated braids under a white bonnet, smiles down at me. Even in the weak light the freckles on her face and rounded cheeks suggest she should still be in school, not living as a slave to a religious fanatic who whips his children and locks them in small dark rooms for days as punishment.

She holds out a stack of clean clothing and a pair of shoes. "Your father says your confinement is over. You're to go to school and then come straight home."

School? Today, I can sit up without screaming. But I don't think I can tolerate an entire day riding the bus and sitting in the hard metal chairs in each classroom. And God help me if one of the morons who enjoy mocking my clothes shoves me or even touches me. Instead of stabbing those bullies or cutting off one of their fingers—which I've decided I'll definitely do one day—I'll probably pass out from the pain.

Ruth crouches in front of me, her long dress pooling on the floor around her feet, and sets the clothes next to my hip. "Let me look at your back."

Instead of fresh bandages or ointment, she pushes an envelope into my hands. Confused, I frown and open it. A small blue paper rectangle flutters to the floor. Social Security is printed in red, curved letters at the top. My name and a long string of numbers.

Ruth stares at me with wide eyes, but I'm not sure what she's trying to tell me. I quickly pull out a piece of paper and unfold it. Certificate of Birth .

Documents. My documents.

I stare at her.

She bows her head and picks up a fresh roll of gauze and attends to my back. I bite my lip while she changes and cleans the wounds. Wadded up piles of rust-colored bandages drop on the floor while she works.

I stare at the envelope. A piece of green paper snags my attention.

A twenty-dollar bill.

Tears sting my eyes. Ruth barely knows me and she's risking her own safety to help me leave? That's what this is, right?

Or is this a test my father put her up to?

"Each punishment is worse than the one before. I'm afraid without…well you might not survive the next one," she whispers so low, I can barely make out the words.

"What about you?" I whisper back.

"I am with child. He will not hurt me."

Disgust churns my insides. "His?"

She sits back on her heels, shaking her head. "It does not matter."

How can I leave my little sister in this hellish place? "Jezzie?—"

"I will take care of her." Her tone is a solemn oath. "You must save yourself, first."

Running—leaving my little sister behind in this insanity—twists a knife of guilt deep into my chest.

Underneath my instinctive reaction, one thing becomes crystal clear.

I can't save my sister if I'm dead.