The Virtue of Sin

by Shannon Schuren

  Still, even the strongest people need support. That’s why every day, Naomi invites someone called a deprogrammer to visit us, along with Sarah and sometimes Abraham. Those aren’t actually their names, but we call them that. It’s easier for all of us, especially Rachel, who sometimes has second thoughts about leaving our old home. And Jacob. I can’t tell if knowing he defied Daniel to choose her as his wife makes leaving him behind easier, or harder. It’s possible she doesn’t know either.

  As I tiptoe around her on my way to the stairs, Naomi stirs but doesn’t wake. In sleep, her face is peaceful and unmarred by the perpetual worry lines she acquires upon waking. Daniel liked to surround himself with beautiful women, just like Phoebe said. My mother, my teacher, Naomi, Susanna. But they were also strong women. I wonder if he realized that? My mother, a survivor of abuse, who taught me to sing and to use my voice, even though she couldn’t find hers in the same way. Naomi, who found a second chance at life and happiness after New Jerusalem. Phoebe, who was brave enough to teach us to be strong, even if she thought she wasn’t. Susanna, I have a harder time being generous with. But she always spoke her mind. Who knows what she would have become, away from Daniel’s manipulation? Did he recognize their strength? Was that part of the attraction? Or maybe he saw their light and couldn’t help but try to snuff it out.

  I glance out the front window as I pass through the living room. The news van is still parked outside, the crew ready to spring out at the first sign of life from inside. They all want to know more about the person they call Prophet Howe. That’s his other name. And mine, or so they say. I suppose it’s fitting. As in, how did we ever believe anything he said? How did he fool so many of us for so long? How could we ever have thought he was a living prophet?

  I slip out through the patio doors, to the back deck above the beach. I love this time of day, when sunrise colors our view from inky grays to light pastels. The reporters aren’t allowed to come back here, and so this is where I retreat when I need to be alone. If I could still pray, this is where I’d do it. After sixteen years, it’s a hard habit to break. But I can’t seem to separate God from Daniel in my head. Maybe it’s because only one of them was there to begin with. Because that was how Daniel wanted it.

  Still, every day I walk down the wooden stairs and onto the sand, out to where the spray salts my face and the water rinses my feet clean. I stay until the roar drives all the bad dreams from my head, and the wind has dried my tears. And each day I get a little bit closer to finding faith again, in things like love and kindness and friendship.

  But not God. And not just because he let Caleb die.

  Caleb shot Daniel in the shoulder. In the ensuing chaos, someone knocked over a candelabra, setting the Chapel on fire. For a long time, this was all I knew. Abraham and Aaron grabbed Rachel and me, hustled us into the van along with Sarah, and drove us out of the city.

  Later, Aaron told me the rest. By the time the FBI raided the city, Daniel and Susanna had fled. Marcus saw them running down Zzyzx Road, on the wrong side of the fence. He said he called out to his wife, but she never looked back. The firefighters thought they’d managed to put out the fire without any casualties, until they found Caleb’s body in the charred wreckage. At first, it was believed he’d been overcome by smoke, but there was evidence of a gunshot. Most likely self-inflicted.

  Naomi says there are degrees of love. It’s not all or nothing. It doesn’t have to be all-consuming, like the adoration Daniel demanded. What might Caleb and I have been to each other, if left to our own decisions? Certainly, there were feelings between us. An attraction that felt like heat lightning. Out here, it’s okay to spend time with someone, even if you’re not sure you love them. Kiss them, even. Try to get to know them, learn what’s in their heart. Show them what’s in yours. Out here, no one gets married just because someone says your name.

  But we never got that chance, and I mourn that loss almost as much as I mourn him.

  When I turn, Aaron is watching me from the bottom of the staircase. He comes most days, too, but usually not so early.

  I wipe my tears with my sleeve, then study his face as he approaches. I can read him well; our fake marriage has supplied me this benefit. “Something’s happened,” I say, when he gets closer.

