Facing her past

Could mean losing her future.

Running away had saved her life but Avery Samuels could run no longer. Having spent thirteen years in a cult, she was good at hiding, but Special Agent Nick Diaz needed Avery to face her past. Posing as Nick’s wife to infiltrate the cult was a dangerous plan. But Avery had a secret to uncover and Nick was the only man she trusted to make her nightmares disappear.

SUSAN CLIFF is a longtime romance reader, part-time writer and full-time California girl. She loves to daydream about exciting adventures in exotic locales. Her books feature heartfelt romance, gripping suspense and true-to-life characters. Get swept away with Susan Cliff!

Also By Susan Cliff

Witness on the Run

Infiltration Rescue

Team Twelve

Navy SEAL Rescue

Stranded with the Navy SEAL

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Infiltration Rescue

Susan Cliff

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-0-008-90528-6

INFILTRATION RESCUE

© 2020 Susan Cliff

Published in Great Britain 2020

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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“So I should try to get a hot blonde doctor in her early thirties?”

Her lips parted in surprise. He hadn’t intended to describe her, at least not consciously. “Sorry,” he said, clearing his throat. “I didn’t mean...”

“Me?”

He forced himself to meet her eyes. “I believe this is what you call a Freudian slip.”

Color rose to her cheeks at his rueful confession. The blush did nothing to detract from her beauty.

“I’m sure you wouldn’t want to—”

“Definitely not.”

They were agreed then. She’d rather jump off a bridge than pretend to be his wife, and he shouldn’t have implied that she’d be perfect for the role, because she wasn’t remotely qualified. He’d like to have her in his bed, but that was a different thing and also not happening. Nothing was happening.

Nothing whatsoever.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Introduction

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

About the Publisher

Chapter 1

Avery Samuels rested her forehead against the steering wheel and groaned.

It had been a hell of a day. A fifteen-year-old boy had come to school with a handgun. His actions had resulted in a campus lockdown, followed by an evacuation of students and staff. As the district psychologist, Avery was trained to handle intense situations, and to counsel students in the aftermath of traumatic events. She’d listened to frantic teens and parents while the young offender got dragged away in handcuffs. There would be more fallout tomorrow, but at least the incident hadn’t ended in bloodshed.

Trying to think positively, she gathered her belongings from the passenger seat. Rain pattered against the corrugated aluminum rooftop of the carport. It made a pleasant melody that neither lifted her spirits nor pummeled them further. Perhaps a cup of tea would do the trick. A cup of tea, some hot soup, cozy slippers. She felt a pang of sorrow for Smoke, who wouldn’t be there to greet her at the doorway. Her phone chimed inside her purse, reminding her of a text she’d ignored earlier. She’d been too busy to read it, much less respond. Retrieving the device, she checked the screen.

A man named Agent Diaz is on his way to see you. Please talk to him.

Avery frowned at the message from her aunt Ruth, who wasn’t really her aunt. She’d taken Avery in at thirteen and raised her like a daughter. They weren’t related by blood, but they were still close.

Avery put her phone back in her purse and exited the vehicle. She’d call Ruth as soon as she got out of the rain. She couldn’t imagine why Ruth wanted her to speak to an insurance agent—on a stormy evening, no less, after regular business hours. Avery didn’t like strangers coming to her home. Ruth knew that better than anyone.

Avery held her jacket over her head and made a mad dash from the carport to her upper-floor apartment. As she climbed the steps, she became aware of two figures on the landing. She didn’t see them until she’d almost reached her door. She’d been distracted by the challenge of navigating wet stairs in high heels, her vision obscured by rain, and the edges of her jacket. There also wasn’t much daylight left, at dusk.

She froze at the sound of a male voice. He gave an ordinary greeting, nonthreatening, but she hadn’t expected anyone to be standing there. His physical presence added to her unease. He was a dark shadow of a man, tall and broad-shouldered. Although she couldn’t see his face in the gloom, she knew he was a stranger. She faltered on the next step and lost her footing. She might have tumbled over the railing if the man hadn’t reached out to steady her. He grasped her elbow, quick as lightning. He’d probably saved her from a fall, but she didn’t thank him for the courtesy. She was too stunned by his speed and strength. His unyielding grip manacled her forearm, holding her prisoner.

The contact triggered something inside her, something twisted and tortured and long-buried. Adrenaline surged in her bloodstream. She forgot about Ruth and the insurance issue. She forgot about the stressful day at work, and her plans for a quiet evening. Her thoughts raced to her worst-nightmare scenario:

They’d found her. After all these years, they’d found her.

In her mind’s eye, she saw flashes of her childhood home. She remembered the rituals, the punishments. The horrors she’d escaped from. They couldn’t take her back there. Not without a fight. She reset her feet on the slippery landing, bracing for a struggle. She’d protect her freedom with whatever means necessary.

Instead of hauling her away, the man released her arm. “Sorry,” he said in an even tone. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

He had a faint Spanish accent. It was quite pleasant, really. Avery’s jacket slid from her slack hand, but she managed to hang on to her purse and briefcase. She glanced from the shadow-man to his less intimidating companion. A trim woman in her fifties stood at his elbow. They were both wearing raincoats over business attire.

These people weren’t from the cult. They were insurance agents.

Avery wilted against the railing, weak with relief. Laughter bubbled from her lips. She was still in a state of panic, her pulse pounding in her ears. She just needed a moment to collect herself. The deluge continued, unabated. The man studied her with interest. Rain plastered her hair to her head as she stared back at him. He looked like a professional. Even so, he didn’t fit her mental picture of an insurance salesman. He was too alert, too imposing. There was nothing jovial or benign about his expression.

The woman at his side flashed a badge on her waistband. “I’m Special Agent Richards. This is Special Agent Diaz. We’re with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

Avery blinked a few times as she digested the information. They were FBI agents. No wonder they were here after hours, standing in the rain with somber faces. She was afraid to ask what they wanted. Her tension resurged, making her shiver.

Special Agent Diaz spoke next. “Are you Avery Samuels?”

“Yes.”

“We have some questions for you.”

Special Agent Richards tilted her head toward the door. “Inside, if you don’t mind.”

Prompted into motion, Avery retrieved her jacket and fumbled for her keys. She entered the security code as soon as she stepped inside. They ventured in after her. She set her belongings on the entry table, feeling self-conscious. She must look like a drowned rat with her wet hair and smudged makeup. At least her apartment was presentable. She kept it tidy, even though she rarely entertained visitors. When she gestured at the coatrack, they hung up their dripping jackets next to hers.

“What’s this about?” she asked, swallowing hard.

“It’s about The Haven,” Diaz replied.

Although she’d suspected as much, hearing the words spoken out loud had a chilling effect. She balled her hands into fists, uncertain. She never talked about the cult. She wasn’t in contact with anyone from the commune. She’d left that life behind, but the fear had stayed with her. A part of her had always known her past would catch up to her. She just hadn’t expected it to arrive on her doorstep in the middle of a storm.

She smoothed her dripping hair and tried to stay calm. Aunt Ruth wanted her to talk to these people. Playing dumb wasn’t Avery’s strong suit, and lying to the FBI was a crime, so she gestured toward the living room. She would listen to their questions. When they found out how little she knew, they’d leave.

“Have a seat,” she said.

Special Agent Diaz waited for Avery and his partner to precede him. Avery sat down in her favorite reading chair. Richards got settled on the couch. Diaz took the space next to her, directly across from Avery.

She folded her hands in her lap. A multicolored blanket she’d knitted herself was draped over the side of the chair. She wished she could hide underneath it. Instead of dragging the cozy fabric over her trembling form, she focused on Special Agent Diaz.

He was nice to look at, if you liked rawboned men with big hands. She imagined most women did. He was ruggedly attractive, with hardened features that hinted at outdoor pursuits. His hair was dark and close-cropped, his collar damp. If his accent wasn’t enough to stir interest, the rest of him would do it. She was too nervous to examine his physique in detail, but she got the impression of a lean build. She guessed he was in his late thirties, younger than Richards by at least a decade. Richards was probably his superior, but she didn’t take the lead. The older woman seemed to be waiting for him to speak.

Diaz cleared his throat before he began. “I’m working with the Department of Homeland Security on a domestic terrorism investigation. There was an attack on FBI personnel by an underground militia known as the White Army. It’s a white nationalist group with religious ties. We believe they were organized by the leader of The Haven.”

Avery couldn’t hide her trepidation. This was worse than she’d thought. The cult leader wasn’t just preying on the innocent women and children under his wing. He was targeting law enforcement outside the commune. The FBI wouldn’t turn a blind eye on a terrorist attack. “What do you want from me?”

“We need information,” he said, leaning forward. “We know almost nothing about the cult or its practices. We’ve only recently learned of its existence.”

“Why do you think I can help you?”

“You’re the only former member we’ve been able to locate.”

“Who told you I was a member?”

“Weren’t you?”

Avery turned her attention to Richards. “Are you his boss?”

“I’m a liaison from the Portland office,” Richards said. “Investigators from out of state are required to coordinate with local law enforcement before they conduct interviews. He also thought you might feel more comfortable with a female agent present.”

Diaz didn’t deny the claim. His instincts were correct; Avery wouldn’t have let him inside her apartment if he’d come alone. She was wary of strangers, especially male strangers. Richards’s age and supervisory attitude helped. She had the air of an experienced matriarch who didn’t miss anything.

“How did you find me?” she asked him.

“I searched for adolescent wards of the state in this area. Your file mentioned a possible religious upbringing and unknown parentage. It’s unusual.”

“It’s also sealed.”

