Just Keep Sweet (The Compound Series)

by Melissa Brown

  “You scared me, Mama.”

  “What on earth are you doing?” Aspen demanded, crossing the room to leave only inches between herself and her daughter.

  “Um . . .” Ruthie looked away, her long brunette braid draped over her shoulder. “Father asked me to find something.”

  “To find what?” Aspen crossed her arms.

  “He, um . . . he didn’t say . . . exactly. Just . . . something.”

  “Ruth Margaret,” she snapped, grabbing her daughter’s left wrist. “How dare you snoop through my belongings? I should whoop you right here and now.”

  “I’m sorry, Mama, I—please don’t tell Papa. Please don’t tell him I was here.”

  “How stupid do you think I am?” Aspen sneered, peering down at her daughter, who avoided her prying stare. “Look . . . at . . . me.”

  “I don’t, I swear it.”

  “Who really sent you, Ruthie? You’d better tell me now, because if your father tells me he knows nothing of this, I will spank you so hard your head will spin.”

  “Fine!” Ruthie held up one hand, pressing her eyes tight. “It was the prophet.”

  “Excuse me?” Aspen’s stomach lurched and her throat burned. “When did he ask you to do this? When were you alone with him? When, Ruthie, when?”

  “We were never alone, Mama, I swear it.”

  “Were you in his house?” The idea of him putting his hands on her baby was more than Aspen could handle. Visions of that horrific bed in the temple spun threw her brain. Feeling lightheaded, she steadied herself with the corner of her dresser. “Ruthie, I want answers, and I want them this instant.”

  “After temple on Sunday . . . I promise, Mama. You took Jeremiah to the bathroom, and he pulled me aside to ask a favor. He gave me a cookie and we spoke for just a few minutes.”

  “A cookie?”

  “Yes, the butter ones that I love so much. Remember, I’d already taken two . . . and you said that was enough . . . to leave more for the other children. Well, he thought I’d like another.”

  “So, you betrayed me for what? For him? For a silly cookie?”

  The very daughter I’m trying to save is spying on me? Betrayal of the highest order. And for what? To please Clarence? To have an extra dessert she knew I wouldn’t allow?

  “No, it’s not like that, Mama. I swear. He’s planning a gift, a tribute to you.”

  “A tribute?”

  Lies. Nothing but lies and manipulation . . . and she’s too young, too wrapped around his little finger to understand.

  “Yes. He said if I could find a journal . . . a diary, something where you shared your thoughts, that he could properly know his future mother-in-law better.”

  “And you believe that?” she scoffed, her hands crossed over her chest.

  “Of course. He’s the prophet, Mama.”

  “You listen to me. There is no journal, no diary. But even if there was, your loyalty should remain to your family, not to the prophet.”

  “But that’s not true,” Ruthie said, placing her hands on her hips. “You’ve always taught me that the prophet comes first. Prophet, then parents, then siblings. You’ve said that hundreds of times, Mama. Maybe thousands!”

  It was true. Children were taught to pledge their absolute loyalty to Clarence Black . . . their love, their devotion. And as a devoted member of the FLDS, Aspen made sure her children especially followed the expectations of his holy word.

  And now it was backfiring in a big way.

  “You’re right,” Aspen muttered, breaking their eye contact. Her voice caught in her throat, and she cursed herself for allowing her vulnerability to show.

  “But this?” she continued. “Spying on your own mother? This is too much. Too much.”

  Ruthie rolled her eyes and a deep rumble of anger formed in Aspen’s gut.

  “Did you just roll your eyes?”

  “I was just doing what I was told!” Ruthie snapped at her mother, stomping her foot. “You’re just jealous.”

  Aspen’s lower lip dropped open. “What did you just say to me?”

  “He picked me! He never picked you . . . and you’re jealous. Marrying the prophet is the highest honor any girl can have, and you never had it. That’s why you can’t be happy for me!”

  Aspen grabbed Ruthie by the ear, and the girl cried out in pain.

  “Ow, Mama, you’re hurting me!”

