My Cult Leader Stepfather Dumped Four Yards of Concrete Over My Truck to Trap Me — Until My Daughter Pointed at His Porch
Darkness had fully settled over the compound, a thick, moonless blanket. The air was cool, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth. I slipped through the back orchard, a hand trowel tucked into my belt, my heart thudding a nervous rhythm against my ribs.
I reached the porch foundation, the concrete still soft enough to be easily worked. The high-dose retarder Tobias had ordered meant I didn’t need heavy equipment, just patience.
I knelt, digging the trowel into the grey sludge around where the batch tag had emerged. The work was slow, methodical. My fingers, accustomed to the gritty feel of aggregates, guided the blade.
After nearly an hour, the trowel scraped against something hard, metallic. I pushed more concrete aside, slowly uncovering a cylindrical shape. It was exactly as Lonnie had described: a foot long, six inches wide, heavy steel.
My breath hitched. I leveraged it free, the concrete clinging to its sides. It was sealed tight, but the end cap had a small, threaded plug. With a twist, it came open.
Inside, carefully wrapped in oilskin, was a stack of crisp, clean banknotes. Hundreds. Thousands. My hands trembled as I counted. One hundred and ten thousand dollars.
Beneath the money, nestled tightly, were twenty-two small, rigid cards. They were Canadian permanent resident application cards. Each one stamped with a different name, a different photo. Each face, young and innocent, was a child from the Purity Covenant compound.
More Stories
+ There are no comments
Add yours