“I got a court order,” Diaz said.

Avery could connect the dots from there. He’d read her file and gone to Ruth for more information. Avery had changed her name after she’d reached adulthood, so he wouldn’t have been able to track her down without speaking to her “aunt” first. Ruth was the only one who could tell him about Avery’s strange origins. Ruth had trusted Diaz enough to share Avery’s most closely guarded secret.

Avery, however, did not trust him. She had a lot to lose by getting involved as a witness. She didn’t want to testify in court or become a target for a right-wing militia. And what relevant information could she offer at this point? She hadn’t been near the commune in twenty years. She didn’t even know its exact location.

“I was a child when I left,” she said. “My memories are...incomplete.”

Diaz’s gaze searched hers. “According to the sheriff’s report, you were thirteen. Old enough to survive in the woods on your own for several weeks. You must have walked a hundred miles, barefoot.”

She rose abruptly, her stomach queasy. She didn’t want to relive those days. She had no idea how far she’d walked, or how long she’d been living like an animal in the wilderness. Sleeping in the dirt. Eating bugs. “I need to make some tea.”

He settled back against the couch, unperturbed. “Take all the time you need.”

Richards started scrolling through her phone. It occurred to Avery that she should call someone to check their credentials. She couldn’t tell if they were legit by looking at them. Confirming their identities seemed wise before she agreed to share personal details. She crossed the room and dug her phone out of her purse. The screen showed another text message notification. It was Ruth again, asking if Avery was okay.

She wasn’t okay. She was on the verge of a meltdown. She had to tell two strangers about her disturbing childhood, because Ruth had directed them to her. Avery felt obligated to assist the investigation. Turning them away would be cowardly, and it went against her code of ethics. Maybe she could help disband the cult, and free its members from their psychological prison. Innocent lives were at stake.

She always encouraged the young people she worked with to talk about traumatic events. She asked them to share their feelings and allow themselves to be vulnerable. It was a healthy part of the grieving process. But this physician had never been able to heal herself.

After she put the teapot on the stove, and turned up the heat on the thermostat, she placed a call to the local FBI field office. She had to wait several minutes to speak with a real person. The staff member asked for badge numbers, which Richards and Diaz recited dutifully. They didn’t seem fazed by Avery’s diligence. The man on the phone identified both agents as genuine. As proof, he sent Avery a temporary text message with photo IDs attached. Avery studied an official picture of Diaz in a dark suit, holding his badge up. His first name was Nicolas. He looked younger, but not lighter of spirit. The photo stayed on her screen for about thirty seconds before it disappeared.

The teapot whistled, letting off steam. She fixed a tray with three mugs. Richards accepted a cup. Diaz declined. A manila folder had been placed on the surface of the table, along with a pen. Avery had to sign an agreement to be interviewed. She was assured that her statement would be kept confidential.

Diaz had an app on his phone to record their conversation. He also took out a writing pad to take notes by hand. He started by identifying himself, Special Agent Richards and Avery. She reached for the wool blanket and wrapped it around her body. Her fingers shook with apprehension.

“Do you have any questions before we begin?” Diaz asked.

“Yes. How did you know I walked a hundred miles?”

He removed a printed map from the folder. “According to our intelligence, the commune is off the grid in an undeveloped area of Northern California.” There was a mark on the spot. Diaz moved his fingertip north. “You turned up here, in Lorella, Oregon.”

Avery examined the distance. She hadn’t flown over those mountains. She’d hiked along trails and back roads when she could. When she couldn’t, she’d trekked through forests with thorny underbrush. “I had shoes.”

“Pardon?”

“I had shoes,” she said, moistening her lips. “I wore them until they fell apart. I wasn’t barefoot until the end.”

He lifted his gaze from the map. “Is that why you stopped in Lorella?”

She hadn’t stopped so much as she’d been caught raiding Ruth’s garden, but she didn’t say that. The memory made her stomach queasy. She’d gotten sick on summer squash and couldn’t move. Ruth had found her curled up in a sunflower patch, half-conscious.

“There are a dozen small towns between the commune and Oregon,” he said. “You didn’t seek help in any of them.”

“I wanted to leave California.”

“Why?”

“I thought Oregon was a different country, and that I’d be safe if I crossed the border.” It was an embarrassing admission, revealing the extreme isolation and ignorance she’d been kept in. Neither Diaz nor Richards appeared surprised by it.

Diaz rifled through the papers under the map. He had several color photographs of varying quality. The man in the first picture caused Avery’s blood to run cold. “Do you know who this is?”

She took another sip of tea before answering. The cult leader had more gray in his hair and beard, but she’d recognize him anywhere. She still had nightmares of being his child bride. “It’s Father Jeff.”

“What can you tell us about him?”

“He’s the leader of The Haven. The people worship him like a god.”

Diaz showed her another photo. “And this?”

Avery studied the bespectacled young man with black hair and serious eyes. He looked like the Father Jeff she’d known twenty years ago. Jeff had two sons around Avery’s age, by two different wives. Sister wives. “It looks like one of Jeff’s sons. Jonah.”

The next photo depicted a member of Jeff’s militia. He was wearing an army jacket, holding an AR-15. His belligerent scowl triggered Avery’s memory. “That’s Jeremiah,” she said. “I went to school with him.”

“But not Jonah?”

“Jonah had private lessons, separate from the rest of the children. Father Jeff said he was gifted.”

“Jeremiah wasn’t?”

“No. He had behavior problems. Always in trouble.”

“Did he get punished?”

She returned the photo to the stack. Although punishments for disobedience had been severe in the commune, she didn’t recall Jeremiah being forced to kneel in the corner or hit with a switch. As the leader’s firstborn son, he was given free rein. Avery had once spent an evening locked in the storm cellar for shoving Jeremiah after he’d pulled on her braids. The experience had taught her to endure his abuse without complaint.

It was a sad lesson, one of many in her childhood, but it had a silver lining. The resentment she’d carried over the incident had given fuel to her rebellion. Without Jeremiah’s bullying, and those hours in the dark, tomb-like space, she wouldn’t have drummed up the courage to escape. The cellar story was unpleasant, and indicative of the emotional torment she’d been subjected to. Even so, it paled in comparison with the events surrounding her mother’s death. She didn’t know if she was capable of recounting that tale.

“Ms. Samuels?” Diaz prompted.

“I don’t remember him being punished,” she said. “He was a year older, and we weren’t in the same classes. Boys and girls were separated.”

“How was the community structured outside of school?”

She set her tea aside, thinking. “It was highly gendered. Ruled by male elders. Women were expected to stay home and care for children. Some girls were chosen as brides as soon as they turned fourteen. Others were allowed to wait.”

“Did they marry boys their age?”

“No, they didn’t. Boys had to work in a trade for fourteen years before they became eligible for marriage. The youngest husbands were twenty-eight. After fourteen more years, they could ask for a second wife, but not everyone earned this honor. It was reserved for Father Jeff’s most loyal followers.”

“How many wives did he have?”

“Three, when I left.”

“At thirteen.”

“Yes.”

“Were you chosen as a bride?”

“I might have been, if I’d stayed.”

“Is that what prompted your decision to leave?”

She glanced at Richards, moistening her lips.

Diaz interpreted her reluctance clearly. “Would you rather continue without me? I can leave the room.”

“No,” Avery said. He was a good interviewer, and the warmer personality of the two. Her reticence had little to do with him, though she found it difficult to meet his eyes. They were too intense, too arresting. She also didn’t want to continue, period. She wouldn’t feel comfortable talking about this to anyone. “I ran away for two reasons. First, because I didn’t want to get married at fourteen. Father Jeff had already told my stepfather that I’d become a bride on my birthday, to whomever he selected as my husband.”

“What did your stepfather say?”

“Nothing. He was okay with it, but my mother cried when she found out. She thought I was too young. She begged him to ask Father Jeff to wait another year.”

“Did he?”

“No.”

“She accepted his decision?”

“No, she didn’t,” Avery admitted. “She talked about running away as soon as the weather cleared. Then she got pregnant, after a series of miscarriages. She wasn’t in any position to leave with me, and I wouldn’t go on my own.”

“What specific events led to your escape?” Diaz asked.

“My mom went into labor that summer, a month before her due date. The midwife came to help. I knew something was wrong, but I wasn’t allowed in the room. I could hear her screaming.” She exhaled a ragged breath, blinking rapidly. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he said. “Take your time.”

After a short pause, she continued. “My stepfather slapped me for getting hysterical. He told me to pray for her, so I did. I prayed for hours.” She omitted the visit by Father Jeff, who’d attempted to console her in the creepiest manner possible. “When they finally let me see her, it was too late.”

Neither Richards nor Diaz expressed any condolences. Avery appreciated their silence while she regained her composure. Talking about her mother’s death hadn’t torn her apart as much as she’d expected, but she had a lot of practice holding her emotions at bay. She pushed past the pain in her chest and forced the words out. “I asked to be alone with her to say goodbye. Then I climbed out the window and started running. I thought I’d be killed if I got caught, but I didn’t care. Death seemed better than staying in the commune and marrying an old man. So I jumped the fence and ran into the woods, as far as I could. I didn’t have any food or water. I didn’t even have a jacket. I almost gave up the first night.”

“What kept you going?”

“Grief, I guess. Fear.” Tears flooded her eyes, finally. Proof that she had real emotions. “Also, I was lost. I couldn’t have found my way back if I wanted to.”

Diaz offered her his handkerchief. It was an ordinary gray pocket square, nothing fancy. Richards’s brow furrowed with disapproval, as if she thought he was overdoing the chivalry. Avery didn’t agree. Touched by the gesture, she accepted the square of fabric.