  Aspen pulled her by the sensitive flesh of her ear, dragging her to her bedroom. “You have no idea what you’re talking about, you clueless little girl.”

  Once they’d reached the girl’s bedroom, Aspen released Ruthie, who clutched both hands to her scarlet skin. “You’ve pushed me too far, Ruthie. Stay here until I give you permission to leave. Do you understand?”

  With fresh tears streaming down her cheeks, Ruthie threw herself on her bed, clutching her baby-pink comforter, and screaming into her pillow.

  “Answer me,” Aspen snapped.

  Ruthie raised her face from the pillow and nodded before pressing it back into the cotton fabric. Infuriated, Aspen slammed the door and stalked back to her bedroom. In haste, she locked the door and slid to the floor, placing her hand over her mouth, willing the tears to stay inside her burning eyes, still in shock over her daughter’s words. How could Ruthie possibly think Aspen was jealous of her situation?

  Because she’s eleven years old, that’s why.

  Because she doesn’t know anything else.

  And because you’ve taught her well . . . too well.

  The paper inside her pocket crinkled, and she remembered the note from the prophet. Quickly, she removed the envelope from her pocket, ripping it open. Her tears blurred her vision, but she could recognize the distinct penmanship of the prophet. The exact penmanship in the ledger she’d found in his office.

  Dear Aspen,

  I’m quite bored these days. It’s true. I searched and searched my brain until I realized why . . . with my possession of your phone, our delightful cat-and-mouse game comes to a screeching halt, now doesn’t it? And so I’m returning your phone, charged and ready. Let’s begin again, shall we?

  Sincerely,

  C

  PS: Give my regards to the detective . . . I’m sure he misses you greatly.

  Her breath caught as she studied the callous note.

  Bored? He was bored? Aspen was paranoid, tormented by his power over her life and that of her children, frightened by his ability to take her daughter from her, and he was bored?

  You son of a bitch.

  No longer concerned about the profanity spewing from her brain, she searched the contacts in her phone until she found Jonathan. His name had been changed to “Your little detective friend.” She shook her head as the phone rang again and again until finally he answered.

  Chapter 5

  Forlorn and defeated, Holly hung her head and walked back home. She knew he’d be waiting for her, most likely indulging in the latest sweets provided by one of the wives lucky enough to be assigned to kitchen duty rather than the laundry.

  Oh how she hated the laundry.

  The prophet’s home was enormous—estimated at 20,000 square feet. The entire basement was used as a laundromat for his equally enormous family. Holly herself was only blessed with two children, but the other three dozen wives had no less than five each and several of them had ten or more. The home was literally bursting at the seams with children . . . and those children wore clothes. Lots and lots of clothes.

  Holly’s job was to wash those clothes. Every last one of them.

  Shocked didn’t begin to describe her sentiment when Clarence walked through the double doors of the laundry earlier that afternoon. Holly was daydreaming while ironing and starching his shirts and so she didn’t notice him at first. When he cleared his throat, she jumped, startled by his presence. Rather than apologize for frightening her, the prophet let out a devilish chuckle at her expense.

  She loathed him.

  She knew the feeling was mutual�
��after being unable to give him more than two children, Clarence had banished her from his bedroom and sent her to work in the laundry room. Permanently. Years ago, when her daughter was very young, she used to read her a fairy tale called Cinderella. Back then, Holly never imagined how much her own life would mirror that of the story. Only, there was no fairy godmother to rescue her, no fancy ball to attend, and certainly no prince to rescue her from her role in the family. She was a realist who knew her place. But other than time spent cuddled with her two children, her daydreams were her only respite from her inferior existence in the house of the prophet. Sometimes she dreamed she lived outside their compound, away from the clutches of Clarence Black, with just herself and her two children. She’d watch television, listen to music, maybe even visit a bar, meet a man, maybe even fall in love . . .

  Wake up, you silly woman. Your husband is here, and he’s here for a reason.

