The Revelation of Eden Pruitt, page 4
“Why not?” Dayne shot. “I don’t understand why you’ve kept yourselves a secret. Especially from me.”
“You didn’t know?” Eden asked.
“I’ve been completely clueless,” Dayne said. “So has everyone else working for America Underground. Jer here has kept us completely in the dark.”
Eden stared—perplexed. Frustrated. In full agreement with Dayne. Maybe if the Resistance had been more forthright, none of this would have happened. As soon as Eden showed Dayne the pamphlet, he would have told her who the Monarch was and who Amir Kashif was. She and Cleo and Cassian could have joined the Resistance instead of inadvertently destroying it.
“The more people who know about us,” Francesca said, “the more vulnerable we become.”
“The fewer people who know about you,” Eden retorted, “the more likely you are to be mistaken for something you’re not.”
Francesca shot Eden a scathing look with her good eye. “You don’t think Pru tried in the beginning? The rumors that resulted nearly got her killed. She learned the hard way that if she wanted to build an army, she would have to do it slowly, with extreme caution.”
“The time for slow is over,” Dayne said, tipping his chin toward Jericho. “If even half of what he’s told me in the last hour is true, you’re going to need the entire off-the-grid community on your side.”
“Do you think they will join us?” Asher asked.
“None of us are receiving an invitation to Brahm’s future Utopia,” Dayne said. “Which makes the choice simple: we join or we die.”
7
A chilly breeze ruffled Eden’s hair. The smoky scent of it triggered a memory so vivid that for one disconcerting moment she could hear Mordecai’s snake-like voice whispering in her ear, “I would like you to shoot them.”
She shoved her hands deep into the pocket of her hoodie and pushed the intrusive memory away as a lone leaf scuttled past her feet. She was standing on the edge of an empty parking lot outside a deserted strip mall beneath a full-bodied sky. A tapestry of gray and purple clouds roiling overhead. It smelled like rain.
She didn’t know what time it was. She didn’t even know what day it was. She felt as though she’d been underneath Washington, DC, for a lifetime. And now suddenly she was here in Alexandria without Cassian, watching Cleo ride away in a UTV. The driver was taking her to the community’s medical center, a building they called Kaiser.
Eden was relieved Cleo would get the care she needed, but not as relieved as she’d be if she was going with her to get that care. When she tried, Asher had grabbed her by the elbow and told her she wasn’t going anywhere. Not with Cleo. Not with the survivors from Bunker Three, either. All six had been shuttled off to The Landing, a former retirement facility turned residence hall.
Thanks to the airstrike, the people of Alexandria were on high alert. There was an edge of panic in the air. While Cleo could slip into Kaiser with little fanfare, and the six from Bunker Three could walk through The Landing without drawing too much attention, Eden was a different story. Over the past few weeks, her face had been plastered all over Concordia News. Until Jericho could call for a proper assembly and explain her presence, she would need to stay close.
So here she was, marveling at how very different this place was from the Damen Silos in Chicago. The people in that community existed in a dank underground labyrinth with mold in the air and dirty sheets hanging in the doorways. The people here had an entire campus with a medical facility and a residence hall and a PA system from which Jericho could call for an assembly. Granted, that campus appeared to be abandoned and neglected, preyed upon by time, overrun with weeds. But it was above ground, and it had basic amenities and access to fresh air. If the off-the-grid community was a ship, the Damen Silos were steerage; the Potomac Yard in Alexandria was first class. Made possible by the very man they were forming an alliance to fight.
Oswin Brahm.
Thanks to him, Alexandria was part of the no-go zone. Off limits because of its supposed toxicity. But it hadn’t been directly hit in The Attack. Everything was in working order, powered by a privately owned solar farm courtesy of their backer, a man named Harlan. Apparently, this was part of the deal. A power grid in exchange for an emergency evacuation plan.
“What did you do to him?” Jericho asked, finally addressing the young man Asher had dumped into the back of Jericho’s UTV.
Asher showed Jericho the magnet on the asset’s arm.
“What is it?” he asked.
