Chapter 1

Albert Thompson has gone full-on senile. One afternoon he shuffles into the kitchen, grinning like a kid with a secret, and dumps an entire bottle of paraquat into the braised beef his wife, Margaret Thompson, has been braising all morning.

I catch the sharp chemical stink the second I walk in. Heart hammering, I snatch the pot and dump every last piece of that poisoned meat down the sink before anybody can touch it.

Margaret finds out an hour later. Grabbing the ladle, she swung it at my face, screaming, "You'll rot in hell for wasting food! You good-for-nothing bitch!"

My husband, James Thompson, comes home sunburned and filthy from the fields. The second Margaret tells him what I've done, he hits me hard.

He hissed, "You wasteful cunt. You ever pull that shit again, I swear to God I'll gut you myself and toss you in the stew next time."

He beats me till the baby I am carrying slips out of me. One of his kicks snaps my shin clean in half. I will never walk right again.

After that, Margaret decides I am cursed, unable to give her a grandson. So, she sells my daughter to some traffickers for money. Then she tells the whole holler I am too worthless to look after my own kid. They throw me out like trash.

Middle of winter, snow up to my knees, crutches sinking in the drifts, I go looking for my daughter anyway. I freeze to death on some back road nobody bothers plowing.

Then, my eyes snap open, and I'm right back where it all went wrong. It's the day Albert empties an entire bottle of paraquat into the stew.

*****

The moment consciousness flooded back, a wave of foul, earthy stench hit my nose, mixed with the faintly teasing aroma of slow-braised beef.

"Pour water. Drink. Pour water. Drink. So good. So good."

Out in front of the main room, Albert Thompson was hunched over like a broken scarecrow, half-squatting on the dirt floor. His gnarled hands clutched that familiar dark-green bottle of paraquat as he tipped it into the nearly empty soy sauce jug.

He grinned, his clouded eyes swimming with innocent ignorance, mumbling to himself.

That familiar scene slammed into me, stealing my breath. I was back. I had been reborn.

Late fall sunshine glared down, sharp and unforgiving. Margaret Thompson was probably out by the big oak at the edge of the holler, gossiping with the neighbors. She would be back soon to grab bread and trade for beef to make supper.

In my past life, that night was the one time she made her famous braised beef.

Albert, lost in his dementia, dumped the whole bottle of poison right into it. Terrified the whole family would eat it and die, I poured every bit down the drain.

My husband, James Thompson, came home sweaty and caked in field dirt. The minute Margaret told him, he beat me black and blue. "You worthless trash. You do that again, and I swear I'll carve you up and throw you in the pot myself."

He didn't stop until he kicked the baby right out of me. One brutal boot shattered my leg. I became a slave in my own home, doing laundry, feeding hogs, stitching until my fingers bled, and wiping Albert's ass.

And in the end, they sold my daughter, Sadie Thompson, to human traffickers. They framed me for it, kicked me out, and left me to die in the snow.

The memory burned like bile. I spun around and bolted into the east bedroom. My hands knew the way, straight to the pillowcase where Margaret hid her stash. I yanked out a crumpled wad of bills.

I didn't waste time counting it. I shoved the cash into my pocket and stumbled toward the door, desperate to get to my girl.

Sadie was boarding at the county middle school these days. Last life, she aced her exams and got into the top high school, a real future awaiting her.

Margaret had pulled her out of class, pretending to be a loving grandmother, only to hand her over to traffickers like a piece of livestock.

"Potty... It hurts."

I barely made it to the threshold when Albert shuffled up, tossing the poison bottle aside. His bony hand clamped onto my arm like a vise.

He squatted awkwardly, pointing at his crotch.

His coarse trousers were soaked dark. Yellow sludge oozed down his leg, the stench assaulting my senses.

My stomach heaved.

In my previous life, I swallowed my resentment. Margaret always forced me to clean him while she sat idle.

"Emily, we're family," she said. "Blood's thicker than water. Albert and I treated you like our real daughter. What kind of daughter ignores her sick daddy?"

I resented it, but like they say, you marry a man, you follow where he leads. I had no say.

Snapping back, I eyed the half-empty soy jug and the paraquat bottle on the ground. A twisted idea bloomed in my mind.

"Now, don't throw bottles around! Put them away, nice and neat. Then we handle the potty. Otherwise, Margaret will come back and spank you. Spank!"

I forced a smile, just like always, using Margaret to scare him.

Albert was essentially a toddler. He only feared Margaret.

Sure enough, ignoring the mess in his pants, he panicked like a kid caught red-handed. Glancing around to make sure she wasn't there, he shoved the soy jug back on the stove shelf.

He dug a quick hole in the dirt floor, buried the poison bottle, and patted it down.

I pointed to the east room and slipped him a couple of coins. "Go clean up and change your pants, or Margaret'll whoop you good."

His sunken eyes darted toward the room. He hesitated.

"If you don't change, the poop will grow worms," I whispered, pointing to the thick stick hanging on the wall. "And then Margaret will really hit you."

He scurried off to the room, plopped on Margaret's bed, and fumbled with his soiled overalls.

I slipped out the door while he was distracted.