“Was there a road?”

“There was a dirt road, only accessible by SUVs. I stayed far away from it because I could hear them looking for me. I headed east, toward the sunrise. Then I followed a creek alongside the highway. If I saw a person, I’d hide.”

“What did you drink?”

“I stole a jug from a construction site and filled it up wherever I could.” She didn’t say what she’d eaten, because she couldn’t bear to think about it. “By the time I got to Oregon, I was starving. I raided Ruth’s garden one afternoon. I didn’t even wait until dark.”

“She gave us a picture of you,” Diaz said, reaching into the file folder.

Avery hadn’t seen the photo before. She was in a hospital bed, eyes closed, with an IV in her thin arm. She looked wild and emaciated. Her hair was tangled with debris, her face dirty. Although she didn’t recognize herself in the photo, she felt exposed by it all the same. She felt like an oddity to be studied by scientists. A feral creature. No wonder Ruth had taken her in. She’d always had a soft spot for wounded animals.

Avery turned the picture facedown and slid it across the table. Now it was impossible to meet Diaz’s eyes. She didn’t know why she felt so ashamed. It wasn’t her fault that she’d been a victim of childhood trauma. She vastly preferred being on the other side of the couch, doing the psychoanalyzing.

Diaz tucked away the photo without comment. Maybe he admired her courage, but what she saw in the image wasn’t that. It was weakness and vulnerability. She couldn’t confront the visual evidence of her worst experience, even if it had resulted in a triumph of sorts. She’d escaped the cult, against all odds. But she’d also left her heart behind.

“Are we finished?” she asked in a light tone.

“Not quite,” Diaz said.

She furrowed a hand through her still-damp hair. “I’m sorry, but it’s been a long day, and I have some work to catch up on.”

A muscle in his jaw flexed, drawing her attention to the fine grains of stubble there. “I wish I could offer to come back at a more convenient time. Unfortunately, I have to return to Sacramento tomorrow morning to attend a colleague’s funeral.”

Avery felt a stab of sympathy. “My condolences.”

Diaz inclined his head in acknowledgment.

“Was he killed in the line of duty?”

“Yes. He was shot by a member of Silva’s militia.”

Her stomach fluttered with unease. No wonder Diaz was on a tear to locate cult members and ferret out information. He had a fallen comrade to avenge, and a narrow window of opportunity to complete this interview.

Diaz leaned forward to press his advantage. “This investigation is of grave importance, Ms. Samuels. I’d appreciate your cooperation. I have a lot of questions, and you might be the only person who knows the answers.”

“I’ve already told you everything I remember.”

“I don’t believe that.”

Her lips parted in surprise. He’d been polite and friendly, thus far. She’d expected him to listen to her story, make the appropriate noises and go away. It hadn’t occurred to her that he’d accuse her of withholding information.

She rose to her feet abruptly. “I haven’t eaten all day.”

Diaz glanced at Richards, who whipped out her phone. “I’ll order pizza. Why don’t we take a break and regroup?”

Avery didn’t argue, though she had no desire to dine with them. She realized she still had Diaz’s handkerchief crushed in her hand. She tossed it on the coffee table and strode down the hall, into the bathroom. She stared at her reflection in the mirror, trying to summon a cool, confident expression.

Instead she saw the wild, desperate girl from the photo, her gaunt features superimposed over Avery’s.

Chapter 2

Nick tucked away his pocket square and rose to his feet.

He rotated his head, trying to relieve some tension. He’d caught the red-eye to Portland this morning, and he’d spent most of the day in the passenger seat of Richards’s government-issued sedan. Although he was no stranger to long hours in cramped spaces, he was wound up pretty tight right now. He needed an extended session in the gym, a stiff drink and some sweaty, anonymous sex to take the edge off.

That last part was wishful thinking. He’d settle for a full night’s sleep. Actually, he’d prefer it, because he was exhausted. He knew he’d been working too much when going to bed early appealed to him more than getting lucky, even after a long drought.

Richards ordered a couple of pizzas while Samuels was in the bathroom. Nick’s visit with Ruth Garrison in Lorella had felt like a huge break. He’d almost given up on finding a former Haven member to interview. Now that he had one in his sights, he couldn’t afford to lose her, and his instincts told him he was on the verge.

Richards gave him an assessing glance as she set her phone aside. She was an experienced agent and a smart liaison. She’d let him take the lead all day, supervising rather than participating, and he liked that. He hadn’t needed her assistance—until now. He gestured for her to join him in the corner of the room for a quick conference.

“Was I too harsh?” he asked quietly.

“No. You were fine.”

“I think she’s holding back.”

“Let her.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “What do you mean, let her?”

“If she’s not comfortable with personal questions, don’t ask them. You don’t need her to recount every painful experience.”

Nick wanted to know if someone had abused her, so he could prosecute the sick bastard. He wanted to take down Silva, his militia and the entire community of backwoods, brainwashed child molesters.

Richards put a hand on his forearm. “Slow down and focus on what you can get, which is general information about the commune and its members. Try treating her like a consultant, instead of a victim.”

Nick massaged the nape of his neck, nodding his agreement. Richards seemed confident in her assessment, and he believed in female intuition. Most FBI agents were men, and not all of them had the communication skills to be successful interviewers. The job required listening to subtext and interpreting body language. Women were often better at that. They could evaluate emotional responses and read facial expressions with greater accuracy. Nick still wasn’t sure where he’d gone wrong with Avery Samuels. She hadn’t been eager to talk about her past, obviously. Then the hospital photo had upset her. He’d thought the image would spark her memories, not shut them down.

Getting personal wasn’t working. Richards had that right.

He also had to admit he’d been rattled by the pretty psychologist from the start. When he’d grasped her elbow to prevent her from falling on the stairs, and she’d gazed up at him with trepidation, he’d been thunderstruck.

He didn’t understand his reaction. Her beauty hit him like a punch in the gut, but he’d seen beautiful women before. She was a blue-eyed blonde, pale-skinned and stylishly dressed, with a smattering of freckles across her nose. He didn’t favor blondes in particular. He liked nice curves, and she had those, but he’d hardly noticed her figure. He was too captivated by her rain-splattered face.

Good looks alone weren’t enough to send him into a stupor, so he figured there was something else at play. He’d felt a magnetic pull that went deeper than surface attraction. Which was odd, because she’d clearly been repelled by him, at first glance. He’d noted her stance. She’d been ready to fight him.

Richards had introduced them while he pulled himself together. It had taken several minutes to regulate his heartbeat. He’d tried not to stare, because it wasn’t professional to ogle an interviewee. It certainly wouldn’t win her trust or put her at ease.

Samuels returned to the living room now, her expression subdued. She’d put on a soft cardigan and black-framed reading glasses. She’d also exchanged her fashionable heels for a pair of fuzzy slippers. She looked adorable, if a bit miffed by his parting insinuation that she wasn’t telling him the whole story.

“I ordered a large pepperoni and a large veggie,” Richards said.

“Sounds good,” Samuels replied, avoiding Nick’s gaze. She seemed reluctant to sit down with him again.

Treat her like a consultant.

Nick picked up his file folder from the coffee table. He had aerial photos of the commune inside his briefcase, but he needed more space to display them. He approached the kitchen table. “Do you mind if I work here?”

“No.”

“Feel free to get caught up on whatever you need to do,” he said. “We can reconvene after the pizza’s delivered.”

Nick got busy arranging his images. She sat down at a computer desk and started typing. Richards gave him a nod of encouragement. He was on the right track. He couldn’t force Ms. Samuels to answer his questions, but he could give her some breathing room. He hoped she’d cooperate, because she was his only source of information. He wished he had several days to work on her, instead of one night.

The pizza came while he organized his photos and jotted down a new list of questions. Samuels offered him a glass of agua mineral, which he accepted. The pizza boxes had been placed on the kitchen counter. He grabbed a paper plate and inhaled a couple of slices where he stood. Samuels’s apartment was cozy and spotless. It looked like an Instagram layout, with perfectly coordinated furniture and warm accent colors. There were several framed photos hanging on the wall. One of Ruth in the garden. Two of a fluffy tabby that he hadn’t seen any evidence of. A fourth of Samuels standing on a beach with a stunning dark-skinned woman. They were both smiling. It said Best Friends across the top.

There were no men in the pictures. No men in her life?

Samuels noticed him snooping, so he gestured toward the wall. “You have a cat?”

“Smoke died last month. Old age.”

“Sorry to hear that,” he said, and meant it. Nick hadn’t expressed condolences about her mother’s death, but he’d been in interview mode, and the incident was twenty years in the past. He’d also sensed that she didn’t want to get too emotional. He could relate. He glanced around the apartment again, contemplative. There was an emptiness to it, despite the pleasant decor. Perhaps the cat had filled the space.

Samuels moved toward the dining table. She wanted to get this over with.

Nick was ready. He finished his last bite of pizza, wiped his mouth with a napkin and tossed his paper plate in the trash. They gathered in the kitchen area, which felt more casual than the living room. He took a seat across from Samuels and set his phone to Record while Richards lurked in the periphery.

“I’m interested in the daily operations of the commune,” he said. “Can you identify any of these buildings, and tell me what they’re used for?”

Samuels had no problem with this task. She pointed out the church, school and cafeteria. It was set up like a summer camp, with family cabins and communal areas. There was a playground, sports field and acres of farmland.

So far, so good.

“This building wasn’t there before,” she said, indicating Silva’s compound. Her nails were short and painted with midnight-blue polish that accentuated her pale skin. The style struck him as sexy and modern, if a bit witchy.