“She had it with her.” Asher’s attention lifted to Eden. “She claims it was a trinket she found in the Bryson’s safe.”
“The Bryson’s?” asked Jericho.
Asher nodded meaningfully. Eden Pruitt was wanted for their murder. It was the reason her face had been all over the news. Jericho’s dark brown eyes took on the same suspicious glow as Asher’s hazel ones.
“We need a secure place to store him,” Asher said, nodding at the asset.
“And her,” Francesca added.
“What?” Eden choked, taking a lurching step backward.
“We have important matters to discuss. Confidential matters. And according to Jericho, we can’t have you wandering about.”
“I won’t go wandering about.”
“That’s nice, but we don’t know you and we don’t trust you.”
“I know her,” Dayne said. “And I can vouch for her.”
Francesca’s attention jerked to the Editor-in-Chief. She looked like she might say the same thing to him, but Jericho intervened. “I can vouch for Dayne.”
Dayne’s jaw ticked with annoyance, like he didn’t want to be vouched for by a person who had left him so blatantly in the dark. “She came to the Millers wanting to take down the Monarch, not the Resistance. Like me, she didn’t even know about a Resistance.”
Eden jumped in. “And I’ve done nothing but cooperate with you guys. I did everything you asked of me. I even saved your life.” She glared at Asher.
A taut face-off ensued.
She would not look away. She would not be intimidated. After an extended moment of simmering silence, he blinked first. With a huff, Asher took Francesca’s backpack. The glass vials clinked inside. “These need to be stored in a deep freeze and kept somewhere easily accessible.”
“Easily accessible?” Eden blurted.
Everyone looked at her.
She blinked at the bag. She wanted to snatch it from Asher’s hands, race across the train tracks and the neglected parkway beyond, and dump every vial into the Potomac River. “You wanted a better option. I gave you one. The magnet works just fine.”
“His system is offline,” Asher replied.
“So?”
“So,” he said, “he has a network; I’m trying to breach it. I can’t do that unless his network is online.”
“You haven’t breached it yet?”
Asher gave her a look of utmost annoyance. “His network is one of the most complicated and secure networks I’ve ever come across, and we’ve only had him since the Prosperity Ball.”
Eden made a quick computation. The Prosperity Ball had been on October fourth, the anniversary of The Attack. The last time Eden had a confident grasp of the date had been the morning of the twenty-sixth, when she and Cassian and Cleo followed a tunnel into Washington, DC. Which meant they’d had the asset for over twenty-two days, a timeline that made no sense. Eden had watched Asher hack into government drones. She’d watched him spoof their GPS systems like it was nothing more than child’s play. Jack Forrester knew his way around a computer system, sure. But comparatively, Asher was—as her old friend Erik would say—a Jedi Knight, and Jack Forrester was a Padawan. So how was it possible that Jack had breached her network in a handful of days while Asher was still working after twenty-two of them?
“I don’t understand what you’re doing with him,” Dayne said.
“Trying to gain access into his inner workings,” Asher replied. “Once I do that, I should be able to figure out how he’s controlled. And once I know how he’s controlled, there are a myriad of ways we can use him.”
Use him.
“Imagine the Monarch’s surprise when we turn his most precious weapon against him,” Francesca said, practically crooning the words.
Eden blanched. They planned to control him. Force him to do things against his will. Just like Eden had been controlled and forced. “If that’s your strategy, how are you any different from Brahm?”
Francesca’s good eye flashed. “We won’t be decimating entire cities.”
Another awkward silence ensued.
This time, Jericho was the one to break it. “I can bring him to the commissary,” he said, glancing at his watch. “Nobody should be there this early in the morning. We can keep the vials in one of the chest freezers. We can keep him in the walk-in refrigerator.”
A shudder rippled up Eden’s spine.
They were going to store the asset in a refrigerator?
Jericho climbed behind the wheel. “Once I get him situated, I’ll meet you in the east tower.”
Asher handed him the bag. “We’ll send an alert to Amir. The others, too.”
“The others?” Dayne asked.
