Liza Barkley looked up at the security camera over the Sokolovs’ front door, wondering if anyone else had been watching her standing on the porch, psyching herself up to enter. The FBI agent standing guard by the door certainly had, although he hadn’t said a single word.
Just go in, she told herself. You can paste on a smile. You do it every day.
But she wasn’t certain that she could pull it off today. She’d tossed and turned, trying to forget the six-six blond, blue-eyed Adonis whom she’d loved for seven years but who’d unknowingly stomped on her heart the evening before. Tom was completely unaware of her feelings—as he’d shown last evening by making friends with her date. I should have known better than to try to move on with anyone new. Her own reaction to Tom’s lack of reaction was proof that she had no business trying to date other men. She wasn’t ready. She wasn’t over Tom.
She’d wanted to stay in bed today with the blankets pulled over her head.
She had, however, made promises to the stepsisters—one a little girl and the other a grown woman only a few years older than Liza. Both deserved a lot more than life had given them so far, so she knocked, taking a surprised step back when the front door flew open before she could rap the second time.
“Liza! You’re here!”
Liza barely had time to lift the cake plate she held out of the way before she was tackled by the seven-year-old who wrapped her in an impressive bear hug. “Hey, Shrimpkin,” Liza said, hugging back with one arm while balancing the plate on the other palm. Without making it obvious, she angled her body so that Abigail Terrill was shielded from both prying eyes and any other dangers that might be lurking.
Yes, there was an FBI agent standing guard, but Liza had sharp eyes, trained eyes, and she intended to use them. Because no one in this house was safe. Yet. “Careful. I’ve got cake.”
Abigail pulled back, her gray eyes wide. “You brought me cake?”
Liza tapped the end of Abigail’s nose while nudging her backward into the house, still protecting her. “I brought everyone cake. You can have your portion after lunch, if I don’t drop it on the floor by accident. Your puppy will eat it and then he’ll puke. Remember last time?”
Abigail’s sigh was long-suffering. “That was disgusting. Did you bring Pebbles?”
“I did not. She’d destroy everything in Miss Irina’s house.” Shuddering at the thought of the young Great Dane running loose in the Sokolov house, Liza closed the door securely behind them. Habit had her ruffling Abigail’s hair, but her finger caught in a tangle. “Where’s your brush? You have snarls.” She flexed her fingers. “Let me at ’em. Snarls flee from me in terror.”
Abigail’s childish giggles were like music to Liza’s ears, and suddenly her weariness abated. “Will you do the fancy braid thing?” Abigail asked, looking hopeful. “Like a princess’s crown? Papa can’t make a crown. He tried.”
“Of course I’ll braid your hair.” Liza had grown so fond of Abigail over the last month, gladly taking her to visit her father in the hospital as he recovered from a gunshot wound. A single father, Amos Terrill had always braided Abigail’s hair, so Liza had taken up the job until Amos was discharged. Abigail, however, liked Liza’s “fancy braids” better, so her daddy had been demoted to backup stylist. Liza had thought that Amos would be upset by this, but he loved seeing his little girl settling in with people who made her happiness a priority. Liza patted her pocket, having come prepared. “I brought a bunch of hair ribbons, so you can choose the color I braid in. But I need your brush.”
“I’ll get it.” Abigail ran, her long dark hair flying back behind her like a cape, but stopped abruptly when she nearly crashed into the woman standing in the foyer. “I’m sorry, Miss Irina.”
“It’s fine, Abigail.” Irina Sokolov tilted her head, her blond hair streaked with silver. She was somewhere close to sixty, about four inches shorter than Liza’s five-ten, and huggably round, her brown eyes sparkling with humor and love. She was also a retired nurse, and Liza was about to start nursing school, so they’d clicked right away. “But what are the house rules?”
“No running.”
“And?” Irina prompted, throwing a look at the front door.
Abigail’s shoulders slumped. “And no opening the front door, because it’s not safe.” She peered up at Irina. “I’m sorry. I forgot,” she added meekly. “And I thought it would be Liza.”
Irina nodded, her smile warm. “It’s okay, lubimaya. I don’t mean to make you sad, just safe. The front-door rule will not last forever. I promise. Now, did you finish your math?”
Abigail nodded. “I left it on my desk for you to check.”
“Perfect.” Irina ran a loving hand over Abigail’s hair, making Liza’s heart squeeze with affection for them both. “Go get your brush for Miss Liza.” She stepped back to let the little girl pass, then tugged Liza into a hard hug.
Liza never got tired of Irina’s hugs. The Sokolov family matriarch had pulled Liza into her nest, fussing over her like she was one of her chicks and making Liza miss her own mother so much that it hurt.
“How are you this morning?” Irina asked once she’d let her go.
“Not bad,” Liza lied.
Irina studied her face, her expression dubious. “Why don’t you go upstairs and take a nap?”
