Joan escaped her terrorist mother at fourteen, and didn't know what an "ordinary" life was until she settled in Tabor Heights, seeking the baby sister their mother tried to kill one summer. After four years, she had made a new life, and refused to run away and start over, no matter how many threats came breathing down her neck. She had friends now, and she wasn't going to let anyone hurt them or drive her away from them.
After a series of catastrophes brought her to the breaking point, she received an invitation to visit Quarry Hall, home of the Arc Foundation, and run by a man who claimed to be her father. Joan went to see what he had to say. And despite all her self-preservation instincts, she grew to want to be part of Quarry Hall. But did she dare let go all her secrets, her pain, her shame? It wasn't that she couldn't believe in God -- but could God believe in her? BUY THE eBOOK *** READ THE EXCERPT
What kind of villain used twine to tie up his
Joan's wrists itched from the fibers as she hobbled down the
aisle between tall metal shelves full of grimy crates and packing boxes, and
gave another experimental tug with her wrists bound behind her back. A sharp
sensation flashed up her arm, followed by warm wet. Either sweat, or she had cut
herself with the effort. She was betting on blood, because she had sat for four
hours in a dark, grimy storage shed, sweating. The only thing that kept it from
being a sweatbox straight out of a prison break movie was that it was made of
plastic, not metal. All the time she sat there, no one had asked her any
questions. She could have been another crate stored in the shed, for all the
attention her captors paid her.
That was about to end, obviously. She
would have preferred that they had put a hood over her head, but maybe that was
a waste of time, since she had seen three of them. They didn't care what she
saw, meaning they could keep her quiet and unable to use what she knew against
The man leading the way opened a door at the end of the shadowy
aisle. Joan guessed the room was a pre-fabricated module, meant for dividing up
large spaces to make them usable. All that mattered was that this room sat near
the center of the warehouse. The man walking behind her grabbed her shoulder and
half-guided, half-shoved her into the room. She stumbled, but the man who went
in first, the beardless, taller one of the two, caught her. He copped a feel
before pivoting her around, shoving her into a chair in the corner.
sat in the other corner, hands bound behind him, his ankles tied to the battered
wood-and-metal-tube chair with the same brown twine her captors had used on
Joan. From the sweat and grime marking his face, darkening his clothes, matting
his hair, he had been given the same temporary storage shed treatment. He had
some bruises on his face and his bared arms, but no other signs of rough
treatment. What was happening now, that they were brought together?
eyes asked a thousand questions, but he didn't say anything.