“That’s where Silva lives.”

She flinched at the mention of the cult leader. “It looks like a fortress.”

“Yes.”

Frowning, she moved her fingertip to a cluster of cabins in the center of the commune. “He used to live here, near the church.”

He wondered which cabin she’d lived in. “According to our intel, Jeff Silva stays in a separate compound with his wives and children. He visits The Haven, but he’s not involved in its daily operations. He’s become fixated on building his militia, and hatching terrorist plots, while Jonah manages the commune.”

If she found the arrangement odd, she didn’t comment. “What are you going to do with this information?”

He leaned back in his chair, weighing his response.

“If you had enough evidence to make an arrest, you wouldn’t be here,” she pointed out. “How does studying the commune help your investigation?”

“We tried getting to Silva by approaching him as an ally to his antigovernment cause. That ended in the death of an experienced undercover agent.”

“A colleague of yours?”

“I knew him, yes.”

“So now you’re considering, what? Trying to infiltrate the cult?”

It was exactly what he intended, but he couldn’t talk about the details. Also, he had no idea how he’d accomplish the task, or if he could get clearance for another undercover operation. “I’m just collecting intel,” he said, keeping it vague. “The Haven doesn’t have a website. They don’t use technology. They’re completely isolated. Which is why I need to collaborate with someone who’s been inside.”

She seemed to like this word, collaborate. It played to her strengths as a problem-solver. He didn’t have photos of any individual members, other than Jeff and his sons. He asked her for the names of Silva’s top followers. She recited at least a dozen before drawing a blank.

“Do you remember who did the farming?” he asked.

“The young men, mostly. They worked in the fields every summer.”

“Who was in charge of the crops?”

“Brother Michael,” she said, after a moment. “He was the head farmer.”

Nick examined the fields again. Upon closer inspection, the crops didn’t appear healthy or well-maintained. That could be a serious issue for a community that lived on food they grew themselves. He wrote down the name and circled it, pleased with their progress. Richards’s advice had been spot-on.

“Where were you born?” Samuels asked him.

“Venezuela.” Nick glanced up from his notebook. “Why?”

“I thought I heard an accent.”

His brows rose in surprise. Most people didn’t notice his accent, which was almost indiscernible these days. It tended to show up when he was exhausted, tongue-tied...or in the throes of passion. He couldn’t remember the last time a woman had commented on it. “You have a good ear.”

She studied him with interest. “How long have you lived here?”

“Twenty-five years.”

“You came with your parents?”

“No.”

She didn’t press for the backstory, so he kept it to himself. He wasn’t here for a personal analysis, though he wouldn’t say no to a session on her couch. In his fantasy scenario, she didn’t ask intrusive questions. They didn’t talk at all.

He frowned at the direction of his thoughts. Imagining Ms. Samuels in a compromising position wasn’t appropriate. She was examining his mouth, as if still pondering his accent. Her gaze lowered to his right hand, lightly gripping a pencil. When she moistened her lips, his pulse jumped with excitement.

Santa Maria.

He set aside his notebook, his neck hot. He needed to get a hold of himself. Actually, he needed to get out of here. According to his phone, two hours had elapsed since they’d had pizza. It was late, and he was losing focus.

“Can I email you the rest of my questions?” he asked. “I have to wrap this up.”

“Sure,” she said, seeming relieved. There were dark circles under her eyes. She looked like she needed a good night’s sleep as much as he did, not a hot time in bed. He felt a stab of guilt for letting his imagination run wild.

He scrawled down her personal email and gathered his photos. The interview had gone well, despite the rough spots. He’d gained a wealth of information. He was reluctant to leave because there was so much more to learn. They’d barely scraped the surface. Instead of dwelling on what he was missing, he organized his files and put them away. Samuels stood by the door to see them out. They exchanged a polite handshake. Then he grabbed his jacket and stepped into the rainy night.

Richards walked toward her car, which was parked on the street nearby. He lifted his face to the sky and let the moisture cool his overheated skin. His neck muscles were still sore, his eyes grainy with fatigue. But he felt revitalized, rather than drained. He felt electric.

“You want me to take an Uber?” he asked, following Richards.

“Where’s your hotel?”

He consulted his phone. “It’s a mile from the field office.”

“I’ll drop you off. It’s no trouble.”

Shrugging, he climbed in the passenger seat. “Thanks for your help today.”

“Just doing my job,” she said.

“How did you know that would work? Treating her like a consultant?”

“I interviewed a detective once who’d been the victim of a home invasion robbery. It was difficult to get a detailed statement from him. He couldn’t stand being on the other side of an investigation.”

Nick mulled that over in silence. Some victims refused to talk, for a variety of reasons. Others were eager to make a statement. They wanted to be heard. They wanted justice. Samuels spent her days listening to troubled kids, helping them overcome trauma. She clearly preferred that to telling her own story.

“Are you thinking about going under?” Richards asked.

“Yes.”

“How will you get in?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “They don’t actively recruit, and my SAC might refuse to green-light another undercover op, considering how the other ended. But I’d like to submit a proposal and see what happens.”

“Have you done that kind of work before?”

“Only short assignments. Nothing deep.”

She was quiet for a moment. “You should be careful about approaching Samuels for a follow-up.”

“Why is that?”

“She liked you.”

He tried to look casually disinterested, while his heart was pumping out of his chest. “You think so?”

“Yes, and it could be a problem, especially if her feelings are reciprocated.” She gave Nick a sideways glance that said she knew damned well this was the case. “You don’t want to muddy the waters by getting involved with a contact.”

He didn’t bother saying that he couldn’t get involved with Samuels from a distance. There were many ways to engage in sexual misconduct online. “Thanks for the advice,” he said, meaning mind your own business.

She smiled at his glib response. “You’re funny, Diaz. How close were you to the colleague you lost?”

“He was like a brother to me.”

“Is this a revenge mission?”

Nick moved his gaze to the rain-slick street, blurred red from brake lights. Then he gave an answer straight from the FBI handbook: “The best revenge is justice.”

Chapter 3

Avery thought of Special Agent Diaz often after their first meeting.

Over the course of the interview she’d gone from wishing he’d never found her to hoping he’d come back for another visit. Maybe the stress of the day and her heightened emotions had triggered a hormonal response, making him seem intensely attractive. As the evening wore on, she’d relaxed enough to study him in greater detail. She found herself glancing at his ring finger, which was bare. She liked his face, with its strong features and hawkish nose. She liked his voice, his accent, his watchful eyes.

Even his emails were kind of hot. He wrote a brief thank-you note about an hour after he left her apartment. She’d been sitting at her computer, too keyed up to sleep. When her email notification dinged, she’d felt a jolt of anticipation.

Of course, the note had been strictly professional. “I look forward to our next communication,” he wrote, which didn’t mean anything, but her cheeks had flushed with pleasure as if it was a flowery line from a love poem. She hadn’t answered the email that evening. She had no reason to get excited. She didn’t want to talk about the cult, no matter how sexy he was. This wasn’t going anywhere fun. There would be no intimate exchanges, no harmless flirting, no sexting.

Definitely no sexting.

Diaz wasn’t an appropriate candidate for a crush. He lived in another state. He probably adhered to a strict code of conduct prohibiting him from dating anyone he met on the job. He was out of reach, off-limits and unsafe. He worked in a dangerous profession. He’d scared the hell out of her on her doorstep and pressed her for uncomfortable information. She didn’t know why she was so interested in him. She wasn’t the best at self-evaluation, but even she could admit her reaction was strange. He represented a link to The Haven, the source of her worst nightmares and most painful memories. She should be giving him the cold shoulder, not getting all hot and bothered over him.

After a long deliberation, she replied to his email the following afternoon. She waited for his response with bated breath. He sent a list of follow-up questions a day later, as an attachment, with the request for as much detail as she could remember. He thanked her in advance for her time. Some of her giddiness dimmed as she read the list, which was extensive. His questions weren’t overly personal, but they also weren’t simple. They involved social structure and family connections. They required a deep dive into a subject she’d rather avoid, and a past she’d rather forget. She closed the document with a shudder. She made a mental note to deal with it over the weekend.

Saturday dawned bright and gorgeous, drawing Avery out of her apartment. She had plans to meet Ruth at the Spring Tulip Festival. They went every year with Ruth’s nephew, Chuck, and his adorable family. Avery had bought a new dress for the occasion.

She found Chuck and Laura at the festival entrance, loaded up with kid gear. Strollers, diaper bags, sippy cups. They were the parental equivalent of doomsday preppers, ready for any small disaster. Chuck had one toddler in his arms and the other hanging off his ankle. Avery smiled at him and hugged Laura.

“They’re getting so big,” Avery said, gesturing toward the older boy, Tyson. “When are you going to have another?”

“Never,” Laura said, and they both laughed.

Chuck gave Avery a dutiful peck on the cheek. “You look great.”

“So do you.”

He was the closest thing she had to a brother, and she enjoyed his company, but they didn’t see each other often. She told herself he was busy with his family, and that was true. It was also true that Avery enjoyed her solitude. She attended these get-togethers because Ruth invited her. She didn’t feel like she belonged, not really. She was a late arrival to the Garrison clan, and a bit of an odd duck. Chuck used to say she’d hatched from an egg in Ruth’s garden. He knew only part of the story.