“Nah.” It wasn’t like she’d be able to sleep there, either. Not with her thoughts whirling like a tornado. “I promised Abigail I’d take her to the eye doctor.”
“I can do it.”
Liza smiled at the older woman. “But you’re with her all day, homeschooling.” Catching Abigail up so that when she started public school in the fall, she’d fit in with her peer group. Abigail had lived in a repressive cult her entire life, and her education was just one of the things that had suffered. Basic medical care had also been neglected and, although Abigail seemed healthy, she’d never had an eye exam. Irina had been the first to notice how the child held her books too close to her face, squinting at the print. “Besides, Mercy is supposed to come with us. I cleared the trip through Agent Rodriguez, and he’s vetted the optometrist’s office and even an ice cream store for afterward. Is Mercy here yet?”
Liza and Mercy Callahan had also become close in the month that they’d known each other. Most of the times Liza had accompanied Abigail to the hospital to see her father, Mercy had already been in his room. The bullet Amos had taken had been intended for Mercy, and the man who’d fired the shot was still out there. Still a threat.
Thus, the rules about Abigail not opening the front door.
Thus, the FBI agent standing watch outside, assigned to protect Mercy.
Thus, at least a portion of Liza’s trouble sleeping. Her new friend was careful, but this level of vigilance wasn’t sustainable—not even by the military. Liza knew that from experience.
That experience had been responsible for more than a few sleepless nights as well. She and her team had been highly trained combat soldiers, and they’d still been caught in a single unguarded moment. People had died. People Liza had cared for.
Civilians would be far quicker to make a mistake, which could cost Mercy her life. Liza wasn’t going to let that happen.
Irina looked up the stairs, growing more concerned. “Mercy’s here. She’s on the phone.”
Liza frowned. “Is everything okay?”
“Well, nothing new is wrong. Mercy is on a video call with her therapist.”
Liza sighed. “Oh. That’s good, at least. I imagine they have much to discuss.”
If anyone in this world needed therapy, it was Mercy Callahan. That the woman had made it through her life with her heart and soul intact was testament to her personal strength.
Unfortunately, Liza knew about that from personal experience, too. She wondered if Mercy’s therapist was taking new clients. Giving herself a little shake, she held the cake plate out to Irina. “For the family.”
Irina peeked under the aluminum foil and grinned wolfishly. “Chocolate. Did you make it?”
“No, ma’am. One of the nurses at the veterans’ home did, for my last day.”
Irina motioned Liza to follow her into the kitchen. “Your last day, it was good, yes?”
“It was very good,” Liza said, dropping into a kitchen chair while Irina put the cake plate on top of the refrigerator, where Abigail wouldn’t see it. Her job as a nursing assistant in the veterans’ home had ended the evening before. “The nurses signed a card and we had goodbye cake, which is yummy, by the way. Lucky for us, most of the nurses were on diets and only ate tiny pieces, so there’s a lot left. It’s not as good as yours, of course,” she added hastily, because nobody’s cake was better than Irina’s, “but I figure you can make use of it.”
Irina busied herself making tea. “Oh, I’m sure we can find someone to eat it.” With eight children and nine grandchildren, plus Abigail and all the others Irina and her husband Karl had enveloped into their brood, there was never a shortage of mouths to feed. “That person might even be me. Chocolate cake is my stress food. Did your manager give you a good reference?”
“He did,” Liza confirmed. “He said he wished he could keep me on, but the woman who I was filling in for returned from maternity leave. At least the reference he wrote is glowing.”
“As it should be,” Irina declared, sliding a cup in front of Liza before settling into the chair beside her with her own cup. “You being a veteran and all. And a medic with a smart brain, quick hands, and a good heart. He was lucky to have you.”
Liza’s eyes burned and she widened her eyes to keep the tears from falling. “Thank you,” she said quietly. “I think I needed to hear that today.”
Irina’s hand covered hers, warm and comforting. “What is it, Liza? I’ve sensed your unhappiness lately and I want to help if I can. You can tell me anything, you know.”
Liza studied the older woman’s face for a long moment before smiling ruefully. “Probably hormones,” she deflected, unwilling to tell Irina what was really bothering her, because there wasn’t anything anyone could do to help with that, not even the indefatigable Irina Sokolov.
The heart wants who the heart wants, Liza’s mother used to say. Which was true, sadly. “Sadly” because what her heart wanted wasn’t attainable.
It’s my own fault. She hadn’t agreed to the date with Mike last night to make Tom jealous, although now she had to admit that she’d hoped deep down that he would be. At the same time, she’d really hoped she’d find a spark with Mike. Even a tiny one. Anything to help her forget about her obsession with the man she’d loved for seven long years.
But the only spark she’d felt the night before was when Tom had appeared on the doorstep of the duplex they shared. Only when Tom had smiled at Mike and talked about the current baseball season and the basketball season that had just ended. He’d even signed an autograph for Mike, once her date realized who Tom was. Or who he’d been, anyway.
An NBA star. Now an FBI agent. There was little Tom Hunter couldn’t do.
