My Cult Leader Stepfather Dumped Four Yards of Concrete Over My Truck to Trap Me — Until My Daughter Pointed at His Porch
Finding Lonnie Finch, the redi-mix truck driver, was easy. He was a creature of habit, always at the same diner for lunch, his blue work shirt stained with the day’s grime.
I slid into the booth opposite him, a lukewarm coffee already in front of me. “Lonnie,” I started, “About that pour at the Purity Covenant. My truck.”
He shrugged, shoveling a spoonful of mashed potatoes into his mouth. “Orders are orders, Mara. Tobias Garman’s a good customer. Pays on time.”
“He paid you extra, didn’t he?”
Lonnie paused, chewing slowly. He wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Couple hundred bucks. Said it was for ‘special handling.’ A little something on the side for a rush job.”
“What kind of special handling?” I pressed.
He glanced around the diner, then lowered his voice. “He met me at the plant before dawn. Told me to slip two heavy metal cylinders into the aggregate drum before I loaded the cement. Said they were ‘structural testing plugs’ for a new, experimental foundation. Wanted them mixed right in.”
My heart hammered against my ribs. “Cylinders? Like what?”
“Stainless steel,” Lonnie said, shrugging. “About a foot long, six inches wide. Heavy. He taped them up good, said to keep ’em dry.” He took another bite. “Didn’t think nothing of it. Just another weird request from an old man who likes to tinker.”
He had no idea what he had really delivered.
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