“Fellow council members,” Asher replied. “We need to apprise them of the situation.”
“And call for a vote,” Francesca said, the corners of her mouth tight. “If we’re going to make a move as big as inviting everyone here into the Resistance, then it needs to be a majority decision.”
“Fair enough,” Asher said, shrugging in acquiescence. “Hey, Jericho. Does this place have any handcuffs?”
Jericho glanced at the plastic zip-ties wrapped around the asset’s wrists and ankles. It was obvious he wouldn’t get them off anytime soon.
“They’re not for him,” Asher said.
The ominous statement came with no elaboration. Jericho seemed to understand just fine without any. With a nod, he started the engine and accelerated to The Landing. The asset’s head flopped over the seat, dangling lifelessly above the weed-riddled road as the UTV sped away.
8
The steel door opened with an echoing groan. Light stabbed his eyes, but Cassian Gray could not shield them. His hands were bound behind his back. His left shoulder throbbed. He imagined a fire poker in a blacksmith’s forge, glowing red with heat. Thrust through muscle and sinew until its pointed tip rested between the ball and socket of his joint. A fierce, demanding pain. And yet, it was nothing compared to the inferno of helpless rage blazing in his chest.
Eden.
She had to be alive. She was designed to be alive. He couldn’t consider any other possibility.
Boots clomped across the cement floor. Rough hands yanked him to his feet. The pain in his shoulder howled. But not him. Cass gritted his teeth. He ground his molars as the guard shoved him out of the prison cell, into a dank corridor. His head swam. His throat ached. He was dizzy and weak and consumed.
Eden.
Where was she? What had they done with her?
He had to escape. He had to find out. Which meant he had to be stronger than the pain and smarter than his captors. He forced his eyes to adjust. He inspected his surroundings, determined to collect information like a miser collecting gold. He would hoard every detail until he found a way to escape.
The guard escorting him through the hallway had a slight limp. Something was wrong with his left leg. Could Cass use that to his advantage? They passed several doors. He needed to see what was behind them. Who was behind them. Was she behind them? But the guard shoved him onward until they reached one last door at the end of the corridor.
He pressed his thumb against a keypad.
The door slid open.
Cass was pushed inside a room as dank and dim as the hallway. A bare, dangling lightbulb cast a halo of yellow light upon a small table in the room’s center. It was empty except for a bottled water. Beyond, set in the concrete wall, was the kind of mirror found in interrogation rooms. His reflection glared back at him—a mangle of bruises and dried blood. He wanted to charge forward and ram his fist through the glass. He wanted to reach through to the other side and wrap his fingers around the neck of whoever was watching. Whoever was in charge. He wouldn’t let go until that person told him where she was.
It was a lovely fantasy. One he wouldn’t hesitate to carry out if his hands weren’t bound.
The guard shoved him into the chair.
Another pair of cuffs snapped into place behind him, securing him to his seat. The guard strolled around Cass with the same slight limp, his lips thin and bloodless as he swiped the bottle of water off the table. The plastic crinkled in his grip. “You must be thirsty.”
Cass glared. He was, in fact. Terribly so. But he would not give this man the satisfaction of saying it.
The guard untwisted the cap and held the bottle to Cassian’s lips. “Time to hydrate.”
Cass ground his teeth.
The guard chuckled, then—without warning—shoved the bottle into Cassian’s mouth with such force, his lips smashed into his teeth. The guard poured the water down his throat. Cass reared back, but the man kept pouring. Cass choked and coughed until the guard yanked the bottle away as aggressively as he’d forced it in.
Cass spit what he hadn’t swallowed into the man’s face.
For a shocked moment, the guard did nothing. A mixture of water and spit dripped from his long nose. Then, with a curse, he backhanded Cass. Hard.
The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth.
Cass spit that, too.
Before the guard could deliver another blow, a middle-aged woman with copper-colored hair strode into the room, fire blazing in her eyes. She raised her hand sharply. “This isn’t how we treat prisoners.”
