He planted a kiss on my lips. “Don’t you remember who you’re talking to? I’m not afraid of anything.”
I was about to remind him of his lecture regarding Highland Heights, when I was distracted by a row of bacon strips neatly arranged on a paper towel near the stove. I picked up a crispy piece, put it in my mouth, and bit off the end. Ambrosia exploded in my mouth. “How do you do that? When I fry bacon it’s either black and sets off the fire alarm or is limp and gross.”
Dylan’s eyes twinkled. “Yeah, no one likes limp.”
I slapped his shoulder. “Hey, have you seen my phone?”
“Yes, it’s plugged in over there. It’s been ready to self-destruct for the last hour. Why do you think I keep inviting you to my house? I’d rather avoid the fire alarm.” He shrugged. “Though, I admit, it was nice to meet your neighbors when the firemen evacuated your floor.”
I contemplated slapping him again, but opted for shaking my head as I turned in the direction he’d pointed. “It wasn’t that bad,” I contended. “If you would’ve opened the window like I said, we could’ve avoided the entire fireman thing.”
“Sorry, I was busy putting out the flames.”
There had not been flames! But instead of correcting him, I swiped the screen of my phone to three text messages.
The first one was from Bernard. It simply had my name with a question mark. The second was from Tracy.
Tracy Howell: CHARLOTTE, ARE YOU FREE? CAN YOU MEET ME FOR LUNCH? TEXT ME, AND WE’LL SET A TIME.
I’d wondered what had happened to her. The last time we met, she’d told me she might have a new angle and when she knew more, she’d let me know. All that she’d said was that it might shed some light on a recurring injury. I hadn’t heard from her since.
Sitting at Dylan’s breakfast bar, I remembered what I’d wanted to ask him the night before; however, instead of jumping into real estate that I knew he couldn’t afford, I asked, “Do you need any help?”
“No, we don’t have time for fires.”
“Very funny. Fine. Have I told you about my parents?”
“A little,” he said with his attention more on the food. “Do you want an egg?”
“Sure.” I looked down at the third message.
Dina Rosemont: STELLA, IT’S DINA. WE’VE BEEN GETTING A FEW CALLS FROM OUR FLYERS. I’VE CONTACTED DPD, BUT IF YOU HAVE A MINUTE, CAN YOU CALL ME? I’D LIKE TO DISCUSS YOUR THOUGHTS ABOUT THIS WOMAN WHO’S CALLED TWICE.
“Stella?”
I looked up. “I’m sorry. What?”
“How do you want it?”
I moved my head back and forth. “Want what?”
He inhaled and exhaled. “Sex. Do you want it on the table or the floor? Maybe the counter?” He held up the spatula. “I’ve been thinking about our conversation last night, and I’m ready if you want to break my rules.”
“You’re hilarious.” My tone wasn’t amused.
“Your egg . . . scrambled, fried?”
“Oh, I don’t care. No matter how you make it, it’ll be better than the breakfast bar I usually eat.”
“What about your parents?” he asked. “I know they live in Chicago. You went to visit them a month or so ago.”
I had. After spending time with the Rosemonts, I’d wanted to hug my mom and dad. “Where are yours?” I asked.
He turned, his face suddenly solemn. “Umm. I’m sorry. I guess I planned on telling you this . . .”
I put my phone down and walked toward him. “What is it? I’m sorry. Is it bad?”
He shook his head as his shoulders moved up and down. “My parents died in a robbery gone bad. Same old adage: wrong place, wrong time. I was a senior in high school and they were on a business trip.” His glistening eyes drew me toward the blue. “That may be why I’m the way I am about you and Highland Heights. I don’t think I could take another . . .” He turned toward the sizzling pan on the stove.
I rubbed his back, not knowing what to say.
After he’d flipped the egg, he turned back and kissed my cheek. “You’re trying to distract me from my cooking, aren’t you? You’re secretly into firemen more than cops and didn’t know how to break it to me.”