Except love me.
Irina was staring at her, evidently not having bought her hormone excuse. Probably because Liza had used it a couple weeks before. “Liza.”
Liza searched her mind for something she could share. “You make me miss my mom.” Which was the unvarnished truth. Irina and Liza’s mother would have been fast friends.
“You lost her,” Irina murmured, allowing the redirected conversation. “How old were you?”
“Sixteen. She had cancer and . . .” Liza sighed. “We didn’t have insurance, so she waited to see a doctor. And then it was too late.”
“Is that why you’re going to nursing school?”
“Partly. My sister was murdered. Did you know that?”
“Yes.” Irina didn’t break eye contact, but her gaze was sad. “I looked you up.” One side of her mouth lifted. “I’m nosy, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
Liza laughed, surprising herself. “I’m shocked, Irina. Shocked, I tell you.”
Irina had the good grace to look a little shamefaced. “But not angry?”
“Of course not. You welcomed me into your home on the invite of another. I would have checked me out, too. Just to be sure I wasn’t a threat. Especially now.”
Irina’s blond brows lifted and Liza’s heart sank. The expression the older woman wore was too knowing and Liza mentally backtracked, trying to figure out what she’d said.
Of another.
Shit. She should have said Tom’s name. But it hurt to even think it. Saying it aloud . . .
Still. Shit. Irina started to open her mouth, but Liza raced on, unable to change the subject fast enough.
“Anyway, Lindsay, my sister, she sacrificed a lot for me to stay in school. She wasn’t much older than I was and she’d quit school to take care of our mom. Mom hated it, but . . .” It hurt to think of her mother and sister, too, but it had been eight years since her mother’s death and seven years since Lindsay’s murder. Her grief had softened over time. “Mom was too sick to fight Lindsay, and Lindsay was stubborn. More than me, even,” she added lightly, then swallowed hard when tears clogged her throat. I guess it hasn’t been long enough after all.
“She was murdered by a killer who preyed on prostitutes,” Irina said. “I read about it online.”
“She was. She worked the streets to pay our rent and buy food. I wanted to get a part-time job, but she wouldn’t let me. Said she wanted me to stay in school, to become a doctor or a nurse to help other people’s mothers. After Mom died, Lin got a job cleaning office buildings at night. She never told me that she’d lost her job, so when she didn’t come home one night . . .”
“You were still in high school.”
“A senior. I thought my worst problem was keeping my A in AP English. Then she didn’t come home and I didn’t know what to do. When I called the cleaning company, they told me that she’d been laid off months before.”
“How did you find out about the prostitution?” Irina asked, her voice so incredibly gentle.
Liza closed her eyes, not wanting to think about those days. “I went to file a missing-person report at the police department. They pulled up her arrest record.” She drained the rest of her tea and let out a harsh breath. “So I went looking for her.”
Irina’s eyes widened. “You went looking for prostitutes? How did you know where to go?”
A chuckle tickled her throat as a memory resurfaced, unexpected yet welcome. “That’s what Tom said. I met him during that time. He got his friends involved in searching for Lindsay.”
Irina’s brows drew down in a frown. “You met Tom Hunter while looking for prostitutes?”
The chuckle became a belly laugh, long and loud and far more cathartic than it should have been. “Oh no,” she said when she caught her breath. The very idea of straitlaced, Dudley Do-Right FBI Special Agent Tom Hunter looking for a hooker . . .
She wiped the tears from her eyes. “God, that’s too funny. No, he wasn’t out looking for a hookup. It was the next day. He’d come to my school to tell the jocks to stay in school. He was already a college basketball star by then, so I guess the administration hoped the kids would listen to him.” She sobered and sighed. “I was skipping the stay-in-school assembly to go back to the police station, because no one on the street had seen Lindsay. Tom left the assembly, literally ran into me, and my school papers went everywhere.”
“He helped you pick them up.” There wasn’t even a question in Irina’s voice. Tom Hunter was a gentleman. A truly good man.
“Of course he did,” Liza said, unable to keep the trace of bitterness from her voice and hating herself for it. It wasn’t Tom’s fault that she’d developed an impossible crush. Nor was it Tom’s fault that he didn’t feel the same way. “He saw the police report on Lindsay. He took me to a detective friend of his, and she was instrumental in finding Lindsay’s killer.”
Irina was studying her too closely. “That’s how you became friends? You and Tom?”
“Yep.” And Liza was finished talking about Tom Hunter. “But back to your original question. Lindsay is the main reason I’m going to nursing school. She sacrificed too much for me not to.” She checked the time on her phone, abruptly realizing that Abigail should have been back with her brush several minutes ago. “Where is Abigail? I hope she’s all right.” She started to get up, but Irina motioned at her to stay put.
“I’ll go find her. Have some more tea.” Irina pulled a muffin from a basket on the table and plated it for Liza. “Eat. It’s got no raisins. I made the batch especially for you.”