The man yanked a handkerchief from his back pocket. He whipped it open with a sharp shake and wiped the bloody spittle from his nose. “He’s a terrorist.”
“I am not a terrorist,” Cass said, gritting the words between his teeth.
The woman pulled at the hem of her blazer and arched her eyebrow. “Enlighten us, then, Mr. Ransom—who are you?” She emphasized the surname as she dropped a thick file on the table. It landed open with a picture on top that came like a brutal, unexpected punch to the gut.
“Allow me to introduce Atticus Belby, an investment banker who lives in Gary, Indiana, with his wife and two children. But this isn’t his first marriage.” The woman plucked a second photograph from the file and set it beside the first.
It came as another sucker punch.
“His previous marriage was to Rebecca Wilder,” the woman continued. “The daughter of a wildlife biologist who lived in Wyoming. Grayson Wilder. Or Gray, as many called him.”
She perched on the edge of the table. “Atticus and Rebecca met and fell in love. They settled in Denver where Rebecca gave birth to a son. Tragically, Rebecca and her son died in a boating accident on Sloan Lake. Their bodies were never recovered.”
Cass glared.
The woman crossed her arms. “Imagine Mr. Belby’s surprise when a few weeks ago, he sees his dead son on Concordia National News, responsible for the bombing in Chicago.”
Bile burned in his throat. If his father was shocked, it wasn’t because he thought he’d lost his son in a boating accident on Sloan Lake. It was because he thought he killed that son with the same baseball bat he’d used to kill Rebecca Wilder.
The woman stood. She strolled around the table until she reached Cassian. She lifted the torn sleeve of his shirt, revealing the tattoo beneath—a wolf framed in Celtic knots. “It would seem little Cassian Belby didn’t drown in Sloan Lake, but grew up to become a ruthless fighter known as Cassian ‘The Wolf’ Gray.”
The woman released his shirt sleeve. “What’s less clear is what happened to Cassian Belby’s mother. Is she alive, too?”
“Why don’t you ask Atticus?” Cass replied, his voice low and mutinous.
The woman peered at him, her carefully lined eyes narrowed into slits. Her face was freckled, but those freckles had been muted by makeup. “How did you come to know Prudence Dvorak?”
He didn’t answer.
She rubbed her earlobe, then strolled back to her spot on the other side of the table. A golden brooch pinned to the lapel of her blazer caught the light as she removed a third photograph from the file and set it on top of the other two. This one, a mug shot Cass knew well. It had led him to Eden.
“What about her?” the woman asked.
Fire burned in his chest.
“How did you two meet?”
He jerked against his restraints with nostrils flared.
The woman picked up the file. She began an unhurried, short-routed pace as she studied the contents within. “As I understand it, Mr. and Mrs. Pruitt were very troubled by their daughter’s arrest. So troubled, in fact, they moved from San Diego, California, to a small, obscure town in Iowa.”
She removed a fourth photograph and dropped it onto the table—a candid of Eden’s parents carting boxes into their new home in Eagle Bend. Then she pulled out a fifth photograph. She set the file back on the table with this photograph on top—a picture of Eden’s parents on their wedding day, when they weren’t Alexander and Ruth Pruitt, but Alaric and Molly Taylor. “All kinds of familiar faces have been cropping up in the news these days.”
The inferno beneath his sternum turned into something cold and desperate. They knew. Of course they knew. As soon as Eden’s parents made national headlines, the government had undoubtedly connected the dots. Cass had known it. So had Eden. But now, that knowing stared him in the face.
The woman set her hands on the table and leaned forward. She tapped the photograph taken in Eagle Bend. “Alexander and Ruth Pruitt.” She moved her tapping finger to the wedding photo. “Alaric and Molly Taylor. An uncanny resemblance, wouldn’t you say?”
Cass swallowed.
“Alaric Taylor worked for the government once upon a time. That is, before he and his wife disappeared. As thoroughly as Rebecca and Cassian Belby. Alexander and Ruth have a daughter who is eighteen, but they didn’t have a daughter when they disappeared sixteen and a half years ago.” The woman shut the file. “Perhaps if you could tell us something of value. Something that might lead us to the girl, a deal could be arranged.”