I stepped behind him, wrapped my arms around his waist, and put my cheek against his shoulder. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have just blurted that out. Do you have other family?”
“No siblings, I had grandparents. My mom’s parents stepped in after . . . well, since I was already eighteen, it was more of a formality. They’re both gone now: grandfather by cancer and grandmother, six months later, by a broken heart. See, there’s nothing good in that story. I guess that’s why I haven’t said anything.”
I feigned a smile. “So no rich uncle?”
He spun toward me. “Why would you even say that?”
I shook my head. “It’s nothing. I just . . . in a couple of months it’ll be our first Christmas together”—I shrugged—“unless you get rid of me before then because of my cooking.”
He reached for a plate and plopped a fried egg in the center. “No need for two cooks in the kitchen. I’ve been doing this as long as I remember. Cooking was something I enjoyed doing with my mom, and after . . . it reminded me of her.”
I swallowed my sorrow. “With everything . . . I guess more because of Mindy . . . I want to spend time with my parents at Christmas. I was wondering if you’d be willing to come with me to Chicago.”
He walked our plates to the breakfast bar. “I usually work the holidays. That way the people who actually have families can have the time off. Besides, I look forward to that check: it’s overtime—time and a half plus holiday pay.”
“You’ve been with DPD long enough, you can get the time off, can’t you? Please see if you can get it off. My folks will love you. My mom talks way too much, especially after a few glasses of wine, and my dad is great, a little quiet until you get to know him. We just can’t tell him you’re a Tigers fan. He’s really into baseball, and the Cubs have always been his team.” I tried lightening the mood. “However, I’m warning you right now, watch out for my little sister. She’s recently gone through a divorce.” I tightened my smile and moved my shoulders. “And I’ll be honest: I don’t think there’s a male who’s safe within fifty feet of her, but don’t worry, I promise to run interference.”
Dylan winked as he took a bite of his toast. “Wait, before you run interference, let me know, can she cook?”
“Yep, I taught her everything she knows.”
“Hmm, so her ex was the one who filed, right?”
I shook my head. It was good to see his smile. My phone buzzed and I swiped the screen. Exhaling, I said, “That’s number two from His Majesty, Bernard.”
“Even a royal summons can’t keep you from your breakfast.”
Carefully I stacked the egg and bacon on one half of the toast and put the other half on top. “Look. I’ve got this! I’m an eat-on-the-run expert.” Kissing his cheek, I said, “Please think about asking for the time off.”
He slipped his fingers in the belt loops of my slacks and pulled me close. “Promise me, no Highland Heights.”
All I could see was blue, the same eyes that only minutes ago had been sad. “I’ll do my best.”
“Don’t forget,” he said with another sexy wink, “I have my spatula, and I’m willing to use it.”
“Maybe you could use one from my kitchen. It’s less likely to be in the dishwasher.”
He grinned as I picked up my egg-and-bacon sandwich and grabbed a napkin. On my way to WCJB, I planned to call Bernard. However, sitting in my car, instead of thinking about my boss, my thoughts went to Dylan. Maybe it was time to take the next step. I was ready to let Fred visit.
As I drove I decided that Foster obviously had the wrong Dylan Richards. The one I’d just left had no rich uncle, had no family to speak of, and was willing to work Christmas for the extra money. It didn’t take an investigative journalist to know he couldn’t afford a $1.4 million home in a rich
neighborhood.
After finishing my breakfast sandwich, I checked the clock. Since Dina Rosemont lived near San Francisco and it was three hours earlier there, her call would need to wait. As I waited to access the interstate in a slow-moving line of traffic, I pecked a text message to Tracy.
Stella: LUNCH SOUNDS GREAT UNLESS I’M CALLED AWAY. TELL ME WHEN AND WHERE.
And then one to Bernard.
Stella: I’M ON MY WAY, ABOUT THIRTY MINUTES OUT.
My phone immediately buzzed.
