Taryn's POV

I bet you're wondering how I got out of there.

As I'm driving through the dusty panhandle of Texas in the dark, I'm wondering the same damn thing, and I keep going back to it, over and over again. I'm glad Grady is the one trying to get some sleep. He has to be at work in a handful of hours, and I insisted. Because, even if I wanted to sleep, I'm not sure I could right now. I'll probably have nightmares about "Camp Merit" until I die. There's so much that could have gone wrong, and my subconscious won't be kind. . .  

I'm doing my best to avoid sleeping for as long as I can without letting him know why. He's got his own shit to deal with; he doesn't need mine, too. As unhealthy as I think it would be for him to know more, he's asked for the details out of concern for me. Of course, I minimized everything. I'm trying to be the strong one. And I am . . . I was, I should say. Trauma affects different people in different ways, and I guess mine was a bit delayed coming in. But, now that the dark is back and I'm alone with my thoughts, it's pretty horrific in a thousand small but significant ways. What I experienced was just a sampling, but still, the seeds were planted. I can feel them festering, but if they happen to grow. . .

What if I got stuck there? What if they catch up to me again? Will that evil flourish just by worrying about it? What kind of monster will I become?

Forget another day. I was not going to spend an extra minute in that hellhole. It sounds extreme, but I was going to take my chances with the firing squad no matter what. The world has enough monsters. . .

I knew Grady would get help for us. Or try to, if he got that far. I had no way of knowing what Keith's word meant. Would he really let him go?

I feared it meant nothing. I wouldn't put it past him to tell us all one thing, and then do the unthinkable.

Grady was in danger, and he'd put himself in more danger, too. If they didn't shoot him outright, they would have tried the moment he started making trouble. And bringing in the artillery was the logical next step for him.

How many law enforcement officers would it take to secure that place? Too many. It could have easily been a bloodbath. I didn't intend for it to get to that level or want it on my conscience. Many of those brave men and women had families to go home to. I didn't want to put anyone in harm's way because Quinn trusted her own mother and I underestimated her. My resentment about the stupid tuition money was just too blinding. I really thought that was the worst she could do, and I didn't intend to give her another chance to prove me wrong.  

Once Grady was escorted out, I was beside myself. I didn't have to fake that. A few minutes later, when my heartrate was about to blow my brain to smithereens, Keith had the audacity to tell me and Quinn to clear the table while his inbred kids and his doting queen got to sit around and watch. Quinn barely had any food on her plate, probably lost twenty pounds since last I saw her, and couldn't even walk right. She was pretty sure it was an ankle fracture, and watching her hobble around, I believed her.

I didn't give Keith the opportunity to "mansplain" his mistreatment. I just let myself explode. Rage was the detonator, and I would have clawed my way out of there if I thought it would get me anywhere, but I had to be smart about it.

I hated my mother in that moment too, more than I ever had, but I knew, deep down, she just wanted to be loved, appreciated, and needed again, even though she did nothing to deserve it. Ever, if I'm being honest. I grew up fast and on my own for a reason.

I've always had my issues, and she was always vocal about hers. Quinn was her pride and joy, and I didn't even hold a candle, not in talent or likability. I'd only ever be as pretty if I tried twice as hard, and I didn't bother by half. She didn't even look favorably upon college until her money-grubbing husband saw dollar signs. Now, it isn't any wonder why they let me be, and then ambushed me before the ink on my diploma was dry.

When it comes to Keith and his repulsive children—"Jed" and "Bart"—they expect women to do their dirty work. The cooking and cleaning. Or office work, in my case, which was probably dirtier than everything else. Then there'd be the required massaging of their frail and volatile male egos, among other things that I want to vomit just thinking about.

If "Bartholomew" ever tries touching me again, he won't like the results. It was a long car-ride from Denver to Idaho, and I was stuck in the back of a crowded van of men between him and some other guy who didn't bother to introduce himself. I was hungover and dehydrated, they all had guns, and when I demanded food and water, my cheek was pressed into the seat in front of me by the nameless asshole beside me. And I was told, only once—it was all that was required—that I'd eat when I had permission. It was Bart's "kindness" that granted it. It was the handsy sort, but he at least shared his water and half a protein bar. After the knocking around I received at the hands of others, I would have been a fool to reject the affection. 

