“No. My point is, you were doing your job. Something you believed in. It didn’t change who you were inside. Not really.”
Sure it did. “So you’re saying that Pippa can actually be sweet and kind ... and still want to kill a bunch of people.”
“If she’s doing it for the right reasons, or what she’s been brainwashed to think are the right reasons, then yes. If she truly believes that Isaac Leon is God, or is from God, and that she’s doing God’s work by fire and destruction, then she could still appear sweet and be planning to kill.”
Mal shook his head.
“Isn’t that how you did it?” Nari asked quietly. “How you justified being part of the Bodoni brotherhood while also reporting back on their activities?”
“Yes.” Man, he hated that the shrink was making sense.
She took out several pictures and laid them on the conference table. “Pippa Smith came into being almost seven years ago. She was eighteen years old and suddenly had a driver’s license and a social security card.”
He picked up a picture of her license taken years ago. “The cult has connections?”
“I’m not sure.” Nari handed over several faded photos. “Our source found these in some old boxes at the cult when they were moving. I think that’s Pippa as a child.” She pointed.
Malcolm squinted at a pretty ten-year-old with blue eyes and pigtails. “Could be.” He started reading through the documents. “She cut ties with them seven years ago?”
“Yes. She seemed to have left around the age of eighteen, the same time as another member named Tulip. Then, five years ago, at least three other women did the same.” Nari pointed to a chart with dates and names but no locations.
“Maybe they got free,” Malcolm said quietly. “Escaped.”
“Perhaps, but our source has been snooping and eavesdropping as much as possible and has found schematics for bombs. She thinks a mass attack is coming soon,” Nari said.
Malcolm turned to face Nari, his instincts flaring to life. “Is that why your inside source flipped?”
“No. She flipped because Isaac Leon raped her cousin, and the cousin then overdosed on heroin. The girl was just eighteen.”
Mal wanted this guy taken down. Now. “How did you find Pippa?”
“The pictures.” Nari handed over two of Pippa as an adult. She had to be around eighteen years old. “We put her face into the system and got a hit at a veterinarian’s office six months ago. Tracked her down from there.”
“A vet’s?”
Nari nodded. “Sick cat, apparently. We were lucky.”
Maybe the woman wanted to be left alone and was escaping a bad past, just like him. Shouldn’t she be given the benefit of the doubt? She baked cookies for strangers, for goodness’ sake. “Pippa lives by herself and hasn’t infiltrated anybody.”
“Hasn’t she?” Nari handed over a file. “Her list of clients is interesting. Start with the construction company.” She took out another picture and slid it toward Mal.
“What’s this?” He lifted it to see a current photo of Pippa, her long hair up in a ball cap, sitting at a table with another woman who was also slightly disguised by a hat and nondescript clothing.
“That’s Tulip, who was also a member of the cult. She’s now called Trixie. We have pictures of them together as young adults. Now they meet once a month in a little diner in the middle of nowhere. Place called Pine’s, outside of Minuteville. A good two hours from where Pippa lives.” Nari glanced at her phone. “They meet on the first of every month. Which is tomorrow.”
Chapter Seven
Pippa eyed the thick casserole cooling on her counter. Malcolm had returned home from work about an hour before and disappeared into his house. The kitchen light was on, as was one in the living room. But he hadn’t knocked on her door.
Why would he? It wasn’t like they were dating or anything.
But the guy had to eat something, right? Wouldn’t it be neighborly for her to take over a casserole? Especially because he’d had a tree service show up earlier to cut down the dangerous tree. She could take the food over as a thank-you.
Who was she kidding? She just wanted to see him again. While she had to keep her past private, they could still be friends. She’d been friends with Mrs. Maloni.
Making up her mind, she gathered the casserole dish into a holder and moved toward the front door before she could talk sense into herself. It had finally stopped raining, and the air was fresh and clean outside. She breathed deep and strode across her driveway, over the shrubs, and up to his front door. She had to use her elbow to press the doorbell.
He opened the door wearing only unbuttoned jeans, a towel in his hand as he rubbed water out of his shaggy hair. The bruise at his temple had already faded to a light purple.