“Thank you, Irina,” Liza murmured, touched. She thought she’d managed to hide her aversion to raisins from the woman, but she should have known that Irina missed very little.
“You’re important to us, too, Liza,” Irina told her. “And at some point, when you’re ready to talk about what Tom Hunter did to hurt you, I’ll be ready to listen.”
Then she was gone, calling Abigail’s name a split second before there was a shout and the thunder of running feet above Liza’s head. Liza ran from the kitchen, ready to do whatever needed to be done to help, but ran into Mercy Callahan as she came down the stairs.
Mercy’s face was puffy, her eyes red and swollen. Liza took one look at her, then opened her arms. Mercy immediately accepted, huddling close as she shuddered out a harsh breath.
“Hey,” Liza murmured, stroking Mercy’s sleek hair. “What’s going on?”
She’d seen this woman under the most stressful of situations for a month, but she’d never seen her cry. Not like this.
“I scared her,” Mercy sobbed. “Abigail, I mean. I was on a call with my therapist and when I finished, I just sat there and cried. But I heard you come in and knew I needed to hurry to get Abigail to the eye doctor, but then I heard someone else crying. I opened the door and she was sitting on the floor.”
“Oh no,” Liza breathed. “What did she hear?” Because the horrors that Mercy had experienced were nothing that anyone else should ever hear, especially not a child Abigail’s age.
“That was what I first thought—that she’d been listening in. I . . .” Mercy’s body shuddered as she sucked in great, gulping breaths. “I yelled at her. Asked her what she was doing there. Accused her of spying on me.”
“I don’t think she was,” Liza said, trying to think logically. “If you heard me come in after your call was over, she didn’t hear anything. Except maybe you crying.”
“That was what she heard,” Mercy confessed. “She went sheet white, like I was going to hit her. She ran to her room.”
“Should we go after her?”
“Irina already did.” Mercy pulled back, wiping her eyes with the sleeves of her sweater. “I’m a mess. I need to apologize to her. She didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Not intentionally,” Liza reasoned. “But she has to understand that she can’t listen at doors. What if she had heard what you were telling your therapist?”
Mercy looked sick at the thought. “I’d never forgive myself.”
Liza cupped Mercy’s cheek in her palm, cooling her heated skin. “You need to stop that. Abigail knows you were hurt in Eden.”
Eden. The very name was an abomination. It was a cult, its leaders criminals hiding from the law. They’d harbored pedophiles who’d abused Mercy and tried to assault her brother, Gideon. One of the cult leaders had killed their mother for helping them to escape.
And these evil men still, after thirty years, managed to elude the authorities. Except now the FBI was rigorously searching. And at least one of the agents on the case would not give up until he found them.
Tom Hunter would never love her, but he was a good man who wouldn’t stop until he’d avenged Mercy and Gideon and saved the remaining innocents who were trapped in the cult.
“I think she understands more than we give her credit for,” Liza went on. “But at this point she doesn’t understand that it was sexual. She doesn’t understand the concept yet.” I hope. “Her therapist checked, because we were all worried about what Abigail knew.”
Mercy knew this. She’d talked to the therapist herself. But Liza knew that hearing it again, calmly stated, would do more to soothe Mercy’s anguish than all the platitudes in the world.
“You’re right.” Mercy drew a deep breath. “I need to apologize for shouting at her.”
“You want me to come with you?” Liza asked, brushing Mercy’s damp hair from her face.
“No.” Mercy managed a small smile. “I’ll tell her I’m sorry, then I’ll get cleaned up and we can go.”
“Tell Abigail that I still need to brush her hair. That’s why she went upstairs, to retrieve her hairbrush. She probably heard you crying and didn’t know what to do.”
Mercy’s nod was shaky. “Which means I really need to apologize now.”
Liza watched her go up the stairs, then returned to the kitchen, retrieved the cake from atop the refrigerator, and cut a generous slice for Abigail.
“Stress food, indeed,” she muttered, cutting an even larger piece for herself, leaving enough for Irina and Mercy. The day had to get better from here. It just had to.
Except she could hear Abigail crying upstairs and it ripped at her heart. The child had experienced enough fear and heartache for a lifetime. A particularly shrill wail pierced the air and Liza found herself gripping the edge of Irina’s counter, her knuckles white.
She’d heard wails like that before, not nearly long enough ago. From terrified and dying children. From wounded mothers clutching babies to their breasts, praying for a miracle to save their lives. The memory triggered what the army therapist had labeled PTSD. All Liza knew were the images crowding her mind, the ones that normally waited until sleep to torment her.
She glanced at the kitchen door, tempted to run. Run where, she wasn’t sure. Just . . . run. Away. As far and as fast as she could. She dropped her chin to her chest and focused on breathing. She’d promised Abigail that she’d go with them today, and the child needed a distraction. Some sense of normalcy.
No running. Not today.
