Snagging a chair from the dining room table, I drag it into the living room and flop into it.
“And they documented everything. When I say everything, I meaneverything. Age, sex, degree program, background information, anything there was to know about someone, they have it.”
“Okay, so they were extremely organized,” I interject. “What does that have to do with our moms?”
Mountain pauses for a moment, dread washing over his features. It’s the kind of look you give just before saying something you’ll never be able to take back. Like it physically hurts him to bring this into the open.
“Just say it, man,” Kane blurts.
“It was some kind of sex cult, and the girls were… recruited.”
“For sex?” Sam asks, though it’s more of a reiteration than a question. “Like they were trafficked.”
“No. Not in the sense we think. But handpicked. Each male member picked a girl or multiple to recruit. Promised status, money, whatever they were looking for. And once they got in, they were claimed. Marked by the guy that recruited them.”
I feel my stomach twist.
“Like I said, they kept files on everyone, recorded meetings, calls. You name it. It seems they would get these women to agree to participate, and once a month they would go on these ‘field trips.’ On the surface, the club was off doing something related to what the school’s bylaws say, but in actuality, they were atsome undisclosed location where they would drink and have sex with each other.”
“So, they were freaked out?” I shrug.
“It gets worse. Sick. They would drug the women without consent and once they were incapacitated, they’d have their way with them. Vile and deplorable things. Rape. And the sick bastards recorded it.”
We sit up, and I feel like I’m going to vomit.
“See for yourself.” Mountain passes the computer to Sam.
Kane and I rush over to watch over Sam’s shoulder. She takes the laptop, placing it on her lap, reluctantly pressing play on the video Mountain left on the screen. It’s innocent at first, a bunch of college-age kids, partying and making out. It appears they’re somewhere far from civilization, up in the mountains surrounded by trees and boulders.
The camera pans around, documenting the experience. It feels likes one of those end-of-year videos where the kids interview their friends before they go off and join the real world. Everyone’s laughing or dancing. No different from the parties I’ve thrown over the years. My mother comes into view, and my nerves tingle. She’s young here, sitting next to a girl. They’re laughing and drinking.
“That’s Emily. The girl—” Sam starts.
“The girl my mother killed,” Kane cuts her short.
Sam reaches behind her to take his hand in hers. I peer at him, wanting to offer comfort but not quite sure where to begin. So I keep watching. We all do.
The shot moves on to another group of students, our dad, Mr. Kincaid, Senator Martinez, and a few of the other prominent figures in our town. Then we see Kane’s mom, and next to her is Sam’s mother.
Sam gasps, squeezing Kane’s hand so tight he winces, but he doesn’t stop her. Reaching over, I speed up the clip, stopping when something strange appears. Based on the time stamp, it’s at night, but the women are unconscious and completely nude. And the things that are being done to them, no one should ever have to see.
Sam’s shaking now and forces her eyes away before abruptly shutting the video off. “That’s horrible.”
“Fuck,” I let out. When we started this, I wasn’t expecting that.
Kane takes the laptop, determined to keep looking. He closes that video and scrolls the folder until he finds his mother’s name. Loads of files pull up, medical records, payments, but then he pulls up a voice note, his entire body going rigid when he hears his mother’s voice. She’s rambling on, her words incoherent. The only thing we can make out is one saying over and over.
“What did they give me? What did they give me?”
Another voice tries to calm her down. “La’Kia. You’re panicking, just sit down. Here have some water.”
“No. No. No,” she continues ranting. “Don’t touch me. Don’t touch me.”
And then it sounds like skin hitting skin, followed by a grunt and then a scream. And then nothing. Screams break out, the sound of people running closer to the recording.
“Oh my God, what did you do?”
“What did they give me? What did they give me?”
