Excerpt from The Prophets by Robert Jones Jr., plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Until the day Amos's words took a different turn, spoke of things that made Essie look down and Maggie lean back. Maggie immediately placed the meanness in them—toward The Two of Them, of all people!—and she gave Amos only a stern eye when she wanted to give more.

Uh huh, she thought, there it go!

"It's an old thing," she told Amos. But he didn't listen. She didn't wait around to hear another word come out of Amos' mouth. She unlocked her arm from Essie's, stood up, and marched her way back to the Big House, tall with lips curled, shadows falling down her back and light fluttering across her chest. She only looked back once and that was to let Essie see her face so she would know that it wasn't because of her.

She stopped setting the table for a moment and turned to look at the barn from the window.

"Mm," she said aloud.

Maggie suspected Essie knew about the Two of Them and never said a word. That was good, though, because some things should never be mentioned, didn't have to be, not even amongst friends. There were many ways to hide and save one's self from doom, and keeping tender secrets was one of them. It seemed to Maggie a suicidal act to make a precious thing plain. Perhaps that was because she couldn't imagine a thing—not a single thing—worth exposing herself for. Whatever she might have ever loved was taken before it even arrived. That is, until she crept up and saw those boys, who had the decency to bring with them a feeling that didn't make her want to scream.

She grabbed a rag and removed the biscuits from the oven. They browned perfectly. She tumbled them into a bowl lined with a square of linen and set the bowl on the table. She held two biscuits in her hand and squeezed until the crumbs pushed through her fingers.

She looked around the room and then back at the table again. She wondered if she had the strength to flip it over because she already knew she had the rage. She placed her hand on a corner of it and give it a little tug.

"Heavy," she mumbled to herself.

She heard the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs. She knew it was Paul because of how deliberate each step was. He'd come in the kitchen and sit at the head of the table and watch her, like her wretchedness brought him joy. He might even have the nerve to touch her or stick his tongue where it had no business being. She wished she knew a spell that could slit his throat, but alas, that would require a hands-on approach and she wasn't certain that she could take him.

"Shit."

Excerpted from The Prophets by Robert Jones, Jr.. Copyright © 2021 by Robert Jones, Jr.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.