Upstairs, Abigail wailed again, not at the same intensity or decibel level, thankfully. But it was enough to make Liza’s heart beat faster. Desperately she looked around Irina’s kitchen, then spied the mixer on the countertop, clean and ready to work. Irina had allowed her to bake in her kitchen in the past, so Liza knew where everything was.
Stuffing her mouth full of chocolate cake, Liza gathered the ingredients for her favorite stress recipe: Caramel-Pecan Dream Bars. Or brownies, as everyone not from Minnesota called them. She wouldn’t have time to finish them, but she could get the batter in the oven. Irina wouldn’t mind taking them out when the timer dinged.
Her mother had taught her to bake, and it was one of Liza’s most precious memories. Re-creating her mother’s recipe step-by-step would replace the bad images with good ones. This she knew from experience.
Plus the whir of the mixer would drown out the sound of Abigail’s tears.
SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA
WEDNESDAY, MAY 24, 9:30 A.M.
“What’s going on between Raeburn and Molina?” Tom asked as he and Croft walked toward the lobby where Jeff waited with the boy whose pregnant girlfriend had managed to send an e-mail from Eden.
“Molina’s been recused from the Eden investigation because Belmont shot her,” Croft said. “The edict came down this morning, according to Raeburn. He told me before morning meeting. I think he had something to do with it, though. He was entirely too pleased that he was still leading the investigation.”
“Son of a—” Tom cut himself off before he was publicly disrespectful to his boss.
Croft’s lips twitched at his near curse. “So that’s why Raeburn demanded we report straight back to him when we get back.”
Tom was irritated, yet a half chuckle escaped when Molina’s words sank in. She’d said that Raeburn’s version was “less than satisfactory.” Tom had assumed she’d meant Raeburn’s assessment of his performance, not that the ass was withholding information from Molina.
She was pumping me for information. He’d appreciated Molina before, but he really appreciated her now.
“Tell me about this contact of yours,” Croft said, increasing her pace to keep up with Tom’s long stride. The woman was only about five-two, but her bearing made her seem so much taller.
“Jeff Bunker is a sixteen-year-old going to Sac State, majoring in journalism.”
Croft made a face. “He wrote that awful article about Mercy Callahan, didn’t he?”
“He did, but his version wasn’t the same as the one that was published. His boss added material Jeff had deleted.” Making Mercy look like a slut, when really she was a victim of sexual assault. It still made Tom furious. “Jeff issued a retraction and used his platform to give victims a chance to tell their stories. He wanted to make amends. Helping Cameron Cook is most likely part of his making amends. He set up an alert for articles about Eden.”
Croft gave him a side-eye. “So did we. Why haven’t we seen this Cameron guy’s article?”
“Good question. I already planned to ask Jeff.”
Croft was quiet for a minute. “So Jeff Bunker knows about Eden?”
She asked the question with care, like she’d been instructed to find out who else Tom had given information to. But like she wasn’t happy about it. Tom trusted her, to a point.
“He does, but I didn’t tell him.”
Croft visibly relaxed. “Who did?”
“Probably Zoya, the Sokolovs’ youngest daughter. She and Jeff have been getting friendly. Zoya knew about Eden because she’s known Gideon nearly all her life, and she was in the room when Mercy told her story. Zoya’s a good kid. So is Jeff, actually. Even though his relationship with the Sokolovs started out on the wrong foot because of the story about Mercy, Jeff’s redeemed himself in the family’s eyes.”
Croft nodded thoughtfully. “So you trust him.”
“I don’t not trust him,” Tom replied truthfully.
“All right, then.” Croft pointed as they approached the lobby where two young men sat waiting. Both looked ready to fall asleep in their chairs. “That them?”
Jeff Bunker’s head jerked up, his body relaxing when he saw Tom. “You came.”
“I said I would.” Tom shook Jeff’s hand, then extended his hand to the young man at Jeff’s side. He looked about the same age, but scared. “I’m Special Agent Hunter. You are?”
Wiping his palms on his jeans nervously, the kid came to his feet, all gangly limbs. “Cameron Cook.” His handshake was as nervous as the rest of him. “Will you help me?”
“I’ll do what I can,” Tom promised, then gestured to Croft. “This is Special Agent Croft. We’re going to an interview room so we can talk. Do you need anything? A soda, some food?”
Cameron shook his head. “We ate on the way.”
Jeff was texting rapidly, then looked up. “Needed to tell Zoya that we found you so she can get to school.”
Tom blinked. “Zoya Sokolov drove you to San Francisco?”
Jeff’s cheeks turned pink. “I don’t have my driver’s license yet.” He grimaced. “Or a car.”
“I see,” Tom murmured. “Do her parents know?”
“Maybe? I didn’t ask, she didn’t tell. She’s on her way to school now, so if they didn’t miss her yet, they won’t. And we didn’t get any phone calls on the road, so I think we’re clear.”
Tom held Jeff’s gaze. “You and Zoya will tell her parents. Got it?”