  “I have a job for you, Holly.” Condescension dripped from his voice whenever he lowered himself to actually address her. Normally, he had his first wife do his bidding, so Holly knew this was important, special, since he wanted to give the instructions himself.

  “Yes, sir.” She set the iron down and turned the switch to off. One last billow of steam was released from the blazing metal and Holly wiped the damp heat from her forehead.

  I’ll do anything to leave this wretched room.

  “You’re familiar with Paul’s wife Aspen.”

  It wasn’t a question, and a shot of adrenaline zoomed through Holly’s abdomen. Did he know of her discussion with Aspen months prior, outside the temple? It wouldn’t surprise her if he did . . . he knew everything. Always.

  “Yes, sir.” She nodded, swallowing hard.

  “I need you to deliver something.” He reached into his pocket and retrieved an iPhone, the newest model. Several of Clarence’s wives were gifted this newest bit of technology while Holly was given one of their old flip phones. When Holly asked Janine if she could be given one like the others, Janine sneered and reminded her she was lucky to have a phone at all. And that conversation came to a screeching halt.

  Clarence placed the phone on the table before him. He then reached into his pocket once again and pulled an envelope from his starched khaki trousers. The very trousers she spent hours ironing every week. “And see that she gets this as well.”

  “I will.”

  Clarence raised one wicked eyebrow, the hollows of his cheeks were expanding, and despite his never-ending appetite for sweets, he was thinner than the last time she’d spoken to him. Most of the other men on the compound seemed to grow large, distended bellies, but not Clarence Black. No, he remained thin despite his insatiable sweet tooth.

  “You must deliver these directly to Aspen, do you understand? Don’t leave it with one of the other useless wives.”

  “Not even your brother?”

  Clarence sneered, “Especially not him. That fool would lose his head if it wasn’t attached. No, only Aspen, do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir. I understand.”

  And so, she’d done what was expected of her. She delivered the phone she secretly coveted. Noting that it was fully charged, she explored the various applications that her device didn’t have. A camera? E-mail?

  Part of her wanted to keep the phone . . . secretly, telling no one. Aspen would believe her phone was never found, and the prophet would think she’d delivered it as promised. Then she remembered that moment she spent with Aspen months before, and how she wished her no ill will or harm. She knew Aspen deserved to have the phone.

  And so she delivered it. In true form, she managed to say too much, insinuating the worst about her husband. The Aspen she conversed with at the temple had an edge, and opinions waiting to be expressed. But this Aspen was different—closed off, quiet, distrustful.

  Has Clarence tainted her view of me? Is that why he sent me? To let me know I am unequivocally and irrevocably alone?

  That thought made her shiver.

  Clarence’s fork pierced the cherry cheesecake as he sat at the grand dining room table only he and seven of his chosen wives were allowed to use during meal times. Holly approached the table, wiping the damp strands of hair away from her sticky forehead.

  “Did you do as you were told?” he asked, his elbow pressed into the oak table, the fork hovering above the plate as he waited for her answer. She nodded in response.

  He took a bite, closing his eyes as he chewed, something he did when a dessert was especially decadent. The wait was awkward . . . and excruciating. Holly tapped her foot softly against the wood and yearned to be away from him. For once, she craved the solitude of the laundry.

  After several seconds, he placed the fork on the table and wiped the corners of his mouth with a cloth napkin. Clarence demanded cloth at all times, saying that paper napkins were for commoners, not the mouthpiece of God. Holly had another theory on his preference for cloth napkins at each meal and snack he put to his lips.

  Something else for me to launder.

  Of course she didn’t believe Clarence gave her much thought, much less chose his napkins in order to torture her. Perhaps he was just that diabolical, just that vindictive to do whatever he could to keep her as busy and as miserable as possible in that hot and muggy basement of his.

  “Good,” he said before stabbing the cake once again.

  Holly tapped her feet against the hardwood floor. “May I be excused?”

  “In a moment.” He chewed, then asked a question she didn’t expect. “How did she seem?”

  “Aspen?”