Bernard: MEET ME AT THE COFFEE SHOP. USUAL TABLE.
Shit!
My stomach twisted. No doubt he was pissed about my lack of progress. My continual dead ends were beginning to wear on me, and I was a hell of a lot more patient than he. I’d gotten my job based on results. In the last seven weeks I’d produced exactly nothing. I knew Bernard had faith in me, but faith wouldn’t keep me employed.
My lack of progress sure wasn’t for lack of trying. Since the afternoon I’d run near The Light, I’d spent most of my free time doing research, and not only at work. I’d spent hours alone in my apartment surfing the Net. After continually coming up empty on The Light, three nights ago I’d found something. It wasn’t about The Light, but it was interesting.
I was on one of those searches where I clicked site after site, following bread crumbs that kept me moving forward yet never seeming to reach a destination. I was about to call it a night when I poured one last glass of wine and stumbled across a blog post with an interesting thread of comments.
The original post was dated from over five years earlier, and buried deep in the Internet. It was written by a woman who claimed her daughter and son-in-law had been kidnapped by a cult. Though they’d disappeared, with the help of an investigator she’d located them. Once she did, she’d contacted the local police. Her daughter refused to speak to her, or anyone, but her son-in-law had sent a message saying that they were happy and willingly living within the community. Without probable cause, the local police refused to do any more. The woman took her concerns to the federal level, but without proof of wrongdoing, the authorities’ hands were tied. Her post asked for help understanding cults and asked why a young woman who had always had a good relationship with her family would suddenly turn her back on them.
Maybe it was the wine, but the post made me sad, and, of course, reminded me of Mindy. Though this woman’s situation was difficult, at least she knew her daughter was alive. The Rosemonts didn’t have that luxury. The last sentence warned people to recognize that even in this day and age, cults still existed.
Hours passed, and I found myself enthralled by the comment thread. The ones immediately following HeartbrokenMother372’s post were sympathetic to her plight. I continued reading, hoping that I’d learn if she’d ever gotten her daughter back. Unfortunately, I never saw anything else from HeartbrokenMother372, but the more I read, the more I wanted to know. With each comment I found myself questioning my belief and understanding of cults. There were more than a few posts that discounted their existence given modern technology, especially within the United States, stating the difficulty of being truly isolated in this day and age. I wondered if these people had ever heard of Waco.
With my bottle of wine about gone, I continued to read. Though none of the information I gleaned was referenced, I knew from experience that obscure sources often shed the most light. One man posted about his personal experience with living near what people in his community considered a cult. He called them a sect. He didn’t give the location of his town, city, or state, but he mentioned something about skiing. He also said that in all the years he’d lived there, he’d never seen any of the women or children who lived in the sect and had seen only a few of the men. Nevertheless he estimated that hundreds of people lived in the encampment. He claimed that the general consensus was that as long as the people in the sect didn’t bother the townspeople, the townspeople wouldn’t bother them.
As I scrolled I found posts referencing a group of people with whom I was familiar. After all, I’d lived in Michigan for many years and recognized the term Amish. It wasn’t uncommon in a rural area, especially south and east of where I lived now, down into Indiana, Ohio, and Pennsylvania, to drive over a hill and meet up with a horse and buggy. To me the Amish were always good, moral people who simply shunned technology. Though I couldn’t imagine not driving a car or having my cell phone with me at all times, I accepted them for who they were and had never considered them a cult, but the comments made me think.
The definition I’d seen earlier had said that a cult was a system of religious veneration and devotion directed toward a particular figure or object. I was relatively certain the Amish believed similarly to most Judeo-Christian groups.
Could that mean that cults didn’t need to have nonconventional beliefs? Could they truly exist in the open, where most outsiders turned a blind eye?
The comment that I hadn’t been able to shake was from a woman who claimed that for over a year she had been an unwilling member of a cult. The date on her post was from only one year earlier, and her online name was MistiLace92.
