My heart squeezes.
"Running?" I ask.
"She knew they were going to try to find her. People didn't just leave the Society. They would find her and bring her back. She didn't stay in one place for long, didn't socialize, was always on edge."
"And she just told you all this?" Sam asks.
"Yes. It wasn't easy for her. She was ashamed of what she went through and for being brainwashed by them. But I couldn't overlook the brand."
"The brand?" I ask. I suddenly realize what he's talking about. "The scar on her waist."
"Yes."
"It doesn't look like anything. There's no symbol or pattern in it," I point out.
"She dug the pattern out with a knife two months after escaping."
A shudder runs through me. That must have been extremely painful. It makes sense that if she was treated this horrifically, she’d want to destroy any part of their marking on her. You don’t just dig out your own flesh to remove the mark of some normal organization you drifted away from.
“I still can't believe he didn't tell us,” I tell Sam after Michael finishes up with us.
“He would have,” Sam says. “I genuinely believe that.”
“How are you so trusting?” I ask.
“Because I have to believe in the greater good of people. I couldn't deal with this job if I didn't. I have to believe he was protecting her. He said she was embarrassed talking about it, and I can imagine it was traumatic dealing with all of that. He wouldn't have wanted other people to know because he knows she wouldn't have wanted people to know. But I think eventually the initial shock of her murder would have disappeared, and it would sink in just how important it was for us to know all the details.”
“If he told us sooner, we could have investigated it sooner,” I reply. “He said she knew people were after her. Think about her body. All those words written on it. The way it was strung up naked. That's a message.”
"And that's why we're going to visit the cult." He pauses. "That's not a sentence I ever figured I would have reason to say."
"Unfortunately, it's not the first time I've heard it," I tell him darkly.
Chapter Thirty-One
The flight to Massachusetts takes only a couple of hours, and the proximity strikes me as we walk out into the parking lot to find our rental car.
“If she was running, why would she stay so close?” I ask.
“Sherwood isn't exactly a prominent place,” he says. “Besides, Michael seems to feel like she wasn't afraid anymore once they got together. Maybe she didn't feel like they were chasing her anymore.”
“It just feels so close. If she was truly afraid for her life, why wouldn't she go to the other side of the country? Or to another country. Why stay just a handful of states away?”
“Hiding in plain sight?” he asks. “We don't know why she made the decisions she did. That's why we're here. If we can find out what happened before she met Michael, we may be able to piece together how she died.”
We drop our luggage off at the hotel and head for The Tower. It was surprisingly easy to find. We’re able to just copy the address off a web listing. They call themselves The Society for the Betterment of the Future. It's oddly disorienting having them be so open. But at the same time, cults often masquerade as other causes or boldly advertise themselves as religions, self-help groups, or academic pursuits in an effort to both lure and deceive people.
There's no Tower visible as we drive up to the address listed. The entire property has a massive stone wall surrounding it, and a metal gate prevents access to the cobblestone road beyond. Sam drives into the entryway and reaches out to press an intercom button.
"Hello?" comes a voice almost instantly.
"Hi, my name is Sheriff Sam Johnson, and I'm here with Agent Emma Griffin of the FBI. We're looking into a missing persons case. Some of the information led us here, and we'd like the opportunity to talk to someone about it," he says.
"Absolutely, Sheriff. Come right in," the voice says pleasantly.
The intercom turns off, and I stare at him as the gate moves out of the way.
"We're lying to people now? That's an option?" I ask.
"It's not fully a lie. Everly's parents did, at one point, consider her a missing person," he offers. "Just consider it being undercover."
"I'm undercover as myself?" I ask.
"If that works for you."
As we drive up the cobblestone path, a building becomes visible in the distance. The slope of the landscape kept it out of sight, but as the path leads around in a wide arc, the stone structure rises up into view. Soon we come to a small building, and a young man steps out into our path. He gives a wave and a smile.
"Hello," he says. "Welcome. Continue along this path, and you'll find another guard. Tell them you are here to speak with Ruth, and they will allow you through."
"Ruth?" Sam asks. "We’re here to speak to a man named Lucas."
The man looks like he is trying not to laugh.
"Oh, no. Lucas is not available for impromptu meetings. Ruth is his closest trustee. She will help you in any way she can."
I touch Sam's thigh to stop him from arguing, and the man steps back into the guard house. We continue driving, and Sam looks over at me.
"Michael said the leader is Lucas," he says. “Isn’t that who we should speak to?"
"No. An organization like this rarely allows access to their leader. They will protect him at all costs. Besides, the leader doesn't usually do most of the orchestrating of the group. He is the one at the head, and he is worshipped as having absolute power and control. But the administration of his will is usually done by someone else. Not always, of course. There are some who do everything, but I doubt that’s the way it is with this group. It’s too sophisticated. Lucas is the leader and seen as their direct link to God. But I would venture to say Ruth is the one who oversees what’s happening.”
“So, Lucas is like the Queen,” Sam says.
“You go ahead and refer to him that way. See how well it goes for you,” I mutter.
We get through the second guard house and drive along the rest of the path to the back of The Tower. I see a row of cars parked several yards away, and Sam slides up into a space among them. By the time we get out and come around to the back of the car, an elegant-looking older woman is walking out of a door at the back of the building. She smiles and extends both her hands to us.
“Hello,” she greets us warmly. “My name is Ruth. You must be Sheriff Johnson.” She shakes his hand with both of hers. “And Agent Griffin.”
She shakes mine, and we both nod our acknowledgment.
I pay close attention to our surroundings as she leads up through The Tower and into a lushly decorated room. Tall windows fill the space with bright light that illuminates white and pale floral furniture, vases of pristine white blooms, and silver trays of sweets on a highly polished table. There’s the odd feeling they prepared for us even though they had only a matter of moments from the time we arrived at the front gate until now.
“Please, sit down. Make yourself comfortable. Priscilla makes the most incredible treats. Have some,” she offers. “Can I get you a cup of tea?”
“No, thank you,” I say.
“I’m fine, thanks,” Sam says. “Since you knew our names, can I also assume you’ve been informed of why we’re here?”
“Yes,” Ruth says, her eyebrows suddenly knitting together in a concerned expression. “Benjamin tells me you’re working on a missing persons case.”
“We are,” Sam nods. “And there are some indications this person has a connection to your organization.”