Needless to say, the thoughts that came to my mind when Grady left were violent ones. It was the only language they seemed to speak that anyone might "hear." In size, I was no match for any of these guys, but I did consider throwing those damn dishes at their fat heads.

Before their shock became anger, I could have tried making a break for it. I had the cover of night, and if I'd been alone, it would have at least been possible to evade them without getting shot. Because of who I was and what I looked like, they might have hesitated. I've been jogging almost every day for years, and I would have taken full advantage of that.

Quinn, however, was a big snag in any hit-and-run sort of plan. She may not have known this at the time, but I wasn't leaving without her. I traveled over half the country trying to find her, and seeing it through to the end, whatever that end may have been . . . it was the least I could do. Since I . . . well . . . I won't say that I "stole" the love that was probably the purest and longest lasting for her. I'll go with acquired, and at the time, I wasn't even sure how firmly.

As devastating as it would have been to consider, one tryst did not make Grady mine. And Grady, seeing Quinn for the first time in five years, all wounded, meek, and contrite for the first time in her life . . . I wasn't sure what that would do to him. If that was the girl he asked to marry him, I bet she would have said yes, and I'm sure that did not get past him.

Perhaps I should have tried for the sake of my own heart, but I could not think less of him. He was loud in my head, and if I spent more than five consecutive seconds concentrating, I could still feel him. I'm no stranger to "sin," but this sin was, almost twenty-four hours later, still making its presence known. I could feel the ache, and even so, I'd jump on another chance to be with him in a heartbeat and would bear a shitload of pain to do so.

Although I would have tried escaping regardless, he was undeniably the fire behind my recklessness and impatience. I feared that I loved him more than he could ever love me, but I had to shove that all down. Hope was my fuel, and I needed a lot of it.

I might have tried conveying some of this to Quinn beforehand. I wanted to. I did. Really. I was ready to fess up and face the consequences and provide freedom as some form of restitution. I'd understand if she never wanted to speak to me again. I'd have no family left essentially, and that would never sit right with me, but I'd made my bed—with Grady, even if he didn't intend to stay there—and I intended to sleep there, without regret, at least as far as he's concerned. 

Quinn has always been pretty good at reading the room, but I never got the chance to say anything to her in so many words. In the short time before supper, Keith and his "welcome committee" were doing an irritatingly good job keeping us apart or interfering with any meaningful conversation.

How did I intend to get around all that and get the fuck out of there with Quinn in tow, almost literally? That foot wasn't going to get us anywhere fast. And there were dozens of people on site, possibly even more than a hundred, and my estimate kept rising as the minutes dragged on. According to Keith, they were all believers—broken people trying to "fix" themselves who only trusted Keith's word and who he put his faith in, something hard won and much appreciated.

I'd spent the whole day in a van with men who liked flaunting their newfound "strength" and touting the community's virtues, and I learned very quickly how humble I wasn't. Unless I was broken like them, they'd made it abundantly clear that I'd never have friends. The best I could hope for was a husband, and then, of course, he'd do the breaking for the good of all. That last part was never said, but it was inferred.

In terms of escape, nothing notable was coming to me in that awful mess hall. I didn't have a good sense of the building's layout, inside or out. I didn't know where everyone lived in relation to one another, or how strict and secure everything was. I wasn't sure what being Keith's stepdaughter would get me in terms of privacy or leeway, either, or the trust they'd have in my compliance. With Quinn being kept out of reach, I had no one to turn to for guidance. As far as I could tell, everyone I'd come across was just as devout as my mother, if not more so. She, at least, remembers free will. The amount of "crazy eyes" I'd seen, this was probably a reach for a lot of the others.

Trying something on day one, I was going into it pretty much blind, but it was the only time I could rely on their blind-spot for me. My mother should have known I'd try something. Maybe she would have, had she ever taken an interest in what I did outside the farmhouse, but she was more concerned about the state of my appearance when I came back.