Jeff sighed. “Yeah, yeah. Or you will. Got it. I hate being sixteen.”
“Seventeen isn’t much better,” Cameron muttered. “Nobody listens to you.”
“Come with us,” Croft said. “We’ll listen.”
The young men were quiet as they signed into the building and followed Tom and Croft to an interview room. Once they were seated at the table, Cameron looked at the two-way mirror. “Is anyone back there watching?”
“No,” Tom assured them. “But we will be recording this. It’s standard operating procedure.” He turned on the video camera and recited the date and the participants.
Croft leaned forward, concerned. “Cameron, do your parents know where you are?”
The boy sighed. “Kind of. I texted them that I’d left the house early to meet a friend at school. But I’ll tell them the truth when we’re finished here. They know about Hayley’s e-mail and they know I’ve been trying to get someone to listen to me. They’ve been really supportive, taking me to the police station and to the coordinates Hayley sent me. They won’t be too mad that I’m here. I hope,” he added under his breath.
Croft shot Tom a look. “We should have a guardian here.”
“I’ll be eighteen in two weeks,” Cameron protested. “I need to make sure someone is looking for Hayley.” He swallowed. “She’s pregnant and due soon. She’s got to be so scared.”
“He’s not being accused of anything,” Jeff inserted. “You can talk to him without a guardian. The law allows it.”
Croft frowned at Jeff. “I’m aware of what the law allows, Mr. Bunker.”
Jeff didn’t back down. “Then you know you don’t need a guardian.”
Croft rolled her eyes. “It’s to protect him. But . . .” She waved her hand. “Mr. Cook, please start from the beginning.”
Cameron folded his hands on the table and drew a breath. “Hayley has been my girlfriend since we were fourteen.” His cheeks darkened with embarrassment. “She got pregnant. We . . . well, we weren’t careful once, but that was enough, I guess.”
Croft’s expression softened. “I guess. How far along is she?”
“Eight and a half months. We . . . we saw the ultrasound. It’s a girl. We call her Jellybean for now.”
Croft smiled. “Cute. What about your folks? How did they feel about the pregnancy?”
“They weren’t thrilled, of course. We’re too young. But we always planned to get married as soon as we could, and my folks knew that. So when we told them, they took a day to cool off, then brought us into Dad’s office and told us that we would go to college and live with them. That they’d help us as much as they could. I expected them to be supportive, but Hayley . . . She cried. She was so sure that my folks would throw her out, that she’d have to be homeless.”
“Her folks weren’t as supportive, I take it,” Croft murmured.
“No. Her mom isn’t married. Divorced when Hayley was ten and Graham was five. Graham’s her little brother. Kid is wicked smart. Her mom is very . . .” Cameron paused, searching for the right words. “Old-fashioned?”
“Judgmental,” Jeff muttered.
“That too,” Cameron admitted. “I don’t want to be cruel about her mom, because it was a shock. Mrs. Gibbs believed Hayley was a virgin. That she was pregnant didn’t go over well. She screamed and threw a fit.” His expression darkened in anger. “She called Hayley names, like ‘whore’ and ‘slut.’ And that’s not true.”
“Did she throw Hayley out?” Tom asked, already feeling sorry for these kids.
“She didn’t throw Hayley out. We told my parents first, because I knew we’d have a safe place to fall, you know? When we told her mother, she threw me out. Like, dragged me out by my hair, screaming at me. I wish I’d taken Hayley with me, but I didn’t want to make it worse.”
“And then?” Croft prompted.
Cameron shoved his hands through his hair. “Then they were gone. The next day. All of them—Mrs. Gibbs, Hayley, and Graham. Just gone. The house was put up for sale, with all the contents included. They disappeared. I’ve been crazy with worry.”
“But you heard from Hayley,” Tom said quietly. “When was that?”
“A month ago.” He pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket and gave it to Croft. The paper was limp from handling and falling apart at the creases. “I got this e-mail.”
Croft read it silently, then passed it to Tom.
“April nineteenth,” he said quietly, and Croft nodded her understanding. The date was the exact day that DJ Belmont had murdered Ephraim Burton, destroying any link the FBI had to Eden. Until now.
“ ‘Dear Cam,’ ” Tom read aloud, noticing Cameron mouthing the words. He’d obviously memorized the e-mail. “ ‘We are in a place called Eden. We are at these coordinates. Please come ASAP and bring the cops. This place is insane and we are being held against our will.’ ” Tom put the paper down. “What did you do next?”
“I went to the police station closest to the coordinates. My dad took me, but when the cops got there, it was forest. No houses, no signs of life at all. Nobody lived there.”
“You didn’t find anything?” Tom probed, because he’d seen Eden’s most recent compound, now deserted by the cult. It had been populated with earth shelters and camouflaged with branches to hide the settlement from any satellite cameras.