  He grimaces and shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans, and something jingles there—coins or keys. “I’ve spoken to your mother,” he says.

  I wrap my arms around myself, to guard against the chill, and turn my face toward the sea. “And?”

  “She’s still adamant that this is all a misunderstanding. She thinks Daniel will come back, and when he does, he’ll explain everything. Until then, she’s not leaving New Jerusalem.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” Aaron has been trying to convince her to come Out—to come here. To be with me. But as always, I come second to Daniel. Even when he’s gone.

  “Don’t be too hard on her,” Aaron says. “She’s not the only one. I’d say about half the Elders have refused to leave, and so far, most of their families have stayed, too. He had so much control over them, for so many years, they find it difficult to make decisions without him. New Jerusalem—and Daniel’s law—is all they know. It’s not uncommon in these kinds of situations.”

  I wish I could say my heart holds forgiveness for my mother, but I haven’t been able to wholly accept what she did to me. Her life before New Jerusalem was even worse than anything I’d imagined. Her father—my grandfather—was a monster. But she ran from him straight into the arms of another monster. And stayed. Had his child. Swallowed his lies. Even if she thought she was doing right, how did she justify keeping so many secrets? Turning a blind eye to so many of his faults? Trapping me there? All in the name of her so-called belief.

  Aaron says that’s called playing God.

  My mother would say keeping faithful.

  I don’t have a word for it. I just know it hurts.

  “It’s a hard transition. But it will get easier,” he says. “Have a little faith.”

  I give a small snort of laughter. Aaron rarely has anything positive to say about religion. It’s one of the reasons I’m so grateful for his company these days. He understands what we’ve gone through like few people can.

  He sighs. “Eventually, she’ll have to leave. They all will. Daniel used the land in commission of his crimes, so the government will seize it.”

  “Seize it? What does that mean?”

  “It’s a process. There’s paperwork that has to be filed. Lots of governmental red tape.” He squints into the sun, and I wonder if he can see the gates as clearly as I can, wrapped in red and tied up in a bow. “It’s better if it happens slowly,” he continues, “if they have time to convince everyone to leave on their own. If they have to throw them off the property, things can get ugly.”

  “And then what? The government just gets to keep it? The land?” While I don’t care if I never see New Jerusalem again, I also don’t like the idea of a bunch of strangers taking over and living there.

  “Not exactly. What they really want is for Daniel to stand trial. So they’ll give notice they’re going to take the compound. Which means Daniel then has thirty days to come out of hiding and file an appeal if he wants to keep the property.” He pauses, and looks at the water with me for a moment. “Him . . . or his heirs. As his offspring, you have the right to file a claim, too.”

  “How many of us are his . . . offspring?” This question has plagued me since we left. How many of my so-called Brothers and Sisters are actually my blood?

  “We don’t know. It’s possible that was part of why he was trying so hard to manipulate the marriages—he didn’t want any of you married to your siblings.”

  This thought brings the sour taste of bile up my throat.

  “We’ll do DNA tests to be sure,” Aaron continues. “Phoebe says she’s been his only lover for many years. If that’s tr
ue, it could be he was trying to avoid having the same . . . complications he did, early on.”

  The same mistakes, he means. “But then how come Phoebe never had any children?”

  Aaron kicks at the sand. “Maybe she couldn’t. Or maybe . . . she didn’t want them. You’ll see, out here, how much is possible. Not everyone wants to get married or have children.” There is so much I have yet to learn, sometimes it makes me dizzy. But for now, I drop the subject.

  “So if we did what you said—filed a claim,” I ask instead. “Then New Jerusalem would belong to us? Me and Rachel?”

  He shrugs. “The rest of his family is dead. His parents divorced when he was young. His mom had custody; his dad moved to Zzyzx and started that scam of a health resort. When he died, Daniel inherited the land. That’s when he moved the cult out there. You know the rest.”

