It’s exactly what you’d expect from a deranged cult leader. A massive desk dominates the center of the room, facing the door. Bookshelves line the walls, filled with dusty leather-bound volumes that probably cost more than most people’s cars. I’m surprised they haven’t been stolen.
There’s a sitting area with a dirty velvet couch and matching chairs, and a bar cart in the corner with expensive crystal bottles.
I pull one of the books from the shelf. It falls open to a handwritten page—a list of names and dates. Children’s names, I realize. Birth dates. And next to each one a single word—claimed.
My stomach churns. This wasn’t just a cult. And somewhere in these pages, I know I’ll find my name, and Clover’s.
Chief turns on the light, and it flickers to life, revealing the back wall that had been hidden in shadows, and the blood in my veins turns to ice.
“Oh my God,” Clover chokes out.
A map of the United States covers the entire wall. And on it, marked with red pins, are locations. Dates. Names written in neat script.
I step closer, reading each one.
Happiness, GA—Clover Danforth—Current.
Charlotte, NC—Valen Stone—Current.
Peachvale, VT—PO Box 127—Compromised.
April: Discovery.
May: Planning.
October: Execution.
Below that, a single sentence in block letters: BRINGING MY CHILDREN HOME.
“Jesus Christ,” Chief mutters. “This is a stalker wall.”
But that’s not the only thing that has me unable to move.
It’s the photo pinned next to Clover’s name.
A recent photo, from maybe a month or two ago. She’s at the coffee shop in Happiness, smiling at someone off camera.
Laughing.
Happy.
Someone took this.
Someone was close enough to photograph her without her knowledge.
“Valen?” Clover’s voice is so unsteady, she can barely get the word out as she points to the desk behind me.
I turn, dread slowing my movements as I step close enough to see a folder on the desk, thick with papers, and on top of it is a note written in that flowing ominous script.
Welcome home, my seedlings. I’ve been waiting for you.
-M
M.
M for?—
“Miriam?” Clover whispers. “But that means?—”