“No. There was no evidence that any people had been there, ever. It was just forest. After the cops told us that they hadn’t found anything, Dad and I checked an area about a mile square around the coordinates. That day, anyway. We’ve been back several times and expanded the search. Every weekend, my dad and I looked for Hayley, but there’s nothing there but forest.”
Tom checked the coordinates on his phone. The location was twenty miles from the closest of the known Eden settlements—that the FBI knew of. The position of the coordinates in Hayley’s e-mail was over a hundred miles from the most recent Eden site. That was not a small error. Someone or something had altered the coordinates, probably using a proxy program.
“How did Hayley get these coordinates?” he asked.
Cameron shrugged miserably. “I don’t know. I’ve waited for another e-mail from her, but I haven’t gotten anything. If they caught her sending me a message . . .” His eyes filled with tears. “They might hurt her,” he whispered. “She’s scared. I know it.” He clenched his fists. “Her mother dragged her to that place. I don’t know if she left Hayley there by herself, or if she and Graham are there, too. And I don’t know why.”
Jeff squeezed Cameron’s shoulder. “The place is a cult, Cam, like Zoya and I told you. They live like they’re in the nineteenth century, and they’re super fundie. Someone probably told her mother that they’d fix Hayley’s sin. Make her repent.”
Croft gave Jeff a dry look. “You know a lot about Eden, Mr. Bunker.”
Jeff glanced quickly at Tom before returning his attention to Croft. “I haven’t told anyone. Only Cameron.”
Croft turned back to Cameron. “We can’t promise you that we will find her, Mr. Cook, but we will do our best. The good news is that finding this cult is a priority of this office.”
Cameron’s lips twisted in a grimace. “And the bad news?”
“You’re one of our first leads,” she admitted. “But the other good news is that Agent Hunter is one of our best cyber experts. If you’ll give him access to your e-mail account, he might be able to trace the e-mail.”
Tom smiled at Cameron. “It’s a fact. I’m good at what I do. You okay with giving me some passwords and access?”
Cameron’s pent-up breath rushed out of him. “Of course. I don’t have anything to hide.”
“I do have a few more questions, though,” Tom said. “For both of you. Cameron, you said no one listened to you. Who did you ask for help? Who else has seen this e-mail?”
“Dad and I went to the local sheriff nearest to the coordinates first,” Cameron said, his expression showing only desperate truth. “Once he and his deputies searched and didn’t find anything, he said he didn’t have any more time for ‘teenage drama.’ I was so mad, but my dad dragged me out of there before I could give the man a piece of my mind. Dad said I wasn’t doing Hayley any good by getting myself arrested.”
“He was right about that,” Tom said. “Who else?”
“I went to San Francisco PD and tried to file a missing-person report, but they said they couldn’t take it because Hayley left with her mother, who had custody of her. But one of the detectives talked to their old neighbors. Nobody knew anything about them. They kept to themselves. They heard screaming sometimes, but the kids didn’t look abused, so they never said anything to Mrs. Gibbs. The detective asked the real estate agent who was selling their house and the woman said that Mrs. Gibbs claimed she was moving to be closer to family. That her kids were ‘troubled’ and she needed help in getting them back on the straight and narrow.”
Croft tilted her head. “Both kids were troubled? Or just Hayley for getting pregnant?”
“Both. Graham went to juvie right after the holidays. He got caught shoplifting.” Cameron shook his head. “I tried to be a big brother to him, but he fell in with a rough crowd. He’s amazing with tech, though. He can hack into websites. He might be the one who figured out how to send the e-mail from Eden. If that’s the case, at least Hayley isn’t alone.”
“How old is Graham?” Croft asked.
“Twelve. But he’s a genius, for real.”
Tom tapped the printed e-mail. “Who else knows about this?”
“We live outside San Francisco and our town has a dinky paper, so I asked if they’d print something. I figured I could link to it on social media and maybe it’d go viral. If someone had seen Hayley, they’d call. The article went up last night.”
“We’ll need to take it down,” Croft said to Tom, then looked at Cameron. “We don’t want the Eden leadership knowing that we’re getting close. They tend to move around, especially if they fear being found out.”
“I’ll ask them to take it down,” Cameron said. “Or should you do it?”
“If we do it, they’ll know they have a story,” Tom said. “Best you do it. Or we can do it together.”
“Because you want to make sure I’m not going to say anything stupid,” Cameron muttered.
“Partly,” Tom admitted. “Mostly because I need to be able to trace every piece of Eden information out there.”
Cameron nodded once, mollified. “Jeff says you’re all right. I’m going to have to believe that, because I don’t have another choice.”
Jeff had gone very still. “Are you worried that someone from Eden will come after Cameron if they see the article in the paper?”
Cameron’s face drained of color. “Me?”
Tom sighed, wishing Jeff weren’t quite so quick on the draw. “Well, yes. I might have approached that more delicately later, but since you’ve let the cat out of the bag—yes. Cameron could be in danger if Eden learns that he knows about them.”
Cameron’s Adam’s apple bobbed nervously. “They’re that bad?” he asked hoarsely.