Avery spotted Aunt Ruth, who was in line buying the festival tickets, and waved. They went through the front gate and down the midway together. It was a warm day, borderline muggy from the recent rains. After a stroll among the flower fields and vendor stalls, Chuck offered to buy everyone an ice cream. They found a picnic table in the shade to enjoy their cones. Laura took a seat next to Avery. Together, they watched the people in the crowd pass by. An attractive young couple caught Avery’s eye. The woman had a baby in a carrier strapped to her chest and another child in a stroller, which she was attempting to navigate over bumpy ground. Meanwhile, the man she was with chatted on his cell phone, unencumbered.

Laura made a gun shape with her thumb and forefinger, shooting the gross offender. “What a jerk.”

“Does Chuck ever do that?” Avery asked.

“Not in public. At home, he pretends not to see the dirty dishes.” She switched focus to a second man in the crowd. “TDB alert,” she said. “Tall, dark and bearded.”

Avery chuckled in approval, licking her ice cream.

“Are you dating anyone?” Laura asked. The inevitable question.

“No.”

Laura shook her head in disappointment. “You’re supposed to tell me about your single-girl escapades so I can get a vicarious thrill.”

Avery smiled gamely. “Sorry. I’ve been swamped at work.”

“Next time,” Laura said, elbowing her. “Or I’m going to let Chuck set you up with one of his college friends again.”

Avery groaned in protest. Chuck meant well, but she didn’t want him picking her dates. The last guy he’d selected had been a coffee shop barista who still lived with his parents. They hadn’t hit it off.

Ruth broke in with a suggestion for Laura. “Why don’t you take a walk with Chuck? I’ll watch the little ones.”

Laura leaped to her feet eagerly. Chuck put his arm around her shoulders, and she leaned toward him to whisper something as they strolled away. He threw back his head and laughed. Watching them, Avery felt a pang of something she couldn’t quite name. It wasn’t envy, because she didn’t want what Chuck had. It was the feeling of being an outsider, looking in.

Her melancholy thoughts were interrupted by Tyson coming at her with sticky hands. Avery grabbed a paper napkin and attempted to clean him up. He turned into a limp noodle, boneless on the ground. Ruth clapped at the performance. Then she scooped Tyson into her arms and kissed his chubby cheek.

“You didn’t say much about Agent Diaz,” Ruth said.

“There wasn’t much to say.”

Ruth arched a brow of disbelief.

“Why would you tell him where I grew up?”

“He already knew.”

“He suspected. That’s not the same as knowing.”

“Well, he acted pretty sure, and he was easy on the eyes. Maybe you noticed?”

“I noticed.”

“You should thank me for sending a man that handsome your way.”

“You sent him to interview me, not ask me out.”

Ruth shrugged, as if Avery was splitting hairs. Avery sighed in irritation. She wished Ruth hadn’t been so eager to cooperate with Agent Diaz. His visit had thrown Avery for a loop, and the fact that he was good-looking didn’t soften the blow. If anything, it made the knife twist a little deeper. She couldn’t stop thinking about him.

She didn’t need help finding a man, however. She was fine with being single. Not everyone wanted to get married and have babies, like Chuck. She’d rather focus on her career. It had taken her longer to finish school because of the gaps in her education, so she’d been a full-time psychologist for only two years. She was still getting established in her field. She also wasn’t ready to give up her independence. She might never be ready. The family model she’d grown up with had soured her on holy unions.

Tyson demanded to see the farm animals, so they walked over to the pens to indulge him. Ruth held hands with both children, cooing over the curly-tailed piglets while Avery stood nearby, her mind in turmoil.

Ruth bought each of the boys a handful of feed for lambs. Jake, who was only two, seemed wary of the nibbling mouths. Instead of holding out his palm, he threw his pellets in the face of a bleating mama.

Avery laughed at his impulsive choice. At the same time, tears she didn’t understand pricked her eyes. Then Jake started crying, because his pellets were gone, and they all went back to the shade to cool off. Ruth scrubbed their little hands with wet wipes again and gave them a bag of crackers she found in the stroller.

“You never talk about it,” Ruth said, picking up the pieces of their conversation. “Chuck doesn’t know the details. He doesn’t know why you...”

“What?”

“Avoid him.”

“I don’t avoid him,” Avery said, dismayed. “I’m right here.”

“You’ve been distant. More so since the kids came.”

Avery had a hard time digesting this criticism. She wanted to say that Chuck wasn’t her real cousin, but she could make the same claim about Ruth. They were the only family she had. “Did he say something?”

“No.”

Relief coursed through her, because she cared about Chuck’s opinion. Blood relation or not, she loved him. “I’ll do better.”

Ruth’s blue eyes softened with sympathy. “I didn’t mention it to make you feel bad.”

“Why did you mention it?”

“Because it’s all related. Your refusal to discuss your childhood, your withdrawal from family gatherings, your avoidance of men and relationships. You can’t just bury the past and pretend it doesn’t affect you.”

Avery tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Who’s the psychologist, you or me?”

Ruth smiled at the joke. They both were.

“I talked to Diaz, you know. I told him about my mother.”

“Good.”

“He sent me a list of follow-up questions.”

“Oh?”

“I’ll answer him.” At some point.

“What’s he going to do, raid the place?”

“He won’t say. I think he wants to arrest Silva.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re cooperating with him. Maybe he can help you get some closure. For the infant.”

Avery flinched at the suggestion. This was the most off-limits part of the discussion, the darkest of dark secrets. She didn’t talk about her childhood for a reason. She couldn’t speak of the little life she’d left behind. Since it was born premature, she’d always assumed the baby had died. Not knowing for sure ate away at her, but she refused to contemplate the possibilities.

“I should go,” she said.

“Avery,” Ruth scolded mildly.

“What?”

“I just want you to be happy.”

“I am happy.”

“You haven’t settled down with anyone.”

“I’m a free spirit.”

Ruth gave her a skeptical look. “Is that so?”

“Yes. I learned from the best.”

Ruth laughed at this, unoffended. She collected lovers with the carefree ease of a hippie at a drum circle. But she wasn’t afraid to risk her heart, like Avery. She’d been married to the love of her life, who’d died young.

“I don’t need a man to complete me.”

“No, you don’t.”

For some reason, Ruth’s good humor and placid agreements bothered Avery more than her well-intended prodding. Tears pricked her eyes once again. She said goodbye to the boys, hugged Ruth and left. She practically ran out to the parking lot. The hitch in her chest didn’t ease as she drove home.

It lingered late into the evening, like a storm cloud hanging over her head. She tried going to bed early, but sleep eluded her. She threw off the blankets and returned to her laptop. Maybe she needed to exorcize her demons before she could rest easy. She opened a blank document and filled the page with the information Diaz had requested.

Some of the details eluded her. She remembered very little about sermon styles and religious practices. She was better with people. Names, ages, relationships. She sketched a crude map of the commune and listed every household she could think of. Every man, woman and child. A glaring omission stood out in her own family tree. Instead of “unknown infant,” or “stillborn baby,” she typed a question mark.

She sent the attachment before she could second-guess her decision. Then she stood abruptly, her stomach twisted in knots. She curled up on the couch in the dark, hugging the knit blanket around her shoulders, and waited.

His response came an hour later. It wasn’t the careful thank-you he’d sent last time, but a quick note with a simple request: Will you accept a video call? I want to share some photos I can’t send via email.

She opened the app for live chat with trepidation. The prospect of seeing his face again shivered down her spine. She considered changing out of her pajamas and putting on makeup, but it seemed silly to bother with her appearance at bedtime. This was a conversation, not a date. Also, she’d rather get it over with quickly. She clicked the icon and found an invite from N.Diaz. Within seconds, she was staring at his handsome visage on her computer screen. Her own image appeared in the upper left corner. Even in the dim light of her living room, she could see her puffy eyes and mussed hair.

She touched the disarray, self-conscious.

“Did I wake you?” he asked, his brow furrowed. “I apologize.”

God, his voice. Even without the accent, it was sexy. Low and clipped, like a hot professor’s. He chose his words carefully. She wondered if he made love with the same textbook precision, or if he went off script.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she said, dropping her hand. Her breast jiggled at the sudden movement, which reminded her that she wasn’t wearing a bra beneath her T-shirt. The fabric was soft and thin from many washings.

His gaze darkened, but didn’t dip. “We can do this another time.”

She released the breath she’d been holding. “No.”

“I have a couple of new satellite images from the commune,” he said, reaching for something off-screen. His attire was as casual as hers, a white cotton tee that clung to the muscles of his chest.

“Before I get into that, I wanted to thank you for everything you’ve done so far. The information you sent was incredibly thorough. Almost encyclopedic.”

She accepted the compliment with an uneasy nod. It wasn’t unusual for memories to be more complete in some areas than others, but most people couldn’t recall the amount of detail she’d provided. She remembered her troubled childhood quite well. The next time she claimed otherwise, he wouldn’t believe her.

Damn it. She shouldn’t have been so accommodating.

He leaned forward. “I’m going to level with you, Ms. Samuels. I need a consultant, someone I can contact with various questions over the next few weeks. The FBI can pay you for your expertise.”

She made a noncommittal sound. She didn’t want to be a paid consultant.

“You don’t have to answer now,” he said, and held up a printed photograph of The Haven’s burial grounds. “This is the cemetery.”

“Right.”

“There appears to be a new arrival.”

She squinted at the grainy image. There were several dozen simple white crosses in a grassy clearing. One of the crosses was adorned with fresh daisies. The accompanying mound indicated a recent burial. “Okay.”

He set the photo aside and held up a second one that depicted overgrown fields. “I have no idea who’s buried there, but I thought of the head farmer you mentioned. If he passed away, it doesn’t seem as if anyone has taken over his job.”