She had no way of knowing who I turned out to be in the four years since I last saw her and was probably thrown off and pleasantly surprised that I cleaned up so well by her standards. I might have been marriage material for Bart or some other cult member after all, despite my "checkered past." But, she forgot to take into account that I'm stubborn as a mule, slow to change, and hold a mean grudge for anyone who ever crosses a line, and there's no one on earth who's crossed it more than she has. The final straw was the tuition check. The way she treated Quinn and Grady? They were the last two nails in the casket. What's dead is dead. She may be my biological mother, but there is no coming back from that.  

Since my mother was queen of that place, then weak and batshit crazy would be points in my favor. I'm not proud, but I did what needed doing and would have done anything for the slightest advantage. It makes me shudder how much I meant that.

Tears, hysterics, and threats of harm to myself seemed as good a place to start as any. I literally made myself sick. Right on the concrete floor, right in the walkway. Again, not really that hard. Not with the smell of their food still heavy in the air, and the shame and humiliation I felt for every mistake I made. How could I have been so stupid?

You're probably wondering that yourself. Did I know Camp Merit existed, and that my mother was not only involved but complicit? Would you believe me if I said I had no idea? She got married out of the blue a few years ago. All I got was a phone call months after the fact. It was some whirlwind romance at a convention, and she didn't go into detail. I didn't have enough interest or patience to ask, or the life experience to suspect the shadow that might be looming behind her. I didn't even know what kind of convention it was. 

My mother used to be fairly religious, but it wasn't anything out of the ordinary. Like almost every other stuck-up mother who had something to prove, she would drag Quinn and I to church in frilly dresses when we were too young to give her a hard time about it. Because of a few busybodies, the situation got toxic with time, and my mother always seemed at or close to the heart of any drama. Insults and snubs. Nothing more serious, as far as I can remember, but I admit, I was young and blocked a lot of it out.

When my mother made a switch to a different church, Quinn and I didn't join her, at her request. She wanted her own thing. We had a lot of other activities and responsibilities, and my father, having his own complicated relationship with religion, supported this decision. He didn't need to do anything special to keep us entertained, and still, he'd occasionally spoil us with ice cream or an outing, and that, I remember fondly. 

By the time I went to college, I'd lost track of the churches my mother tried and the reasons they failed her. I had a good sense of how petty and petulant she could be, and figured it was her fault as much as anyone else's. There was always another church in Texas, even with the bridges she burned. If the thrill of the hunt kept her out of my hair, then I thought only good could come of it.

How wrong I was. . .

My own experience with religion was unpleasant, but nothing more than that. I just didn't like being stuck indoors for a quarter of my weekend. I was bored as hell within minutes, and no matter what time of year it was, it was unbearably stuffy, and those dress ruffles always seemed to stick to me. My behavior was what you'd expect from a child who hated all the fuss. And the judgment seemed to rain down on me from everyone, even Quinn, who didn't really absorb the message, but she did put on a better show. There was always some boy watching after all. Sometimes many.

Boy crazy since birth, Quinn loved to socialize and sing her heart out in front of everyone, no fear to be found. And she had an impressively full bra at a relatively young age and barely a bulge at the waist. By twelve or thirteen, she knew exactly what she could get from this—any boy she wanted, and half the men too, if there were no consequences. But she didn't seem to realize that most of the attention was negative or not age-appropriate or church-appropriate in general.

I did what I could to cramp her style and keep her confidence in check, but it was never enough. She was a phenomenon, and it became a thing. Probably among the top five reasons why my first and only church didn't work out. I'm sure my being a quarrelsome little brat didn't help, either.

Anyway, there was a lot of talking, and a lot that swirled around my mother as well. My dad didn't join us at mass very often, and she was an undeniably beautiful woman who always seemed to prefer the company of men. I'm not sure anything ever "happened," but there were rumors that she adamantly denied. My father believed her, and that church became a history that we all assumed wouldn't repeat itself if Quinn and I stayed home.