  “Yes.” He nodded with narrowed eyes. “Was she anxious? Upset?”

  Interesting question. If Aspen had lost the phone and was eager for its return, wouldn’t the prophet have anticipated relief or joy?

  Of course not. Clarence Black never anticipates joy . . . not for anyone other than himself, that is.

  “She was . . . reserved,” Holly answered honestly. She could think of no other way to describe Aspen’s stoic manner on the other side of the gate.

  Clarence pulled his head back in obvious surprise. “Oh?”

  “Well,” Holly hesitated, realizing Clarence was none too pleased to hear of Aspen’s lack of emotion. “She seemed pleased to have her phone and asked that I relay her thanks.”

  Clarence gritted his teeth, and Holly wrinkled her forehead in surprise.

  You wanted her to be upset, didn’t you? You horrible man. Why doesn’t everyone see what I see in you? Are they blind or simply too afraid?

  Quickly, Clarence curved his lips into an awkward half smile, attempting to mask his obvious frustration with Aspen’s reaction. Holly knew this was her opportunity to pour salt into the wound and out of a desperate need to feel something, anything other than despair, she made the decision to pour that salt . . . and to enjoy it.

  “I was quite surprised, actually. She didn’t bat an eyelash when I handed her the letter. Most people are overwhelmed with excitement when they receive word from the prophet. But Aspen was . . . what’s the word?” She tapped her index finger against her chin for dramatic effect. “Unimpressed.”

  She knew that word would do the most damage. She knew it in her gut. Clarence always expected to make an impression. Always.

  The prophet pressed his lips into a thin line, and Holly could see the rise and fall of his chest increase with each passing second. She knew it was wrong to enjoy getting a rise out of her husband, but there wasn’t much for her to look forward to in life. Sometimes she had to seize the day.

  “I suppose she was just busy watching the children in the yard.” Holly continued, “Must have had other duties on her mind.”

  “I see.”

  “I’ll leave you to your snack.” Holly offered a sickly sweet smile before turning on her heel.

  “Not so fast,” Clarence snapped, and Holly turned back to face him. “I have another job for you.”

  “You do?” Holly asked, her heart raced as her husband bared his tee
th.

  You’ve pushed him too far and now he’s going to punish you, you stupid, stupid woman. Why did you have to push so hard? Why can’t you fall in line?

  He licked his lips and pushed his plate away, sinking both elbows into the table and joining his hands together in a peak, pressing them both to his chin. His smile was loaded with toxic derision as he tilted his head to the side.

  “Oh yes, Holly, dear. I most certainly do.”

  Chapter 6

  “You’re obsessing.” Elizabeth rolled her eyes over lunch. I’d checked my phone three times since we’d ordered our food, still waiting on word from Aspen. “Why don’t you just go to the compound?”

  “I can’t. I have to be patient. She’ll call, I know it.”

  “What if she doesn’t? You’ll never stop wondering.”

  She was right. Since my last call from Aspen three weeks ago, I’d worked on four other cases. Three of them were pretty open and shut and didn’t call for too much brain power. The fourth was still open and kept my days busy, but whenever possible my mind wandered to Aspen, to her children and to all the other children whom I assumed were sitting ducks under the influence of the self-proclaimed prophet.

  “You’re too attached,” she said, pouring her dressing over her salad once it arrived. I popped a french fry into my mouth and shrugged her off. “I mean it, Jon. If I didn’t know you better, I’d think you were hung up on this girl.”

  “That’s ridiculous.” I shook my head and reached for the ketchup bottle. I’d hesitated to share the details of the case with Elizabeth knowing she’d see that there was more to my concern than simply being an officer of the law. No. I cared about this one, possibly more than I should. I told myself that if Aspen wasn’t beautiful, headstrong, or stubborn I’d care just as much, but I knew that would be a lie. Elizabeth knew it too. God, I hated she knew me so damn well. “I just want to protect her, that’s all. Going up against a powerful fucker like this is scary. I can’t imagine what’s going through her head, and I just want to be there to help her out.”