“That is strange,” she said. “He always started planting in the spring.”

“Did everyone in the community help him?”

“No. The women worked in the vegetable garden, and picked fruit. Most of the farming duties fell to the young men. Brother Michael had a crew of teenaged boys every spring and summer.”

“There are a lot of young men in the militia. The compound is surrounded by armed guards.”

Twenty years ago, there hadn’t been a militia—or a compound, for that matter. “Father Jeff always stressed the importance of growing our own food and making everything we needed. He wanted the community to be completely self-sufficient.”

“Maybe his priorities have changed.”

“Maybe.”

“Did he ever make doomsday predictions?”

“Not that I recall. He said that modern society was destroying itself, but we were safe as long as we stayed pure.”

“Pure?”

“Away from the influence of outsiders.”

“Anyone outside the cult?”

“Especially the government.”

“Was he a proponent of racial purity, as well as spiritual?”

“He might have been,” she admitted. Although she couldn’t remember any specifics, she had a vivid memory of Father Jeff stroking her pale hair. “He definitely preferred blondes. Blond children. Blonde wives.”

Diaz absorbed this information without comment.

Avery drew in a shaky breath, glad for the reprieve. She didn’t want to delve any deeper into Silva’s prejudices and preferences. She couldn’t bear to think about what might have happened if she’d stayed.

“Was there a suicide pact among members?” Nick asked.

A chill traveled along her spine. She hadn’t expected this question. He was talking about drinking the Kool-Aid, Jim Jones style. “No. Never.”

“Are you sure? You were thirteen when you left.”

“My mother would have told me.”

“Could he be considering it?”

“Mass suicide? That’s an extreme leap.”

“So is domestic terrorism. These are escalating behaviors.”

She couldn’t argue with his logic. The Father Jeff she’d known as a child was a master manipulator, capable of crushing violence. He might not hesitate to sacrifice his parishioners, even his own family, for some horrific glory.

“I’m concerned that we’re running out of time,” Diaz said. “I want to take action.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“Silva makes a considerable income from book sales and event appearances,” Diaz said, searching her gaze. “I’m going to his next event. I’ll claim to be a loyal follower, as well as a botanist. If the commune is in need of a head farmer, I can fill the spot.”

Avery gaped at him in disbelief. He thought he could just introduce himself, and get in? “They won’t take you.”

“Why not?”

She gestured to his face on the screen, speechless.

“I’m not white enough,” he interpreted.

“That’s not it. Cult members don’t trust outsiders of any kind. You’re a single man, and you’re too handsome.”

His brows drew together. “How is that a problem?”

“Because you’re the competition, in a place where teenaged girls are forced to marry much older men. The unlucky ones become second or third wives to elders. The leaders won’t want someone like you around, tempting their women.”

He raked a hand through his hair. “What if I was married? Would they recruit a couple?”

“I don’t know. They accepted my mother as a pregnant teen, but she was beautiful and obviously fertile.”

“Okay,” he said, nodding. “I’ll take that into consideration.”

She had a bad feeling about his plan, but she didn’t try to talk him out of it. She was too freaked out. Everything he’d said so far rattled her, and they hadn’t even discussed her most-feared subject.

“The assignment is classified, and I can’t say much more without a collaboration agreement between us. Will you consider the consultant job?”

“I’d rather not.”

“Ms. Samuels—”

“You can call me Avery.”

“Avery,” he repeated in a lower tone. With a hint of an accent.

Heat rose to her cheeks at the sound of her name on his lips. It felt like a caress, a rough thumb dragged over the hollow of her throat. She wondered if he was doing it on purpose. He had to be aware that women found him attractive, Avery included. He knew how to press an advantage.

“Let’s talk about the list of names you gave me.”

She let out a shaky breath. “Okay.”

“There are no surnames.”

“The Haven doesn’t use them.”

“Your mother’s name was Sarah?”

“Yes.”

“And you? What was your birth name?”

“Hannah.”

“There was a question mark under your mother’s name.”

She fell silent, wishing like hell she hadn’t included it.

“Did the child she was carrying survive?”

“It couldn’t have.”

“Are you sure?”

Tears blurred her vision, because she wasn’t sure. She hadn’t seen the infant’s body. Trauma had sliced up her memories into shards of pain, fractured and incomplete. Had the midwife slipped away with a bundle in her arms? Instead of inquiring about her sibling, Avery had fled. She’d used death and chaos to her advantage. She’d left and never looked back.

A heavy wave of guilt washed over her. “I have to go.”

Diaz didn’t argue. “Thanks for taking my call.”

She closed her laptop, buried her head in her hands and wept.

Chapter 4

Nick spent the next several weeks prepping for the event in Las Vegas.

It would be his first contact with the target, a critical moment that could lead to the most challenging assignment of his career. He had to make this happen. He had to avenge Davidson and restore himself.

The good news was that he’d convinced Avery to be his consultant. It had been a challenge to bring her on board. During their first video call he’d pressed too hard, and she’d shut down. In his defense, she’d opened up the conversation by leaving that damned question mark on her list. What was he supposed to do, ignore a possible bombshell? Not likely. It was his job to dig for information. Although she hadn’t given him a direct answer, her panicked reaction spoke volumes. She didn’t know if she had a sibling or not. She didn’t know if she’d left her only surviving family member behind.

Nick could sympathize with this horror on a personal level. He’d been in the dark about his own parents for almost ten years. He’d returned to Venezuela as an adult and learned the truth about what happened to them. Visiting their graves had been a sad experience, but at least he had closure. She didn’t.

He’d had to push Avery a little, because he needed to engage her emotions. If she cared about the people in the commune...that benefited Nick. He wanted to move on this, before Silva went into hiding, launched another attack or started culling his flock.

Nick couldn’t rule out a mass suicide attempt. He’d mentioned the possibility in his proposal, because the threat of a tragedy might help him get a green light. He’d do whatever it took to get close to Silva.

No regrets.

Well, maybe one. He regretted communicating with Avery Samuels on video in the middle of the night, because he’d been plagued with longing ever since. He probably shouldn’t have responded to an after-hours email to begin with. He hadn’t been thinking beyond the investigation, which he was admittedly obsessed with. Requesting a video call had seemed innocent enough. He needed to show her photos, and he wasn’t allowed to send classified files through text or email. She’d clicked on his invite. Within seconds, he was staring at her sleepy eyes and bedroom hair, mesmerized.

Yeah. That was a mistake.

Richards had warned him to be careful about approaching her, and he hadn’t been careful. He’d been impulsive, and she’d been...in her pajamas. Soft and vulnerable. Bare-legged, he imagined. He wanted to know everything about her. What she did for fun. Whom she dated. Why she was so afraid of male strangers. What she was wearing underneath that T-shirt.

He shouldn’t have noticed the way the fabric clung to her breasts, or anything else about her appearance. He couldn’t act on his attraction, even if it was mutual. She wouldn’t hook up with him. She wanted to comply with the investigation and move on with her life.

The following afternoon he’d emailed again, using his most professional tone. He’d suggested she consult with him regarding general information about the cult, not her personal family history. For compensation, he’d offered to pay an hourly fee. It wasn’t extravagant, but it was the best he could get from the Finance Department.

Two days later, she’d accepted. Which was damned lucky, because she was a priceless resource. He couldn’t afford to alienate her. He also couldn’t afford to get too attached. He wasn’t the kind of man who jeopardized cases with romantic entanglements. There were no more late-night video chats.

The consulting contract helped to maintain the boundaries between them. It seemed to put her at ease, as well. She wasn’t being interrogated. She was getting paid to advise him about Silva’s practices and methodology. Nick squelched his curiosity about her childhood trauma and gave her space. When she wasn’t talking about herself, she was a fountain of knowledge. He couldn’t have asked for a better collaborator.

Now all of their hard work was paying off, because Nick was about to come face-to-face with his nemesis in Las Vegas.

This was a big break, because Silva rarely left the safety of his compound. When he did, the details were always shrouded in secrecy. He spoke to small gatherings of religious extremists. Although his name wasn’t on any of the promotion materials, the rumors of Silva’s attendance at an upcoming convention had been leaked online. Nick had heard the news in the “alt-w” circles he frequented. Alt-worship was an internet term for alternative spiritual beliefs, which included everything from old-school witchcraft to modern-day Mansonites. There were some twisted people and sick ideas in this armpit of the dark web, but Nick had seen the worst side of humanity before.

He’d created a user profile to navigate the space and interact with some of Silva’s admirers. The next step was developing an undercover persona, based on his online profile. Nick would assume this identity to approach Silva.

He’d made arrangements to collaborate with Avery on Mondays and Thursdays from 7:00 to 8:00 p.m. Their sessions were the highlight of his week. He was looking forward to her feedback tonight more than ever. It was his final opportunity to brainstorm before he met Silva. Also, he liked seeing her face.

She answered the video call promptly, as usual. She looked beautiful, as usual. On Mondays she wore workout clothes because she did yoga. This was Thursday, which meant business casual. Her pin-striped blouse was unbuttoned to her collarbone, her hair pulled back. Glasses were perched on her pert nose.

“What’s up?” she asked.

“I got him.”

“How?”

“He’s attending an exclusive event in Vegas on Saturday. I bought a ticket.”

She seemed more startled than impressed. “You’re going to meet Jeff Silva in Vegas?”

“I’m flying out tomorrow.”

“Congratulations,” she said, her tone begrudging. “Do you think you’re ready?”

“You tell me.”

She had the files he’d sent, which included a social media footprint of his undercover identity. He watched her click through the pages. “Nicholas L. Dean,” she read. “Former botanist at DuPont Industries. Born in Madrid, grew up in California. Graduated from Seattle University. Married three years. Currently on sabbatical.”