“You didn’t know?” Eden asked.
“I’ve been completely clueless,” Dayne said. “So has everyone else working for America Underground. Jer here has kept us completely in the dark.”
Eden stared—perplexed. Frustrated. In full agreement with Dayne. Maybe if the Resistance had been more forthright, none of this would have happened. As soon as Eden showed Dayne the pamphlet, he would have told her who the Monarch was and who Amir Kashif was. She and Cleo and Cassian could have joined the Resistance instead of inadvertently destroying it.
“The more people who know about us,” Francesca said, “the more vulnerable we become.”
“The fewer people who know about you,” Eden retorted, “the more likely you are to be mistaken for something you’re not.”
Francesca shot Eden a scathing look with her good eye. “You don’t think Pru tried in the beginning? The rumors that resulted nearly got her killed. She learned the hard way that if she wanted to build an army, she would have to do it slowly, with extreme caution.”
“The time for slow is over,” Dayne said, tipping his chin toward Jericho. “If even half of what he’s told me in the last hour is true, you’re going to need the entire off-the-grid community on your side.”
“Do you think they will join us?” Asher asked.
“None of us are receiving an invitation to Brahm’s future Utopia,” Dayne said. “Which makes the choice simple: we join or we die.”
7
A chilly breeze ruffled Eden’s hair. The smoky scent of it triggered a memory so vivid that for one disconcerting moment she could hear Mordecai’s snake-like voice whispering in her ear, “I would like you to shoot them.”
She shoved her hands deep into the pocket of her hoodie and pushed the intrusive memory away as a lone leaf scuttled past her feet. She was standing on the edge of an empty parking lot outside a deserted strip mall beneath a full-bodied sky. A tapestry of gray and purple clouds roiling overhead. It smelled like rain.
She didn’t know what time it was. She didn’t even know what day it was. She felt as though she’d been underneath Washington, DC, for a lifetime. And now suddenly she was here in Alexandria without Cassian, watching Cleo ride away in a UTV. The driver was taking her to the community’s medical center, a building they called Kaiser.
Eden was relieved Cleo would get the care she needed, but not as relieved as she’d be if she was going with her to get that care. When she tried, Asher had grabbed her by the elbow and told her she wasn’t going anywhere. Not with Cleo. Not with the survivors from Bunker Three, either. All six had been shuttled off to The Landing, a former retirement facility turned residence hall.
Thanks to the airstrike, the people of Alexandria were on high alert. There was an edge of panic in the air. While Cleo could slip into Kaiser with little fanfare, and the six from Bunker Three could walk through The Landing without drawing too much attention, Eden was a different story. Over the past few weeks, her face had been plastered all over Concordia News. Until Jericho could call for a proper assembly and explain her presence, she would need to stay close.
So here she was, marveling at how very different this place was from the Damen Silos in Chicago. The people in that community existed in a dank underground labyrinth with mold in the air and dirty sheets hanging in the doorways. The people here had an entire campus with a medical facility and a residence hall and a PA system from which Jericho could call for an assembly. Granted, that campus appeared to be abandoned and neglected, preyed upon by time, overrun with weeds. But it was above ground, and it had basic amenities and access to fresh air. If the off-the-grid community was a ship, the Damen Silos were steerage; the Potomac Yard in Alexandria was first class. Made possible by the very man they were forming an alliance to fight.
Oswin Brahm.
Thanks to him, Alexandria was part of the no-go zone. Off limits because of its supposed toxicity. But it hadn’t been directly hit in The Attack. Everything was in working order, powered by a privately owned solar farm courtesy of their backer, a man named Harlan. Apparently, this was part of the deal. A power grid in exchange for an emergency evacuation plan.
“What did you do to him?” Jericho asked, finally addressing the young man Asher had dumped into the back of Jericho’s UTV.
Asher showed Jericho the magnet on the asset’s arm.
“What is it?” he asked.
“She had it with her.” Asher’s attention lifted to Eden. “She claims it was a trinket she found in the Bryson’s safe.”
