Wife Number Seven (The Compound, #1)(60)

“She’s the sister who had the—”

“Miscarriage, yes. I’ll tell them she had another, and that my mother is too sick to help.”

“Is it safe? Will Lehi contact her husband or something?”

“No,” I said, “that’s why it’ll work. Lehi doesn’t like Kurt and vice versa. It should work fine. Besides, what you said was true. If I’m on borrowed time, what does it matter? If Jorjina is spying on me and reporting back to the prophet, then my days are already numbered.”

Porter pulled away, pushing up on his elbow and peering into my eyes. “Are. You. Sure?”

“Yes. I want to be with you, and not just for a few stolen hours. I want to fall asleep in your arms, wake up the same way. I want, even if only for twenty-four hours, to feel like I’m really yours.”

“You are mine. Always.” A single tear fell from Porter’s eye. Rather than wipe it away or get embarrassed as I’d expected, he simply pursed his lips and shrugged. There was nothing else to say.



Chapter 21

Jorjina was furious.

And panicked.

For just a moment, she knew the girl could see through her—see the truth. But not all of it. Not nearly all of it. Nevertheless, she worried that the damage was done. That she’d tipped her hand in a moment of vulnerability. She wanted to reassure her, to help her understand. To assure her that she had no intention of turning her back on Brinley for her son’s benefit.

Those days were done.

For four years, Jorjina had been forced to play a part in a ruse against the women of the compound. Each time a new helper would be assigned to her, Clarence would sit his mother down and explain the conflict at hand—what information was needed, what secrets were demanded. And for four years, she’d played her role.

But not anymore.

She was done being a pawn, done playing a part in the twisted games of her son. Done manipulating the innocent lives of those around her.

Heavenly Father did not condone manipulation. Their god did not want her to lie, to exploit, to expose the weaknesses of others. In no way did her son’s methods exemplify the role of a true prophet.

Her husband had been different. Walter Black was a true prophet, a leader who loved the members of their community and stayed true to his word, no matter the consequences to himself. He believed in the goodness of his people, in the path to celestial heaven. He walked the walk and talked the talk.

He was truly a good man. A man you could believe in, a man you could follow through the gates of Heavenly Father.

Clarence, however, was an entirely different story.

Even at the age of seven, Clarence showed signs of being selfish, manipulative, and untrustworthy. Jorjina remembered the lies he told on a daily basis, all self-serving, of course. He’d lie to his siblings and about them. He’d lie to make himself look better in his father’s eyes. And no matter the punishment, no matter how red his little bottom became from the spankings Jorjina was forced to give him, he never repented. He never learned his lesson.

He felt entitled to his lies, to his abhorrent behavior . . . after all, he was the oldest son of the prophet. And at an early age, the very bright boy had learned that he would, in time, take over that role for his father. In time, the entire compound of ten thousand residents would be under his advisement, under his control.

When Clarence turned twelve years old, Jorjina discovered that he’d been stealing from not only his parents, but from the other sister wives and children as well. While completing routine house cleaning, Jorjina had decided to rearrange the storage in her sons’ bedroom. Clarence shared a room with two of his younger brothers, but had claimed the majority of the closet as his own. When Jorjina accidentally dropped a pair of socks on the floor of the closet, the lid of a large shoebox was nudged open, and her eyes widened in disbelief.

When she knelt down and opened the box fully, she discovered hundreds of dollars in cash, house keys, watches, prayer books, and several small diaries stolen from his sisters. Jorjina was aghast at the selfish and sneaky behavior of her son. The thought of him becoming prophet ran chills down her spine. And so she confronted Walter.

“He can’t be your successor. He just can’t.” She held the open box for Walter to inspect. After sifting through the stolen belongings, he closed his eyes tightly and sighed.

“I’m afraid there’s nothing to be done. He’s the oldest. It’s the way of our community. My hands are tied.”

“What about Paul? He’s a good boy. Or Joseph . . . either one of them would be adequate for the job.”

Walter’s forehead wrinkled in consternation. Jorjina knew he agreed with her, that Clarence was not capable of truly leading the people of their faith. But he expected her to keep sweet, to force her emotions down below the surface. He told her that when the time came, he would confer with Heavenly Father and make the proper decision.

Ten years later, however, he died suddenly without ever telling his sons, or Jorjina, who his successor would be.

In accordance with tradition, Clarence had assumed the role of prophet a mere two minutes after his father was pronounced dead at the local hospital. Jorjina had wailed as she clutched her husband, taken entirely too soon. But when she looked up at Clarence, tears clouding her eyes, she didn’t see any sign that her son was in mourning. Instead she saw a twitch of satisfaction in his expression. It didn’t surprise her, but it sickened her just the same.