“Yes,” Croft said. “They’re that bad. Not trying to scare you, kid. Just want to keep you safe so that your Jellybean will have a mom and a dad.”
Cameron’s lips lifted at the mention of his daughter. It had been the exact right thing to say and Tom was grateful that Croft had said it. “Thank you,” Cameron whispered.
Tom turned to Jeff. “How did you find Cameron’s article? I have alerts set for Eden articles as well, and nothing pinged for me.”
Jeff looked a little proud. And smug. “You might only be getting feeds from the big-city newspapers, or if you’ve got a broad enough net, you’re getting too many hits. I’ll show you how to set up your search to be more inclusive and discerning.”
Tom had to laugh. The kid reminded him of himself at that age. “You little—” He cut himself off, but not before Jeff’s eyes sparkled.
“Admit it, Big T,” Jeff said, using Tom’s nickname from when he’d played professional basketball. “I am the master.”
“Gentlemen,” Croft warned, but she looked amused as well. She sobered as she met Cameron’s gaze. “We will make it our top priority to find Eden and bring Hayley and her family home. Thank you for coming in this morning. I know you must be exhausted. Can we drive you somewhere to rest before you start for home?”
Jeff and Cameron exchanged weary glances. “We can’t go back until Zoya gets home from school,” Jeff said. “And she’s going to be tired, too. She’ll need a nap. If her parents let her take us back,” he added when Tom lifted his brows.
“I can call my father,” Cameron said. “He’ll come get me when he gets off work. He won’t be happy to make the drive, but he will be happy that someone is finally looking for Hayley. Jellybean’s gonna be his first grandchild.”
Croft patted the boy’s hand. “Call your dad. We’ll get you a ride to Jeff’s house and you can sleep till your dad arrives. For now, sit tight here. I need to confer with Agent Hunter, but we’ll just be out in the hall.”
“Well?” Tom asked as soon as they left the room and closed the door behind them.
“If this Graham kid is as tech savvy as Cameron says, he would know how to find their coordinates if he’d managed to hack into their computer to send a message.”
Tom nodded. “But Cameron only found forest. The coordinates in the e-mail aren’t anywhere close to any of the Eden sites. Eden could have set up a VPN or anonymity software like Tor to redirect their ISP and mask their location.”
“To hide,” Croft translated dryly.
“Exactly. We know DJ Belmont is the runner for the cult. We also know he sells drugs for a living, because we found traces of psychedelic mushrooms in the truck that Amos Terrill stole when he escaped.” They’d also found evidence of the cult’s drug operation when they’d searched their most recent location. “If he was using the computer to communicate with customers, it’s likely he’s using Tor to get on the dark web. He could easily fake his location that way. He wouldn’t want customers to know where he was. I wouldn’t, if I were him.”
“We know where the cult was when Hayley sent the message, because it was their most recent site, most recently vacated. Can you back-extrapolate or triangulate or whatever to find them?” Croft blew out a frustrated breath. “Does that make sense?”
“It does. It’s not triangulation—that’s only possible if you have at least three locations. Or two locations and the nearest cell tower. VPN software bounces the data from server to server, all over the world sometimes. It’s not simple to trace communications that have been relayed thousands of times, but it’s not impossible. If Hayley can send another e-mail, I’ll have another data point.”
“That’s what I was thinking,” Croft said. “What about Bunker and Cook? Do we trust them not to talk? We need to keep this as need-to-know only. The wrong person could expose Eden to the press and then we’ll never find them.”
“I don’t think either of the boys will talk,” Tom said. “Cameron has already talked and no one believed him. He wants his girlfriend and their baby back, so I think we can trust him. Jeff has known about Eden for a month. If he hasn’t talked by now, I don’t think he will.”
“Agreed. Let’s get photos of Hayley and Graham if we can, so that we can show them around if we need to.”
“Eden isn’t all that big a settlement,” Tom mused. “I bet Amos Terrill can positively identify Hayley and her brother. That way we can be certain that we’re not chasing our tails.”
“Good idea. Let’s get a photo array and talk to Mr. Terrill. Do you know where he is?”
“I do. He’s working on my friend’s house, renovating it.”
“Of course they’d be your friends,” Croft said dryly. “Whose house?”
“Rafe Sokolov. He bought a fixer-upper so that he and Mercy could have a place of their own. Amos is a master carpenter and has been helping him, usually just in the mornings. Amos is still recovering from being shot by DJ Belmont last month, so he’s only working part-time.”
“Right,” Croft murmured. “Your friends have suffered at the hands of this Eden group.”
“They have,” Tom agreed grimly. “And they’re trying to get on with their lives, but it’s hard, knowing that DJ might be back.”
“So let’s find DJ and Eden,” Croft said, making it sound so simple.
Tom smiled down at her. “Yes, ma’am. Cameron needs to request that his article be taken down and I need to get his e-mail password, then we can go to see Amos.”