“The Bryson’s?” asked Jericho.
Asher nodded meaningfully. Eden Pruitt was wanted for their murder. It was the reason her face had been all over the news. Jericho’s dark brown eyes took on the same suspicious glow as Asher’s hazel ones.
“We need a secure place to store him,” Asher said, nodding at the asset.
“And her,” Francesca added.
“What?” Eden choked, taking a lurching step backward.
“We have important matters to discuss. Confidential matters. And according to Jericho, we can’t have you wandering about.”
“I won’t go wandering about.”
“That’s nice, but we don’t know you and we don’t trust you.”
“I know her,” Dayne said. “And I can vouch for her.”
Francesca’s attention jerked to the Editor-in-Chief. She looked like she might say the same thing to him, but Jericho intervened. “I can vouch for Dayne.”
Dayne’s jaw ticked with annoyance, like he didn’t want to be vouched for by a person who had left him so blatantly in the dark. “She came to the Millers wanting to take down the Monarch, not the Resistance. Like me, she didn’t even know about a Resistance.”
Eden jumped in. “And I’ve done nothing but cooperate with you guys. I did everything you asked of me. I even saved your life.” She glared at Asher.
A taut face-off ensued.
She would not look away. She would not be intimidated. After an extended moment of simmering silence, he blinked first. With a huff, Asher took Francesca’s backpack. The glass vials clinked inside. “These need to be stored in a deep freeze and kept somewhere easily accessible.”
“Easily accessible?” Eden blurted.
Everyone looked at her.
She blinked at the bag. She wanted to snatch it from Asher’s hands, race across the train tracks and the neglected parkway beyond, and dump every vial into the Potomac River. “You wanted a better option. I gave you one. The magnet works just fine.”
“His system is offline,” Asher replied.
“So?”
“So,” he said, “he has a network; I’m trying to breach it. I can’t do that unless his network is online.”
“You haven’t breached it yet?”
Asher gave her a look of utmost annoyance. “His network is one of the most complicated and secure networks I’ve ever come across, and we’ve only had him since the Prosperity Ball.”
Eden made a quick computation. The Prosperity Ball had been on October fourth, the anniversary of The Attack. The last time Eden had a confident grasp of the date had been the morning of the twenty-sixth, when she and Cassian and Cleo followed a tunnel into Washington, DC. Which meant they’d had the asset for over twenty-two days, a timeline that made no sense. Eden had watched Asher hack into government drones. She’d watched him spoof their GPS systems like it was nothing more than child’s play. Jack Forrester knew his way around a computer system, sure. But comparatively, Asher was—as her old friend Erik would say—a Jedi Knight, and Jack Forrester was a Padawan. So how was it possible that Jack had breached her network in a handful of days while Asher was still working after twenty-two of them?
“I don’t understand what you’re doing with him,” Dayne said.
“Trying to gain access into his inner workings,” Asher replied. “Once I do that, I should be able to figure out how he’s controlled. And once I know how he’s controlled, there are a myriad of ways we can use him.”
Use him.
“Imagine the Monarch’s surprise when we turn his most precious weapon against him,” Francesca said, practically crooning the words.
Eden blanched. They planned to control him. Force him to do things against his will. Just like Eden had been controlled and forced. “If that’s your strategy, how are you any different from Brahm?”
Francesca’s good eye flashed. “We won’t be decimating entire cities.”
Another awkward silence ensued.
This time, Jericho was the one to break it. “I can bring him to the commissary,” he said, glancing at his watch. “Nobody should be there this early in the morning. We can keep the vials in one of the chest freezers. We can keep him in the walk-in refrigerator.”
A shudder rippled up Eden’s spine.
They were going to store the asset in a refrigerator?
Jericho climbed behind the wheel. “Once I get him situated, I’ll meet you in the east tower.”
Asher handed him the bag. “We’ll send an alert to Amir. The others, too.”
“The others?” Dayne asked.
“Fellow council members,” Asher replied. “We need to apprise them of the situation.”
