I’ve seen a lot of workers these last three days, though.Chances are that Elias knows nothing about it. But my gut tells me there’s more to him than meets the eye. He has a mysterious, dark energy that both titillates and scares me.
Miraculously, Elias is sleeping, his breathing deep and even, loud now that the carnival is silent for the night. Quiet as a mouse, I extricate myself from his arms. I head to the bathroom first and use the toilet—that way, if he stirs, he’ll think nothing of it. And also because I do my best snooping on an empty bladder.
Once out, I find my panties and top, pulling them on just so I don’t have things waving around in the air. Peeking through the bedroom door, I reassure myself that Elias is still sleeping, then turn to the drawers I was eyeing before he thoroughly distracted me with that magic dick.
The first drawer has carnival documents: temporary event permits, fire marshal approvals, health department certificates, and ride inspection reports. Then there’s insurance paperwork, route and scheduling documents, payroll and staffing, maintenance and inventory, security documents, and surface-level financial reports.
I waste half an hour just going through those—there’s nothing here that would be remotely interesting to my investigation. Soundlessly, I push the drawer back in, feeling less excited than I did when I started.
But the second drawer is different. No carnival logos or bureaucracy here. Instead, there are several black binders, no branding or labels. I pull one out to find neatly tabbed sections. Each tab is a name.
I go to a name I recognize: one of the missing men, Abel Hawthorne. There are two photos of him, one that’s recent and one that’s not—maybe from the aughts—the address he went missing from, the names of his wife and children. Flipping the page, I find more older pictures, group shots of men in plain clothes with Abel circled, kids in the background.The chilling thing is that the kids aren’t playing soccer or chasing each other. Instead, they seem to be praying.
The next page has handwritten notes with phrases that look like ones found at Hawthorne’s home.
Ash cleanses what flesh corrupts.
Pain is the proof of devotion.
Children are vessels.
My stomach roils as I read. What the hell were these men involved in? And how is Elias connected to it?
I pick up another binder. This one has copies of old police reports, memos stamped with UNFOUNDED or CLOSED, newspaper clippings about kids wandering the wilderness, some older teenagers, some as young as five. Whispers of a cult named The Sanctum of Ash.
Grabbing my phone, I hastily snap a few pictures so I can dig into it more when I get back to my computer. This is a goldmine of hinky fuckery, and I can’t wait to unravel the tangled threads.
The next drawer has a carefully folded map of the U.S., marked with black or red pins. The towns with known disappearances are marked with red pins. Marrow Falls is among those marked in black.
Chills skitter down my spine. Is this their itinerary? What do they do with the men in the binders once they find them?
“I really wish you hadn’t seen that,” Elias says wearily from the bedroom doorway.
My blood freezes, and I slowly lift my head from the map open in front of me. The man who just ate me out and fucked me is gone—the carnival ringmaster is standing in his place, that veil of mystery back in place.
“Elias, I…” I begin, but trail off at the look in his eyes.
He walks closer, forcing me to crane my neck. He still smells like sex.
“Who are you really, Jules? A Fed?”
I blink at him.
“Wha—what? No!”
A choked gurgle leaves my mouth when he grabs me and pulls me to my feet. The world blurs as he presses me against the trailer wall, his hand again on my neck. But this time, it doesn’t feel erotic at all. It’s a threat showing just how easy it would be for him to end me.
“Don’t lie to me,” he bites off. “Is Jules even your real name?”
“Of… course,” I gasp thinly. “Well… Juliane. But—but no one calls me that.”
Tears and lack of oxygen blur my vision when he snarls at me, his even white teeth inches from my face.
“And how long have you been working for the FBI? Is the blue hair really you or a mask you wear when undercover? Are the tattoos even real?”
Before I can do more than make a sound of protest, he hauls me to the door. I stumble down the stairs and trip over my feet, landing on all fours in the grass. My heart’s beating so fast, I think it’s about to escape my ribcage and fly out of here.
Take me with you.