Everything else I’d read thus far had been from outsiders looking in. Even the original post was from a mother whose daughter had willingly gone to live with a group. This was different and made the hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention. I read the comment.
I don’t know what to do. I’m scared and need help. I just found this thread. I’m hoping someone will see this and know what to do. No one believes me, but I swear it’s true.
I lost over a year of my life to a cult. I’m afraid if I name them, they’ll hurt me. I just want people to know that this is real and it can happen to anyone.
During the year I was held captive, I watched people come willingly into this community. I wasn’t one of them, though I thought I was. Let me explain. One day I woke up and I was someone else, someone everyone knew, a follower of this group and of a man. I couldn’t remember anything prior to my waking. For some reason my mind played tricks on me. I was obviously the one with the issues. Everyone else knew me.
They told me I was married. I had no proof otherwise. My husband was abusive, yet I had no option but to be obedient. His behavior was accepted by everyone around me. It was the way the entire community lived. We all had jobs and requirements. I still don’t know exactly what I did; I helped to package things. I worked on an assembly line, and all I saw were plain boxes going into bigger plain boxes. Ten hours a day I did that. I wasn’t alone; everyone did something. The thing that’s hard to explain was that we all did it willingly. We weren’t paid, but we had food and shelter and friends. I accepted my life, until one day, when I was instructed to tell a new follower that she wasn’t new, that she belonged with us that I began to see. My husband told me it was our leader’s will and an honor to do his work. That was when my questions came back.
I wasn’t the woman they said I was. They’d done the same thing to me.
I know that if they find me, they’ll kill me. I just know it. Leaving wasn’t an option. There were select chosen members who decided the fate of others. I didn’t know them well, but if they considered me a threat, I’m sure I’d be eliminated—banished.
As soon as I got away, I told the police my story. They said I was crazy.
Before I disappeared, I had a drug problem. The police said that what I described was impossible. They said I’d hallucinated, and if I pursued my claims, they’d have me institutionalized.
Help! I want to tell my story. Someone please help me.
I wanted to comment, in hopes MistiLace92 would respond. Unfortunately, the comment thread had been closed.
As soon as I got to WCJB the next day, I contacted a friend with an affinity for everything computers. It took him all of fifteen minutes to track down the IP address for MistiLace92’s post. It originated from a public library in Columbia Falls, Montana. I called the Columbia Falls Police Department. It transferred me to three different people.
Finally I was informed that there weren’t records of a Misti or anyone else filing a report with such claims. I sent the comment and IP information to their e-mail address; minutes later I received a response claiming the IP address was incorrect. My friend swore it wasn’t.
I asked if there could possibly be a cult nearby. They told me no. A search for Misti Lace came up empty for that area; however, I found a Misti Lacey on the national registry of missing persons. Unfortunately, Misti Lacey’s only living relative, her mother, was now deceased. I’d hit another dead end.
I wasn’t sure if my interest in MistiLace92 was connected to my interest in Mindy, but whatever the reason, for the previous few nights, her story had haunted my dreams.
As I drove toward the coffee shop I still wondered: if MistiLace92 was really Misti Lacey, why was she still on the registry of missing persons? Her post had been made over a year ago.
Shouldn’t she be found?
CHAPTER 25
Sara
As I lay on my side, wrapped in Jacob’s embrace with his bare chest against my back, the skin-to-skin contact seemed right, yet I couldn’t shake the unfamiliarity of his stare. With our legs slightly bent, I caressed his arms and wondered about the blue eyes from my dreams. Maybe that was all they had been, a dream. I sighed and nuzzled my cheek against the pillow.
“You’ve been quiet since we came back from the community. Do you have something you want to say?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Are you sure?”
Closing my eyes, in the dark of the bedroom, forced the tear teetering on my lid to fall to the pillow below. Shaking my head, I said, “No, Jacob. I’m not sure of anything.”
We’d just made love and I was crying, not exactly what a husband wanted from his wife. There hadn’t been anything wrong with the sex—it was fine, just different from the previous night.