dress with long sleeves and no shape. And of all things, there’s a matching white bonnet complete with a string to tie under the chin.
“What the fuck.” I hold the outfit up. “What’s with the Little House On The Prairie getup?”
“Right?” Rat pulls out three more hangers. “But look at this.”
I hold them up and scrunch my face. “They’re all the same.”
“Exactly the same.” Rat takes them and tosses them back in the closet. “This is creepy. No one would wear shit like that.” He shudders, rifling through a row of the same outfits. “Fucking Handmaid’s Tale shit.”
Striker looks around the room, whistling. He kicks at one of the baskets piled with clothes. “This is a hell of a lot of clothes for two people. If no one’s here, why do they have enough clothes to fit an army?”
Nothing about this place adds up. I’m about to say as much when my phone rings. I pull it from my cut and answer it. “Yeah, Reaper. What’s happening?”
“They drove to fucking Walmart,” he says.
“What?” I wrinkle my nose and put the phone on speaker for the other two to hear.
“Walmart. He took her grocery shopping. I’m tailing them through the pharmacy section right now.”
“Pick me up some condoms,” Striker calls with a grin, ribbing Rat. “Extra large.”
Reaper snorts. “You mean small.”
Rat laughs.
“Guys,” I growl. “Fucking focus.”
“Right,” Reaper says. “Look, this guy’s really weird. He won’t take his hand off her, and he keeps hurrying her along. She tenses up if anyone gets near her. They’re heading to the checkout now.”
I run my hand through my hair, my thoughts spinning. That’s a little too much like the way my father behaved with my mother whenever they went out. He never let her talk to anyone, always kept an eye on her. If he caught her so much as smiling at the checkout guy, he’d drag her out of the store accusing her of wanting to fuck him.
“All right. Stay on them. We’ll wait for you at the other house. Keep me posted.”
I pocket my phone and allow a last look at the rows of strangely identical bonnets and dresses in the closet, shaking my head.
“This whole situation is fucking bizarre,” Striker says, heading for the door.
“I know. This is making less and less sense,” I mutter. “What would Adamson want with the place like this?”
“And why would your girl call here?” Striker says, voicing an equally pressing question. “There’s nothing here.”
Yeah, because the more I look around here, the less likely it seems that she’d have called this place looking for a place to stay. Whatever this place is, it’s not a fucking rooming house.
“D’you suppose she knows what’s going on here?” Rat asks as we make our way to the side door of the house.
Good question.
I don’t answer him.
We leave Rosie’s creepy-ass house, my mind racing. If it’s not a rooming house, what is it? And what the fuck does it have to do with Emma?
By the time we leave Coyote Springs, I’m certain of one thing. Emma’s still hiding secrets, and I’ll get them out of her however I have to.
12
When the Boss Lady Speaks
Sarah screams, the sound reverberating through the whole Colony and echoing in my head like the cry of a tortured animal.
Whoosh, crack.
Another scream.
“Rules are meant to be obeyed,” Jacob snarls, and there’s another crack. “Obedience is the path to righteousness…”
Crack.
Sarah howls in agony.
I stand there, immobilized with terror. I don’t stop it, I don’t interfere, I don’t beg for him to spare her the pain. I don’t, because of my parents, and because it will only make things worse for her.
Obedience is the path to righteousness…
Swish. Crack.
Scream.
I jerk awake, clawing at the bed sheets. I snap my head up, drenched in sweat and panting.
Obedience… Obedience… Obedience… Jacob’s voice echoes, terrible and icy.
Lying on my stomach, I push my hair out of my face. Turning my head to look over my shoulders, my eyes skirt the room frantically, my throat so tight it’s choking. Until I see the bathroom on the other side of it. Until I see the empty closet, the window to my right, dawn breaking and sending rays of dull grey light into the room.
There’s no window in the door to the room, allowing the church leaders to spy. The bathroom isn’t a tiny, boxed-car-sized room with wooden paneling; it’s a comfortable-sized space with white, gleaming surfaces. I can see that much through the open door. The distant sound of a few voices and