He knew the information by heart.

“What’s the L stand for?”

“Lorenzo.”

“Is that your real middle name?”

“I don’t have a middle name. I have two surnames, Diaz from my father and DeLuca from my mother. She was Italian.” He made the sign of the cross on reflex. God rest her vibrant, rabble-rousing soul.

“Nick Dean is Italian?”

“Half Italian, half English.”

She didn’t comment on the erasure of his Latin heritage. Silva might not have preached white supremacy in the old days, but he’d embraced this faction of modern online extremists. They had similar goals, to destroy progressive America. Nick could pass for half-Italian—he was half-Italian—and he wanted to get recruited. Pretending to be European seemed wise.

“Do you speak Italian?”

“Si, lo parlo.”

She kept her gaze fixed on the profile, searching for flaws. “You’re thirty-eight?”

“Yes.”

“What do you know about botany?”

“More than they do.”

“How?”

“My father is an agricultural scientist. I worked for him in college.”

“I thought your parents were in Venezuela.”

“I’m adopted,” he said. “Let’s focus on the profile.”

“Okay,” she said, agreeable. “Why are you on a sabbatical, Mr. Dean?”

“I had a health scare from using pesticides on the job. I’m recovering, but I won’t work in commercial agriculture anymore. I want to live on a green farm, away from technology and corporate greed and dangerous toxins. I need clean air, and...spiritual guidance.”

“Not good enough.”

He didn’t bristle at the criticism, because it was her job to give him honest feedback. “What’s wrong with it?”

“Everyone’s going green these days. Half the women in Portland are talking about toxins and doing cleanses. Ordinary people don’t seek out cult membership after a minor health scare. You need more. You need an emotional reason.”

She was right. He felt it. But emotions weren’t his element. “It doesn’t have to be a minor health scare.”

“What if you’ve got a terminal illness, and you believe you’ll be cured by faith?”

“If I’m sick, why would they recruit me?”

“You don’t have to be sick, just terminal. You have a few years left. You can work. You’re still strong, physically.”

“But not mentally?”

“You need a believable weakness. If it’s mental, all the better. Because you’re very fit and they will consider you a threat.”

He glanced down at his athletic physique. He stayed in shape. He jogged and lifted weights. Maybe it would be easier to feign a disease of the mind, rather than the body. “I’ll look into brain tumors.”

“Great,” she said brightly. “What about your wife?”

“I don’t have one yet. They won’t assign a partner until I’m closer to recruitment.”

“You should think about how someone who loves you would react to your illness. It might be easier for you to imagine her emotions.”

He nodded his understanding.

“She won’t be under the same scrutiny as you. If she’s young and pretty and demure, she’ll be accepted.”

“How young?”

“Younger than you, ideally. She’ll be judged on her looks and her ability to have children.”

“What about her job skills?”

“A medical background would help.”

“So I should try to get a hot blonde doctor in her early thirties?”

Her lips parted in surprise. He hadn’t intended to describe her, at least not consciously. He’d been thinking about Silva’s penchant for blondes, which she’d mentioned weeks ago. “Sorry,” he said, clearing his throat. “I didn’t mean...”

“Me?”

He forced himself to meet her eyes. “I believe this is what you call a Freudian slip.”

Color rose to her cheeks at his rueful confession. The blush did nothing to detract from her beauty. On the contrary, a flushing woman made his mind go places it shouldn’t. He needed to move on before this conversation went any further off the rails.

“The agency wouldn’t allow a civilian to do that kind of job,” he said.

“Noted.”

“I’m sure you wouldn’t want to—”

“Definitely not.”

They were agreed, then. She’d rather jump off a bridge than pretend to be his wife, and he shouldn’t have implied that she’d be perfect for the role, because she wasn’t remotely qualified. He’d like to have her in his bed, but that was a different thing, and also not happening. Nothing was happening.

Nothing whatsoever.

He couldn’t stop fantasizing about her, and she seemed interested in him, but there would be no sexual affair. If the investigation progressed the way he hoped, he’d go undercover soon. He’d probably never speak to her again.

“Tell me about your colleague,” she said. “The one you lost.”

Although this topic wasn’t much of an improvement from the last, it saved him from an awkward spiral of lust and regret. He struggled to find the right words to describe his best friend. “He was a good man. A good investigator.”

“Was he your partner?”

“No, I don’t have a partner. We teamed up a lot, though. He was the type of guy you could count on. Tough, dedicated, calm under pressure. He wasn’t the best husband, but he was a top-notch agent.”

“Why wasn’t he a good husband?”

Nick tugged at his shirt collar. “He was unfaithful. His wife filed for divorce last year.”

“Did they have kids?”

“Two boys,” he said. He’d seen them at the funeral. “This job is hard on relationships. There’s a lot of travel, time apart, hours spent on dark subject matter. You don’t want to take it home with you. It makes you feel dirty. I imagine it creates a divide.”

“You imagine?”

“Well, I’ve never been married.”

“Why not?”

He just shrugged, evasive. He could say he hadn’t found the right person, but he hadn’t been looking. He enjoyed his freedom and avoided entanglements. Watching Chris’s marriage crumble had reinforced Nick’s preference for bachelorhood. He also didn’t want the kind of love his birth parents had modeled: fiery, all-consuming, ill-fated.

“Have you ever lived with anyone?” she asked.

“Have you?”

“My cat.”

He smiled at her answer. “Should we do an inkblot test?”

“I don’t think we need to.”

“You already have me pegged?”

“Commitment-phobe.”

“Takes one to know one,” he replied.

The timer on his phone indicated their hour was up. It always went too fast. This session had felt like a lightning round, perhaps because of his misstep. He couldn’t tell if he’d offended her with the “hot blonde” comment. She’d said he was handsome, but that wasn’t the same. He understood the power differential between them. It was up to him to maintain a high level of professionalism.

There was also something else between them, beyond power and attraction. There was a personal connection. He didn’t want to feel it, but he did. He felt it hard.

“I have to ask you something,” she said.

“Go ahead.”

“What if you’re walking into a trap?”

Her concern surprised him. Even though Silva was a dangerous man, Nick didn’t anticipate trouble. This was a low-threat assignment. He wouldn’t even be carrying a weapon. “That’s highly unlikely, since we’ve never met before, and the conference hall is neutral turf.”

“Just—be careful.”

“I will.”

The screen went blank as she ended the communication.

Nick exited the program and stared into space for a few minutes. He wasn’t worried about the risk he was taking by approaching Silva. The real challenge would be psychological. He’d have to convince Silva he was a true believer. He’d have to kneel at his enemy’s feet in worship. Nick didn’t kneel well.

He shoved away from his desk and went for a strenuous jog, pushing his physical limits. It felt good to relieve some stress. He felt strong. He liked the brain tumor idea. He spent the rest of the evening researching details and practicing his pitch.

Then he worked on his outer appearance. According to Avery, he was too attractive. He studied his features with a critical eye. His hair was pretty good. Thick and healthy. Grunting, he took out his clippers and cropped it close to the skin. The severe cut, uneven in places, made him look slightly deranged. He smiled at his reflection, pleased with the effect. There were other things he could do to change his face, but he didn’t want a complicated disguise. He searched his closet for an ill-fitting plaid shirt and a pair of loose trousers. His slip-on airplane shoes added to the dorky style. He donned an old Timex. It had belonged to his real father, who’d rarely worn the piece. Punctuality had been too pedestrian a concern for Ricardo Diaz.

The next day he arrived in Las Vegas. He cased the conference hall before the event to memorize the layout. Silva was supposed to speak that afternoon, but no specific time was given. Nick attended a morning workshop on the history of religious freedom. It was a mix of right-wing propaganda and misinformation.

At lunch he sat down with a group of “alt-w” members of various ages. Like him, they were here to see Silva. Nick didn’t bother interacting with them. They were the weekend warriors of religious extremism. More spectators than participants. Nick had become familiar with this phenomenon during his stint in cybercrimes. There were thousands of bold and chilling statements made online without any action taken. Which was good, because the world hardly needed more violence. But it was difficult to sort through the chaff for legitimate threats.

“I heard Silva’s not coming,” one of the chaff said. He had a lip ring and a Slayer T-shirt, as if he also dabbled in Satanism. “It’s just his son in the greenroom.”

“He’d better show,” another guy said. “I paid to see him.”

There was a short discussion about Silva and the benefits of polygamy before the conversation switched to the latest government conspiracy against gun rights. Nick wandered off to scope out the greenroom. An unarmed security guard was stationed outside the door. He wasn’t a member of Silva’s militia. Just a basic rent-a-cop.

Nick slipped outside to a shaded terrace, his mind in turmoil. If Silva didn’t show, Nick would have to adjust his approach. He hadn’t prepared for this contingency. On impulse, he used the Skype app to call Avery. She answered on the third ring. She was wearing a snug tank top and fire-red lipstick. The background noise indicated that she was in a bar or café. He wondered if she was on a date. She looked hot.

The surge of jealousy caught him off guard. He shouldn’t be speaking to her in a public setting, on her personal cell phone, outside of their regular consulting hours. He was breaking three rules at once.

“Are you busy?” he asked, his voice low.

“I have a minute.”

“Sorry to bother you,” he said, glancing around to make sure he was alone. “I heard that Silva sent Jonah to this event in his place. What do you remember about him?”

“Not much.”

“You never played together?”

“We played chess once, when he was ten or eleven. It was weird.”

“How so?”