“And call for a vote,” Francesca said, the corners of her mouth tight. “If we’re going to make a move as big as inviting everyone here into the Resistance, then it needs to be a majority decision.”
“Fair enough,” Asher said, shrugging in acquiescence. “Hey, Jericho. Does this place have any handcuffs?”
Jericho glanced at the plastic zip-ties wrapped around the asset’s wrists and ankles. It was obvious he wouldn’t get them off anytime soon.
“They’re not for him,” Asher said.
The ominous statement came with no elaboration. Jericho seemed to understand just fine without any. With a nod, he started the engine and accelerated to The Landing. The asset’s head flopped over the seat, dangling lifelessly above the weed-riddled road as the UTV sped away.
8
The steel door opened with an echoing groan. Light stabbed his eyes, but Cassian Gray could not shield them. His hands were bound behind his back. His left shoulder throbbed. He imagined a fire poker in a blacksmith’s forge, glowing red with heat. Thrust through muscle and sinew until its pointed tip rested between the ball and socket of his joint. A fierce, demanding pain. And yet, it was nothing compared to the inferno of helpless rage blazing in his chest.
Eden.
She had to be alive. She was designed to be alive. He couldn’t consider any other possibility.
Boots clomped across the cement floor. Rough hands yanked him to his feet. The pain in his shoulder howled. But not him. Cass gritted his teeth. He ground his molars as the guard shoved him out of the prison cell, into a dank corridor. His head swam. His throat ached. He was dizzy and weak and consumed.
Eden.
Where was she? What had they done with her?
He had to escape. He had to find out. Which meant he had to be stronger than the pain and smarter than his captors. He forced his eyes to adjust. He inspected his surroundings, determined to collect information like a miser collecting gold. He would hoard every detail until he found a way to escape.
The guard escorting him through the hallway had a slight limp. Something was wrong with his left leg. Could Cass use that to his advantage? They passed several doors. He needed to see what was behind them. Who was behind them. Was she behind them? But the guard shoved him onward until they reached one last door at the end of the corridor.
He pressed his thumb against a keypad.
The door slid open.
Cass was pushed inside a room as dank and dim as the hallway. A bare, dangling lightbulb cast a halo of yellow light upon a small table in the room’s center. It was empty except for a bottled water. Beyond, set in the concrete wall, was the kind of mirror found in interrogation rooms. His reflection glared back at him—a mangle of bruises and dried blood. He wanted to charge forward and ram his fist through the glass. He wanted to reach through to the other side and wrap his fingers around the neck of whoever was watching. Whoever was in charge. He wouldn’t let go until that person told him where she was.
It was a lovely fantasy. One he wouldn’t hesitate to carry out if his hands weren’t bound.
The guard shoved him into the chair.
Another pair of cuffs snapped into place behind him, securing him to his seat. The guard strolled around Cass with the same slight limp, his lips thin and bloodless as he swiped the bottle of water off the table. The plastic crinkled in his grip. “You must be thirsty.”
Cass glared. He was, in fact. Terribly so. But he would not give this man the satisfaction of saying it.
The guard untwisted the cap and held the bottle to Cassian’s lips. “Time to hydrate.”
Cass ground his teeth.
The guard chuckled, then—without warning—shoved the bottle into Cassian’s mouth with such force, his lips smashed into his teeth. The guard poured the water down his throat. Cass reared back, but the man kept pouring. Cass choked and coughed until the guard yanked the bottle away as aggressively as he’d forced it in.
Cass spit what he hadn’t swallowed into the man’s face.
For a shocked moment, the guard did nothing. A mixture of water and spit dripped from his long nose. Then, with a curse, he backhanded Cass. Hard.
The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth.
Cass spit that, too.
Before the guard could deliver another blow, a middle-aged woman with copper-colored hair strode into the room, fire blazing in her eyes. She raised her hand sharply. “This isn’t how we treat prisoners.”
The man yanked a handkerchief from his back pocket. He whipped it open with a sharp shake and wiped the bloody spittle from his nose. “He’s a terrorist.”
