Chapter 21 #3

At the end of the hall is another staircase, and Clover stops to stare at it. She’s even paler than before, which I hadn’t thought was possible.

“That’s it,” she whispers. “Her office is up there.”

We approach slowly. Chief reaches for the doorknob at the top of the stairs and tests it.

Locked.

“That’s strange.” I hiss. “Roman said he cleared the place. Maybe it’s just stuck.” But I hold up one finger, telling Chief to wait.

Pulling out my phone, I shoot Roman another text.

Me: You cleared all the rooms? Third floor too?

Roman: Yes. Twice. We’re on the property. Where are you?

Me: Main building. Wait outside.

I pocket my phone, knowing he’ll follow orders. The last thing I want to do is spook Clover any more than she already is.

“Want me to—” Chief says, but I’m already shouldering past him.

“Turn around, and cover your head,” I say to Clover. She reacts without questioning me. It’s another sign that she’s in some state of shock. Clover always asks questions.

One good kick and the old lock gives way, the door swinging open with a crash that sends wood splintering in every direction.

The moment we enter, the smell nearly knocks me over.

Someone has been here recently. There’s lingering perfume, sharp and chemical. But underneath it is a hint of coffee and cigarette smoke.

Clover grasps for the wall, tilting sideways, and I rush to her side.

“What is it?” I ask, scanning the staircase behind her.

“It’s just…it’s a lot. I—I don’t think I was fully prepared for—for this. And that smell? Do you smell it? It’s…”

I haul her into my arms, holding her tight, breathing her in and hoping she can’t feel how hard my heart is beating.

I’m not prepared for the flashes of memories trying to take root in my brain any more than she’s ready to relive them.

“If it’s any consolation,” Chief says, “I don’t believe anyone could be prepared for this after what you’ve lived through, kid. You’re mighty brave, being here now.”

She shakes her head against my chest, but I hold her tighter.

Eventually, she pulls back and stands on her own two feet. “Let’s get this over with.”

Clover turns away from me and takes in the room.

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—”

I flip open the large binder with my shirt sleeve. Inside is at least ten years’ worth of madness, organized by date with notes in the margins. Analysis. Comments. Plans.

The very last page is a recent addition, dated two days ago.

They’re coming. Just as I planned. And then, together, we’ll finally be free.

“Valen.” Chief’s voice is tight. “You need to see this.”

He’s standing beside the bookshelf, pulling a table aside. Behind it is a small door, painted to blend with the wall, and easy to miss if you didn’t know what you were looking for.

“That’s…that’s my room.” Clover’s voice is void of all emotion. It’s so soft and eerily flat that I can’t breathe.

Chief tugs the door open, and the smell that wafts out makes me gag.

Not decay. Not death.

But obsession.

“Don’t,” I start to say, but Clover’s already pushing past me, into the hidden room.

She gasps.

Then she screams.