My pulse sped up in confusion. I had no idea what the fuck was happening. I was too tired to think about it too much. I took a deep breath and opened the file again. I leaned over toward the light of the candle and began to read.

With every sentence, my stomach sank further and further to floor. It was information on my uncle . . . information on his life before his mission.

Lance Carter, born in Little Rock, Arkansas . . . typical life, until he was found guilty of child sexual abuse . . . two counts of rape of eight-year-old girls . . . jailed for twenty years . . . served twelve.

Vomit traveled up my throat. My uncle, the leader of our faith was . . . was motherfucking convicted pedophile . . .

I gripped the paper in my fists as I fought to control my anger. I read on further, each new piece of information slicing its poisonous dagger deeper into my heart, into everything I had ever fucking known, deeper and deeper until there was nothing left.

Lived alone in rural Arkansas with other convicted pedophiles whom he had met in prison . . . quickly drew in more men when Lance Carter, then renamed Prophet David, claimed to have received a revelation on a pilgrimage quest to Israel . . . in truth, he had never left the United States.

The commune, which preached the oncoming End of Days and a free-love doctrine, grew in such vast numbers that it needed to relocate . . . Carter bought land in the rural outskirts of Austin, Texas . . . Carter announced within the coming years that God had ordered him to send his people to other countries to recruit new followers to The Order . . . In truth, he was being investigated by the ATF for arms dealing to finance his commune and needed to store his money and gun stock overseas . . .

My eyes raked over page after page of information about the men who had founded the faith along with my uncle. Every one of them had a history of sexual violence.

My uncle had created the commune to engage in sexual acts against children. He had created it all, manufactured a past, to build a faith founded on pedophilia. Attracting fellow sexual deviants to its cause until children were born and raised in the faith.

I closed my eyes, but all my mind would show me was the Lord’s Sharing, the videos Judah had shown me of young, naked girls dancing for their prophet. When my eyes opened, I looked down at Harmony.

The Cursed . . . the most beautiful girls from the entire collective communes were sent to Prophet David’s place of residence to be kept for his use. To be ‘schooled’ by the disciple guards—in reality, raped. To be used as vehicles for the guards’ celestial cleansing.

My uncle had used the excuse of the young Cursed girls’ beauty for his own sick pleasure. He had wanted them, thus created an elaborate tale so the people of the faith would leave them alone, fear them . . . so he and his closest men could have them all to themselves. Men with desires such as his.

“Harmony,” I whispered in utter disgust and dropped my head to hers, holding her just that little bit closer. Tears of frustration slipped from my eyes as I let all that I had learned sink in. It was all false. Everything was utter bullshit . . . and I had been part of it, integral to it . . . I had promoted it.

I had killed and betrayed and caused pain for so many people for a lie.

Rage, so thick and so pure, clogged my heart. I needed to get up. Despite my wounds and aching limbs, I needed to get the fuck off this floor. I gently guided Harmony’s head off my lap and down onto the floor, supporting it with a dry towel she had not used. I pushed myself to my feet, taking the candle and file in my hands.

On weak legs, I staggered to the open door and peered outside. Light was coming from near the building’s entrance. Letting my rage carry me forward, I went looking for Brother Stephen. If the guards returned and caught me, I would welcome their attacks. Right now, with my head pounding and venom pumping around my body, I wanted to fucking draw blood. I wanted to take every cunt in this place down.

I needed to make some pedophilic pricks hurt as much as I did.

As I approached the entrance, I heard a few low murmurs and a single female voice. I blew out the candle, walked around the corner and stopped dead in shock. Brother Stephen and the dark-haired woman Harmony had called Sister Ruth were sitting with the two new guards that had guarded the cellblock of late.

The taller of the guards jumped to his feet. He held his gun in his hands, and my fists clenched at the sight. What the hell was happening? Why the hell hadn’t they come to take Harmony out of my cell?

The guard glared at me, clearly welcoming any kind of threat. But Brother Stephen got to his feet and stood between us. He held up his hands and took a step forward. “Cain,” he said placatingly.