“I am not a terrorist,” Cass said, gritting the words between his teeth.
The woman pulled at the hem of her blazer and arched her eyebrow. “Enlighten us, then, Mr. Ransom—who are you?” She emphasized the surname as she dropped a thick file on the table. It landed open with a picture on top that came like a brutal, unexpected punch to the gut.
“Allow me to introduce Atticus Belby, an investment banker who lives in Gary, Indiana, with his wife and two children. But this isn’t his first marriage.” The woman plucked a second photograph from the file and set it beside the first.
It came as another sucker punch.
“His previous marriage was to Rebecca Wilder,” the woman continued. “The daughter of a wildlife biologist who lived in Wyoming. Grayson Wilder. Or Gray, as many called him.”
She perched on the edge of the table. “Atticus and Rebecca met and fell in love. They settled in Denver where Rebecca gave birth to a son. Tragically, Rebecca and her son died in a boating accident on Sloan Lake. Their bodies were never recovered.”
Cass glared.
The woman crossed her arms. “Imagine Mr. Belby’s surprise when a few weeks ago, he sees his dead son on Concordia National News, responsible for the bombing in Chicago.”
Bile burned in his throat. If his father was shocked, it wasn’t because he thought he’d lost his son in a boating accident on Sloan Lake. It was because he thought he killed that son with the same baseball bat he’d used to kill Rebecca Wilder.
The woman stood. She strolled around the table until she reached Cassian. She lifted the torn sleeve of his shirt, revealing the tattoo beneath—a wolf framed in Celtic knots. “It would seem little Cassian Belby didn’t drown in Sloan Lake, but grew up to become a ruthless fighter known as Cassian ‘The Wolf’ Gray.”
The woman released his shirt sleeve. “What’s less clear is what happened to Cassian Belby’s mother. Is she alive, too?”
“Why don’t you ask Atticus?” Cass replied, his voice low and mutinous.
The woman peered at him, her carefully lined eyes narrowed into slits. Her face was freckled, but those freckles had been muted by makeup. “How did you come to know Prudence Dvorak?”
He didn’t answer.
She rubbed her earlobe, then strolled back to her spot on the other side of the table. A golden brooch pinned to the lapel of her blazer caught the light as she removed a third photograph from the file and set it on top of the other two. This one, a mug shot Cass knew well. It had led him to Eden.
“What about her?” the woman asked.
Fire burned in his chest.
“How did you two meet?”
He jerked against his restraints with nostrils flared.
The woman picked up the file. She began an unhurried, short-routed pace as she studied the contents within. “As I understand it, Mr. and Mrs. Pruitt were very troubled by their daughter’s arrest. So troubled, in fact, they moved from San Diego, California, to a small, obscure town in Iowa.”
She removed a fourth photograph and dropped it onto the table—a candid of Eden’s parents carting boxes into their new home in Eagle Bend. Then she pulled out a fifth photograph. She set the file back on the table with this photograph on top—a picture of Eden’s parents on their wedding day, when they weren’t Alexander and Ruth Pruitt, but Alaric and Molly Taylor. “All kinds of familiar faces have been cropping up in the news these days.”
The inferno beneath his sternum turned into something cold and desperate. They knew. Of course they knew. As soon as Eden’s parents made national headlines, the government had undoubtedly connected the dots. Cass had known it. So had Eden. But now, that knowing stared him in the face.
The woman set her hands on the table and leaned forward. She tapped the photograph taken in Eagle Bend. “Alexander and Ruth Pruitt.” She moved her tapping finger to the wedding photo. “Alaric and Molly Taylor. An uncanny resemblance, wouldn’t you say?”
Cass swallowed.
“Alaric Taylor worked for the government once upon a time. That is, before he and his wife disappeared. As thoroughly as Rebecca and Cassian Belby. Alexander and Ruth have a daughter who is eighteen, but they didn’t have a daughter when they disappeared sixteen and a half years ago.” The woman shut the file. “Perhaps if you could tell us something of value. Something that might lead us to the girl, a deal could be arranged.”