  It’s a lot to take in. Especially if I think about the fact that this isn’t just Daniel’s family he’s talking about, but mine. I shake my head. “I can’t go back there.”

  “You don’t have to. This will all be tied up in court for years. Assuming they catch him. Which they will,” Aaron reassures me quickly. “You don’t have to make any decisions now.” It’s something the other adults tell me every day. “But when you’re ready—”

  I finish the sentence for him. “The choices are all mine.”

  He takes my hand, his warmth staving off the chill of the morning, steadying me, the way his friendship does. Together we watch the ocean. It’s more beautiful, more dangerous, more everything, than I ever pictured. Vast like the desert, but where the desert was stagnant, placid, submissive, the sea is demanding. The waves pound the rocks on shore, constantly pushing, constantly challenging their right to exist. The two extremes are a part of me—who I was and who I have become.

  This world outside is nothing like I imagined, and more than I ever dreamt.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This book is about the power of voice and the strength of women. And the truth is, this book would not exist without the support and counsel of three amazing women:

  My critique partner, Linda Davis, who read this manuscript approximately fifty-seven times without complaint, pushed me to keep going when I threatened to quit, and very calmly steered me to the right ending when I lost my way. I am forever grateful.

  My agent, Barbara Poelle, who from our very first phone call has been a fierce supporter, advocate, champion, coach, therapist, and fighter. How do you thank someone for handing you your dreams? Without her, none of this is possible.

  And my editor, Liza Kaplan, who is a genius, and whose attention to detail and ability to see inside my brain are both uncanny and unparalleled. She has a gift—she is a gift—and I am so honored that she chose this story, and so grateful for how she’s strengthened it.

  I am eternally grateful to the whole Philomel phamily, including Ken Wright, Jill Santopolo, Talia Benamy, Ellice Lee, and Jenny Chung. Thank you to Dana Li, Kristin Boyle, Lizzie Goodell, Kim Ryan, and the entire team at Penguin Young Readers.

  I have been surrounded by strong women all my life. For better or for worse, they have all taught me to be brave and speak my mind, and for that I am thankful, especially to my mom and my stepmom, and before them, both my grandmothers. I only wish the latter two were still here to tell their stories.

  Thanks to my dad, who first introduced me to Kahlil Gibran. And politics. I like to imagine he’d be proud of what I’ve done with that. I miss him every day.

  I am graced with many friends who are always willing to offer encouragement—and wine! And who never stop believing in me. (Even after reading early drafts of this book!) Special thanks to Eric Gorshe, Katie Styra, Traci Hiebing, Tiffani Trumm, Stacey Rice, Alyssa Ziegler, and Tina Beining. It’s no coincidence that most of you fit into the strong women category, too!

  To my Hot Mamas—Cory, Melissa, Nannette, Jenny, Mindy, and Stacy—thanks for all the fun and laughter and bad Spice Girls renditions. No one has a bigger voice than we do!

  I am indebted to authors Kathi Appelt and Todd Strasser, who offered early critiques of the opening pages—through the Adventures in YA Publishing blog and SCBWI, respectively—and gave me much-needed advice and encouragement.

  A big thank-you to my kids, Emma, Arianna, and Cameron, who are and will always be my greatest inspiration. You make me want to be all and do all. Instead, I wrote this book.

  And finally, Josh—I am grateful for so many things, but mostly thank you for being the strong and steady guiding force in my life. When I told you I was thinking about writing a book, you didn’t even blink. You just bought me a laptop. If that’s not love, I don’t know what is.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Shannon Schuren (shannon.schuren.org) works as a children's librarian at a public library and writes from a cozy she-shed in her backyard. Her short stories have appeared in various journals such as Toasted Cheese Literary Journal, Big Pulp, and Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. Shannon lives in Sheboygan Falls, WI, with her husband and three children. Follow her on Twitter @shannonschuren.

  What’s next on

  your reading list?

  Discover your next

  great read!

  Get personalized book picks and up-to-date news about this author.

  Sign up now.