I'm not going to excuse it, but it does, in hindsight, make sense to me, how my mother might have made the transition from something marginally conservative to something extreme. She'd go where she'd find acceptance, and it didn't come easy to her. Then she lost her husband, someone who she'd portray as some saint so that she could be the martyr. She may have gone even further off the deep end in the quest to find love, stability, and purpose again.

Keith probably entered the scene just when she thought all hope was lost. Like my mother, he allegedly lost his wife in some tragic accident as well. In their fucked-up way, they were exactly what the other needed. A controlling egomaniac gets a wounded, submissive wife with money issues who is past her prime. She was losing her home, and he provided a new one. He had obedient, unattached adult sons, and she had attractive, slightly younger daughters. Match made in heaven, right? 

With all that in mind, I hope you understand why I knew so little. I had a rough adolescence and was counting the days until my eighteenth birthday. Everyone I loved abandoned me in one way or another, and my relationship with my mother, which was never strong or secure to begin with, didn't exactly blossom. I didn't take much of an interest in her. And she didn't take much of an interest in me unless it had something to do with money or who I was dating.

She got more naggy and nitpicky with me once it became apparent that Quinn wasn't going to solve all our problems. She wasn't gaining much traction in the recording industry or marrying well, either. And the more Quinn tried, the more it backfired. Terrell was a small pool, and she did a little too much dipping. It wasn't just about the promiscuity. There were also rumors of cheating, homewrecking, and gold-digging. There came a point where any man who met her and my mother's impossibly high standards would just use her and move on. 

Grady left town first with the rodeo and wasn't one to cry about a girl to too many others. But he was well-liked, more than he'd ever admit, and how Quinn treated him did not settle well with the average folk in their acquaintance. Their mutual friends all took his side, and I can't say I blame them. I did not appreciate how I was perceived, though. It was a taint I had to carry, too. And I just dealt with it. Hostilely. I was still a minor and had no real choice. To bide my time, I played around with the dregs for a short but regrettable stint, those who didn't have the grounds to act holier than thou.

Quinn, however, was more sensitive, and grieving the loss of all kinds of things, including her good name. To water down her mistakes in a bigger pool, she decided to move to Dallas and see from there. I was gone, too, before she ever found a reason to return. Grady returned not long after, nursing a broken heart and a busted knee, hoping to use what connections he still had to make a life for himself, doing what he loved. According to him, becoming a cop was a backup plan. 

Though I had better grades and skills that might turn a profit someday, my mother didn't see it that way. She saw only the sticker price for college and didn't consider me a good investment. If Quinn was struggling doing what she was doing, then I was a complete longshot, made worse by the fact that I was never going to try very hard in the dating scene or do as I was told. I usually did the opposite.

If my mother told me to dress nice or play up my only virtue—being tall and thin—I'd wear ripped jeans and a baggy rock-band t-shirt. If there was ever a big event or a football game, I'd stay home and study. If she said go for so-and-so, a Christian boy from a good family, I'd call someone with tattoos and a rap sheet a mile long, and then obsess, all night long, about my sister's ex. Grady was like the poster boy for all the things my mother didn't want for us, which was always weird to me, because he's loyal, funny, easy to talk to, self-motivated, maddingly good-looking, and that's just amplified by the fact that he doesn't seem to realize it. Who cares if he started out life poor?

My mother wasn't always wrong. The bad boy thing is one example. But I didn't care. I wasn't going to let her be right about anything that concerned me.

That rebellious streak faded in college, but that was my own choice. I realized, I didn't have a problem with authority, convention, or nice boys. I just didn't need her defining any of it for me, and now I know I'm better off for it. I will never be what she wants me to be. Someone like her. Someone who looks to God and her husband for all the answers.

Look where that got you, you crazy bitch. . .

I wasn't going to tell her this. It would be a waste of breath. But I was going to show her, once and for all . . . this is not normal, this is not okay. You will never see either of your daughters again. I can make my peace with that. Can you?

Flatland Cavalry - Don't Have to Do This Like That

https://youtu.be/1pbIpcFBa5E