I picked up the folder closest to me, a flash of recognition going through me at the name on it. Michelle Raymond.
She had been the one punished. I flipped through the contents of her folder, snapping pictures of it all.
There was a photocopy of her driver’s license, her birth certificate, her Social Security card, old employer records, her banking information, even a printout of the deed to her house.
I gritted my teeth at how much control Malachi had over this woman. It was insane. This was the culmination of years under his rule.
I put Michelle’s file back and grabbed another, then another, then another.
Each had enough information to stalk the person if they left, impersonate them, drain their accounts, and destroy them.
I thumbed through the rest of the box, finding my own folder pretty empty with just the copy of my fake ID. I was guessing he made them hand over more information the longer they stayed, once they were good and brainwashed.
I closed my folder, moving onto the last of the box.
My brows lifted in surprise at whose folder it was.
I hesitated for a second, then opened it.
This one was almost as bare as my own. There were no IDs, no medical records or banking info—nothing but a birth certificate.
Elior was born in April. A spring baby. That suited him, I thought.
His mother’s name was Annabelle.
I thought back to my first night here—that first sermon. Malachi had said something about“The Mother.”
Something that had made it sound like she’d passed during childbirth.
I took a photo of the document and sent it off to Patel. I was about to move on to the next box when I got a prickling feelingat the back of my mind. On a hunch, I texted a short message, asking him to look into this Annabelle woman.
Then I started on the CONFIDENTIAL box.
If the other box was bad, this one was a nightmare.
Punishment logs. Notes about which members “responded well” to fear. Logs of who cried, who begged, who broke fastest. Medication compliance charts. A list ofapproved restraining methods.
A spreadsheet titled temperament flags, with color-coded indicators next to each member’s name.
Green: compliant.
Yellow: wavering.
Red: defiant.
Blue: requires isolation.
Purple: condemned.
What the fuck did that mean? Condemned? That wasn’t fucking ominous at all.
Suddenly, I heard faint footsteps coming from directly outside the building.
Shit.
I shut off my flashlight instantly and ducked behind a row of crates, flattening myself against the cold metal of the shelf at my back.
The door creaked open.
