Page 107 of Every Which Way

Amara put her arm around Kenna’s shoulders. They walked to the wide porch, which had brand-new-looking wood Adirondack chairs and barrels with profusions of spring flowers, like it was meant for a magazine photo shoot. Not comfy so a person could relax in a place they called home.

As they reached the first step, Amara whispered, “What was that man thinking?”

She glanced at her mother. “Bruce?”

“He’s with us. Me.” She winced.

The resistance.

Kenna asked, “All this time?”

Her mom nodded.

“I don’t suppose you can?—”

Someone grabbed her arm. The sudden hard pull caused the tape holding her wrists to tear free, and the thug whipped her across the porch into the house. She tumbled onto the floor of the entryway and slid across the floor on the small rug.

Kenna slammed into a table in the center of the entryway with its roof-height ceiling. A vase wobbled on the table, fell in front of her, and shattered. Water and pottery sprayed out in every direction.

She curled up.

The bright yellow lights of the interior of the house glared at her, probably highlighting all the fear in her eyes. She had no idea what was going to happen next.

Or if she would ever be saved.

She stayed where she was, on the rug half under the table. To her right, someone had hung a huge painting of a deer on a snowy morning above the double doors that led to a sitting room or living room. To the left was a set of closed doors. Stairs behind her.

“Bring them in, Holt,” a man called out from where she couldn’t see him—the living room, probably.

The big man who had just tossed her across the floor dragged her up by her arm. Everything he did was about proving to her that she had no power here. Reinforcing the idea that she could do nothing while they could do whatever they wanted.

It would’ve worked if she didn’t believe that God was ultimately in control. He was the sovereign Lord of her life, and anything that happened to her was because He allowed it. No matter what it was or how awful things got, she could trust that He knew what He was doing.

It was the only thing that was going to hold her together.

Tucked away, deep in her soul. That sure and certain hope she had would keep her going so that she never fell into despair the way Bradley had.

Even if what happened tonight was far worse than facing down a serial killer.

Holt shoved her down onto a sofa. The kind with cushions that had no give, so you couldn’t curl up and relax, but they looked good. As if that was the point of furniture.

Kenna blew hair off her face and didn’t look at Senator Woodford. “I’ve never understood aesthetics. It needs to be comfortable and functional. Who cares if everything matches or it looks Instagram-worthy or whatever?”

Amara sat on the edge of the seat beside her, too far for Kenna to find any solidarity in their closeness. Which was what they’d had for years. Exactly the kind of relationship Amara had decided was best for them. That was the worst part. Her mother had just made the decision and never given Kenna the option. Not even when she came of age and could have chosen for herself did Amara tell her who she was—that she was alive.

And she had a sister?

“Where is Zeyla?” Kenna glanced from her mom to Woodford. “Don’t pretend you don’t know who she is.”

Amara said, “Chimera.”

Kenna frowned.

Amara glanced at her. “That’s the name he knows her by.”

“Ah,” Woodford said. “My greatest disappointment.”

Kenna said, “You’ll find we’re all like that. The whole family. You should just let us go. Save yourself the trouble.”

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