“Well, I kept trying to lose, because I thought he’d get mad if I won. But every time I made a mistake, he counteracted it with his own wrong move. He knew what I was doing, and he didn’t like it.”

“He wanted to play fair?”

“I think he wanted to be in control of the game.”

“Was he a bully, like his brother?”

“Not at all. He wasn’t physical. He stayed indoors and studied, even in the summer.”

Nick heard another woman’s voice, along with a waitress asking for their order. “Who are you with?”

“A friend.”

The door opened at his back. Nick glanced over his shoulder as Jonah Silva strolled out. “I have to let you go.”

“Okay.”

“I love you,” he said, as if he was talking to his wife. Then he hung up and plastered a smile on his face. He didn’t have time to wonder about Avery’s social life, or process what she’d said about Jonah’s personality. Ready or not, Nick had to act. He couldn’t afford to let this opportunity go to waste.

“You’re Jonah Silva,” he said.

Jonah gave Nick an impatient glance. He was a striking young man with slick black hair and green eyes. He wore a nice black suit, not the homespun work clothes of his parishioners. And he gripped the railing as if he wanted to hurl himself over it.

Nick ignored his go-away signal and stepped forward for a handshake. Jonah wasn’t so standoffish that he refused.

“I’m Nick Dean. It’s an honor to meet you.”

“Right.”

“I didn’t know you were making an appearance,” Nick said, still pumping his arm. “I’m excited to hear you speak.”

Jonah put his left hand on top of Nick’s to slow the motion. “You are?”

Nick finally released Jonah’s hand. It was the hand of a scholar, smooth and slender. “At your last event, you offered some insightful interpretations of your father’s sermons. I read a copy of the transcript online.” This was true, at least. Nick had scoured every piece of literature connected to The Haven. “Your words moved me.”

Jonah Silva was not immune to flattery. “Thank you, Mr....”

“Dean. Nick Dean.”

Jonah nodded, as if committing it to memory. He didn’t say anything more, so Nick decided not to press his luck. He’d primed the well. If Jeff Silva didn’t show, Nick would take aim at Jonah. Maybe this was a blessing in disguise. The younger man might be an easier mark. He wasn’t as closely guarded as his father. Avery had hinted at a boy who preferred intellectual pursuits and wanted to control things. Nick wondered if Jonah had been under his famous father’s thumb too long, itching to take over.

“I’ll see you inside,” Nick said, and left him standing there. Wanting more.

Chapter 5

Avery stared at her phone for a few seconds, lips parted in surprise.

Nick Diaz had cut his hair. And he’d said he loved her?

Her best friend, Corinne, gave her a curious glance as she ordered from the breakfast menu. Avery followed suit, a flush rising to her cheeks. After the waitress left their table, Corinne leaned forward to get the scoop. She’d just flown in from a family trip to the Caribbean. She looked effortlessly beautiful with her fluffy afro and golden-brown skin.

“Who was that?”

Avery wasn’t supposed to talk about her consultant job, but Nick wasn’t supposed to call her cell phone at random hours, either. Her Skype app was synced with her laptop, so he got right through.

“You’re dating someone!”

“No,” Avery said, setting her phone down. Corinne hadn’t been able to overhear their conversation in the crowded café.

“Then why are you on Skype?”

“It was Nick Diaz.”

Corinne’s eyes widened in recognition. Avery had told her about his first visit. “Special Agent Nick Diaz?”

“Shh,” Avery said, even though no one was paying attention to them. “It’s classified.”

“It’s classified,” Corinne repeated. “Mm-hmm.”

Avery laughed at her expression.

“This is the guy you said was tall, dark and handsome.”

“He’s attractive,” Avery said. “But we’re not dating.”

“You’re doing something with him. I can tell. Give me that phone.”

Avery handed it over, because there was no real evidence of their exchanges. There was a profile photo of Nick from his Skype account, just a basic headshot, which Corinne studied in detail before giving the phone back.

“It’s nothing,” Avery said.

“Your face is red.”

“It’s hot.”

“He’s hot.”

Corinne knew some of the details of Avery’s childhood. Avery had confided in her years ago without getting specific. “He’s trying to get close to the people I grew up with. They’re involved in serious crimes, apparently. He called to ask a question about someone, and I think they walked in while he was talking.”

“Why do you think that?”

“He said ‘I love you,’ before he hung up.”

Corinne flapped her palms on the table in excitement. “He’s an undercover cop? You should definitely go out with him.”

“He lives in California.”

“Northern California?”

“You’re missing the point, Corinne. He’s a professional contact on a dangerous assignment. Not boyfriend material.”

“He’s boyfriend material,” Corinne declared. “Or at least phone-sex material.”

The waitress arrived with their food, momentarily interrupting the conversation. They both dug into their plates.

“Has he given you any signals? Other than saying ‘I love you’?”

“That wasn’t a signal.”

“But you like him.”

Avery took another bite of French toast, shrugging.

“What would you do if he showed up on your doorstep? You’d hit it, right?”

She couldn’t lie to her best friend. “Yes.”

Corinne smiled with satisfaction, as if it was all decided. For her, it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility for a man to travel hundreds of miles in hopes of a hookup. She was a fashion model. Heads turned everywhere she went.

Avery distracted Corinne by asking about her trip, her family and her love life. They paid for lunch and took a stroll in a nearby park. It was another bright spring day, with flowers blossoming at every turn.

“How’s Chuck?” Corinne asked.

“He’s good,” Avery said. “I saw him at the Tulip Festival.”

“Does he have a dad bod now?”

“He’s got more muscles.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know what you meant. Do you think I avoid him?”

Corinne kept strolling, her hands in her pockets.

“My aunt Ruth said I’ve been distant since the kids came along.”

“Oh.”

“Well?”

“You know how people with kids are,” Corinne said, waving a hand in the air. “They get all goo-goo gaga. I don’t blame you.”

Avery sat down on a nearby park bench. Corinne had basically reinforced Ruth’s opinion. She agreed that Avery had withdrawn, but she didn’t understand the reason. It wasn’t because new parents were annoying. It was because babies made her uncomfortable. They reminded her of pain and loss.

Corinne took the seat beside her. “I should tell you something.”

“What?”

“It’s about Chuck.”

Corinne and Chuck had dated the summer after high school. It was a brief fling. “Do I want to know?”

“I had an abortion.”

Avery gaped at her in shock. “When?”

“Before I started college.”

“It was his?”

“Yes.”

“Did you tell him?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Corinne looked across the park, swallowing hard. “I was afraid you’d take his side. He wanted to keep the baby.”

“I had no idea,” Avery said, floored by the confession.

“I was also afraid you’d hate me. I didn’t want to lose you, along with him and everything else.”

“He broke up with you over this?”

“He was young.”

“You were younger.”

Corinne’s eyes filled with tears. She brushed them away with a shaky hand.

“I could never hate you,” Avery said.

“You don’t think I’m terrible?”

“No.” She put her arm around Corinne’s shoulder. “I love you.”

Corinne reached up for Avery’s hand and held it there against her collarbone. They were quiet for a few moments, processing things. Avery couldn’t believe her best friend had kept this secret for so long. More than ten years, and Avery had never had an inkling. What kind of psychologist was she, to be completely unaware of Corinne’s anguish? What kind of friend wouldn’t notice, for that matter?

“I should have told you,” Corinne said finally, releasing her hand. “I’d decided to bury it. God, that’s a poor choice of words.”

“What changed your mind?”

“I don’t know. You seemed upset about being distant from Chuck, and I felt guilty for giving you a flip answer. Then I thought, maybe I drove a wedge between you and him.”

“No,” Avery said, after a brief reflection. Chuck wasn’t the type to harbor deep resentments. He might have been heartbroken after his fling with Corinne, but he’d moved on. “He’s in a good place.”

Corinne offered a weak smile. “He’s not pining away for me?”

Avery smiled back at her. Men tended to become obsessed with Corinne, so it wasn’t arrogance that made her wonder about Chuck. It was experience. “I don’t think so. He seems pretty happy with his life.”

“So why is Aunt Ruth on your case?”

Avery pulled her gaze away. “Oh, you know. The usual. She wants me to settle down. She thinks I’m afraid of men and relationships.”

Corinne didn’t let her off the hook. “You’ve never been in love.”

Avery resisted the urge to point out Corinne’s single status. It was apples and oranges. Corinne traveled all over the world for work, and she’d had multiple love affairs. “I was with Phillip for two years.”

“Phillip was your psychologist.”

“So it doesn’t count?”

“It counts as a messed-up example of what not to do.”

Avery couldn’t argue there. Although she took partial responsibility for the mistake, he’d seduced her. It was wrong for him to date a patient. He’d stopped treating her after their first sexual encounter, but that didn’t change the ethics violation. She’d ended things when she applied for her own license. She couldn’t imagine viewing one of her students, or any other person in her care, as a possible love interest.

“I didn’t mean you,” Corinne said. “You’re not messed up.”

“My mother died in childbirth,” Avery said. “Did I ever tell you that?”

“No.”

“It wasn’t a hippie commune. It was a religious cult. I ran away after she died, and I don’t know if the baby survived.”

“Jesus, Avery.”

“Avery isn’t even my real name.”

It was Corinne’s turn to put her arms around Avery. She cradled Avery’s head against her chest to comfort her. Avery wanted to say that she was messed up, and she always would be. She’d always have a missing piece inside her, a dark mystery. The question mark she’d left on the list was part of her.

“You’re not messed up,” Corinne said again. “You’re kind and beautiful and I love you.”

Avery closed her eyes and tried to believe those words.

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