The Cult (Cult 1)

He glanced down at me, taking in my oily hair, my white clothes. “Are you homeless?”

“Excuse me?” I shrieked, my voice rising above the ringing phones. “No. I was kidnapped and released. People who are kidnapped look like shit. You never solved a kidnapping before? No surprise there…since you’re terrible at your job.” Great. Definitely wasn’t gonna help me now.

His eyebrows rose at my hostility. “Sorry, I’ve never heard about a secret cult—”

“Because it’s a secret,” I snapped. “Let’s take a chopper, and I’ll find it for you.”

“You think we just have choppers parked on the roof?”

“I’m just saying, I can show you where it is, but it would be much easier from the air.”

“We aren’t spending tax money to go on a safari—”

“Wow…okay. Can I speak to your supervisor?”

“Sure.” He nodded to the office behind him. “Go for it.”

I sat there, knowing that Beatrice was right, that this was pointless. “They deal acid. This is a whole operation for you to take down. The accolades and recognition you’d get—”

“Either talk to my supervisor or get out. I have work to do.”

My shoulders sagged in defeat, even more disappointed that Beatrice had been right. I expected a report to at least be filed. I expected them to at least look into it before they dismissed me. But they just flat out rejected me. Discredited me. Acted like I was a crazy homeless person when I was far too coherent and concise for that.

Now what was I supposed to do?

I stayed at a hotel for a couple days.

I didn’t stay anywhere nice, because Benton’s money was all I had for the foreseeable future. Now that the police were a dead end, I’d have to move somewhere else. London was too expensive. Italy was too, in most places. But I didn’t have an ID for me to even get on a train right now.

Benton made it clear he never wanted to see me again, but I didn’t have anyone else to ask.

I wasn’t even entirely convinced that a new country would solve my problem.

If Forneus truly believed I was his only chance of salvation, he’d find me anywhere.

Even Antarctica.

I’d have to kill him.

No other option.

But a knife wouldn’t be enough.

I’d need a gun.

The hotel didn’t have room service, because it was a shabby place that men used to bed their prostitutes, so I left for every meal, looking for something cheap. A dancer’s salary had always been minimal and I’d never eaten like a queen, but I rationed myself even more, grabbing a premade sandwich from a café.

I didn’t want to sit in my room alone, so I took a seat in the empty restaurant. The glass was covered with raindrops because it had poured that afternoon. It’d been a long time since I’d had coffee, so I ordered myself a cappuccino. I wasn’t sleeping tonight, so the caffeine didn’t matter.

I stared at the dark liquid, thinking about the blond hair and blue eyes that used to make up my days. She used to be this little girl who just shared my space, but at some point, she became my reason for living.

Because I dedicated my life to getting her out of there.

If I had to stab myself with that knife, I would have done it.

In a heartbeat.

Without her, I was lost.

And the idea of never seeing her again really did make me sad.

I understood why Benton didn’t want me near his daughter. If a stranger I’d met for five seconds was obsessed with my daughter, I’d be weirded out by it too, especially without the context. Claire and I had been through so much…and there was no way for him to understand that.

My eyes were still down on my coffee.

But I could feel it.

Feel the piercing stare.

See the smile in my mind.

Feel the café fade into the wilderness. The lights were replaced by torches. The tables turned into statues. It was freezing cold, the outside elements suddenly hitting my frozen cheeks. My eyes remained down, too afraid to look up.

But I did anyway.

Across the street under the lamppost, he stood.

In all black.

The glow illuminating his face but also casting shadows.

Smiling.

19

Benton

“Are you and Mommy going to get married?” Claire stood on the wooden platform I’d built for her, right up against the stove so she could see clearly. In her hand was a spatula, and she pushed our dinner around and watched it sizzle.

I stood beside her and brushed her hair past her shoulder, making sure it didn’t fall forward over the burners. I’d told her to put it up many times, but she never liked to. “No.”

“But she’s going to live with us?”

“For a short while.” I grabbed her wrist and directed her spatula underneath the meat to flip it over.

“I can do it. I can do it.” She yanked her hand away, jabbed the spatula forward, and made the chicken and oil splash back. The meat tipped over and dropped between the burners. Her face immediately fell, and she looked up at me, like she knew she was in trouble. “Oops.”