LITMIR.BIZ

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followed blindly, intensely aware of her hand crushed in Rolfe’s, the squish of her shoes every time she took a step, Jen’s blood between her toes.

      Where was he taking her? What did he plan to do with her?

      She opened her mouth to ask, but what came out was, “Where’s Jen?” She didn’t think Butler had been lying about her death, but what had they done with her body?

      She sensed more than saw Rolfe glance back at her, before he stopped, opened a new door and dragged her inside.

      “She’s gone. I’m sorry. She shouldn’t have brought you here. Now we’re going to have to figure out what to do with you.”

      He finally released her and wiped the blood off his own hand on his pant legs. He did it distractedly, as if the blood didn’t bother him. Or worse, as if he was used to it.

      Then a dim light came on, illuminating a small, sparse room. Wooden shelves along one wall were lined with stacks of neatly folded utilitarian clothing, bars of soap and threadbare towels. She turned, discovering buckets and shovels stacked against another wall.

      “There are smaller sizes in the left corner,” Rolfe said as she heard the door close. “Those should fit you. Go ahead and change.”

      She spun around to find him standing close to her in the tiny room, anger and annoyance etched on his face. But at Butler or her? She wasn’t sure.

      She backed up, bumping the shelves hard enough to send a splinter through the sleeve of her suit and into her arm. “Can you wait outside?”

      He crossed his arms over his chest. “Leave a cop alone in a room full of potential weapons? I can’t do that. Come on, change. You don’t want to wear that.”

      She hesitated, and he took a step back, leaning against the door, his eyes steady on her. “Just pretend I’m not here.”

      She felt an acute sense of discomfort, but the reality was, she had no idea how long she’d be here, or if they’d decide to toss her outside. In this weather, she’d be better off in warm sweats than her blood-soaked suit.

      Evelyn shivered as she slid her suit jacket off, watching Rolfe carefully for any sign of sinister intent. She ripped the splinter out of her arm. The camisole she wore underneath her jacket had splotches of dried blood, too, and Evelyn yanked it over her head, replacing it with a sweatshirt that hung down to her hips. But it was warm. And dry.

      Rolfe shifted his gaze to the wall as she changed out of her pants. The back of her underwear was sticky with blood, but she wasn’t changing out of those in front of Rolfe, no matter how indifferent he seemed. Quickly, she stepped into a pair of big gray sweatpants she had to cinch tight at the waist. They pooled at her ankles as she put on a pair of thick wool socks.

      Her skin felt tight where Jen’s blood had soaked through her clothes and dried, but at least she wasn’t drenched in it anymore. When she reached down to pick up her suit, Rolfe grabbed her arm, stopping her.

      “Leave it. You don’t want that.”

      He was right. Covered in Jen’s blood, it would’ve gone straight in the trash if she was at home. She didn’t need it, anyway. Butler had already taken her weapon, handcuffs and cell phone. She had no way to protect herself, and no way to call for help.

      The only way she was getting out of here alive was if she convinced someone to let her go. And Rolfe was her best bet, since he was the only reason she was still breathing.

      Stuck this close to him in the small room, she could see the tiny lines under his hazel eyes, and she had a sudden, unexpected flashback to college. To another pair of hazel eyes, eerily similar.

      Except for his blond hair, Rolfe looked a lot like Marty Carlyle. The older brother of one of her best friends, and her first serious boyfriend. Someone she’d thought she could trust, who’d broken her heart.

      She took a step backward, bumping into the shelf again as Rolfe’s grip tightened on her wrist. She couldn’t trust Rolfe, either, but she needed him to trust her. She needed him to connect with her.

      And yet...if he was a racist who hated the federal government, why had he convinced Butler to let her live at all?

      “Let’s go,” he said.

      “Where?” Talking made her jaw throb, and she probed a raw spot on the inside of her cheek with her tongue, tasting more blood. With her free hand she gingerly touched the side of her chin, but even that slight touch was painful.

      A hint of a frown curled his lips, and now that she’d noticed the resemblance to Marty, it was all she could see. Marty was Jewish, though, and Rolfe would surely have hated him, too.

      “What’s so funny?” Rolfe asked.

      “Nothing’s funny,” she snapped before she’d thought it through. A federal agent was dead, a federal agent who’d been right about one thing. Something strange was happening at the Butler Compound.

      But it was better not to remind him of Jen, so she said, “Butler’s followers aren’t going to want me among them. You can’t want me here, either, a black woman...”

      His eyes seemed to bore into her as he studied her too closely. “One of your parents is white. That’s true, isn’t it?”

      She nodded, not sure if that improved things or made them worse.

      “I don’t care about that, anyway.”

      She frowned, and knew he’d seen her disbelief. “Butler...”

      “I’m not Butler.”

      She tried to tug her hand out of his grip, but his fingers tightened around her wrist. “You’re his lieutenant, aren’t you?” she demanded, before figuring out a real strategy.

      Some emotion flashed in his eyes at her words. Anger? Regret? Cunning?

      She couldn’t tell. Did he resent Ward’s position as leader? Was Rolfe hoping to overthrow him? That would be a hard sell in a cult, but at least Rolfe didn’t seem to want her dead. Still, she didn’t want to be in the middle of a power play. Especially with Ward Butler surrounded by survivalists who’d chosen to leave behind everything they knew, and live where and how he demanded.

      There were lots of different kinds of survivalists, and most of them prided themselves on being able to live off the land. They knew how to hunt. And they knew how to kill. Most of them didn’t make a habit of killing people, but they hated the federal government, and anyone who represented it. She didn’t want to discover what they were capable of doing to her.

      “This may be Ward’s place, but we’re not what you think.”

      “Explain it to me, then,” Evelyn said, trying to sound earnest. The more clearly she understood the dynamics, the more likely she’d be able to profile the players. And if she could do that, maybe she could get out of here alive.

      Just when she thought he was going to shake his head and drag her off somewhere, probably back to the supply closet—although undoubtedly he’d tie her up this time—he spoke. “This isn’t a cult.” He spat the word out, as though it was dirty, beneath him.

      She’d never used the word cult. Was he denying what others had called them? Or was he more intelligent than she’d suspected? She mulled that over as he continued.

      “I’m not Ward’s lieutenant or anything else. It may be Ward’s land—and it’s definitely Ward’s rules—but everyone who lives here made the decision to come because they all share one thing. They want to be left alone, to live how they choose, without interference from a government we don’t recognize.”

      He scowled at her, then started to pull her forward.

      She dug her heels in, sliding forward, anyway, in the wool socks. “Just let me go. I promise, I...”

      “You know Butler’s not going to allow that, Evelyn.”

      Her

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