Into the Light (The Light, #1)(64)

What does that even mean?

The more I read, the more the hairs on the back of my neck came to attention. At the very bottom the form said that upon receipt, a Visitor Specialist would contact the applicant.

My thoughts went to the women I’d seen crossing the street. It was difficult to say because of how far away I’d been, but I couldn’t remember anything distinguishing about them. I couldn’t even remember what they were wearing. I seemed to recall slacks or maybe jeans. They hadn’t been wearing handmade dresses such as I’d associate with more conservative groups or cults.

That word cult sent shivers down my spine. I opened a new tab and typed it in the browser. The definition I found said it was a system of religious veneration and devotion directed toward a particular figure or object.

Is that what this church is? Or am I reading too much into it? What does “full-time committed believers” mean, and why are they crossing the Canadian border daily?

I checked the website again. There was nothing to indicate that The Light was an international church, and the site said only that there were multiple locations within the United States. That was when I noticed the Outreach tab and clicked. Preserve the Light was at the top of the screen, with pictures of jars of jams and jellies. The blurb said that the church’s homegrown, homemade jams and jellies helped support its outreach. A testimonial from a member of The Light read as follows:

“I was lost in a world of darkness, using my body to support deadly habits, when I found The Light. Today, I only use my body to create Preserve the Light, serve my husband, and follow Father Gabriel. I’ve never been as content and fulfilled. The Light and Father Gabriel saved me. Please purchase Preserve the Light so others may be saved.” The testimonial was attributed to “Follower of The Light, Sister Abigail Miller.”

Serve her husband? My skin crawled.

Well, at least this woman wasn’t out selling her body anymore, and the location in Highland Heights made sense, if the ministry was about helping people who were dependent on drugs or alcohol. I wasn’t sure why or if I believed there was a connection, but I wanted to learn more.

I started with Preserve the Light. Clicking on the Order Here box, I filled out my request. Ten dollars was a lot to pay for a jar of jelly, but I reasoned that it was for a ministry. After entering my shipping information, I selected strawberry. With the weather turning colder and the leaves changing, the fruit reminded me of summer.

The other agreement that Dylan and I had come to was that I’d stay out of Highland Heights. Maybe it wasn’t so much of an agreement as it was him telling me to stay out. I didn’t want to argue about it, but if my work took me back there, I couldn’t say no . . . or more like I wouldn’t say no. It was Bernard’s informant who had led me to The Light, so I owed it to Bernard to be sure there wasn’t a connection between The Light and the drug smuggling we were trying to uncover at the border. The idea that there was a connection between this church and missing or dead women came to mind. Just as quickly I dismissed it. That was ludicrous and likely a result of my vivid imagination. Besides, nothing about those women set off my radar. Then again, I was a ways away.

Two things were for sure. One, I was excited about my homemade jam. I hadn’t had good strawberry jam since I was a little girl. Thinking about my grandmother’s jam had my mouth watering. Two, I was going back to Highland Heights. I wanted to find out what was going on in that school building across the street from The Light. If it was only a jam factory, then I’d be able to tell Bernard that the lead hadn’t panned out.

That wasn’t a conversation I’d relish. This investigation was taking longer than either of us had expected, and coming up with dead ends seemed to be my new specialty. Thank God, Foster was keeping Bernard busy with some new stories. Nevertheless my boss was definitely getting anxious. It wasn’t until I’d gotten him, maybe not on board, but at least entertaining the compilation theory that he’d agreed to let me keep working this angle. In order to do that, I’d had to share some of the information I’d learned from Dr. Howell. I didn’t tell him my source, but I gave him a taste of the incidence of women dying from suspicious causes over the last ten years in the Detroit area. When I did I watched his wheels turn. Even the slightest possibility of a connection between the dead and missing women and the drug smuggling made his brow and upper lip glisten with perspiration. Bernard foamed at the mouth like a rabid dog with the need to uncover this story.

When my phone rang, I glanced at the date on the screen and my heart clenched. It’d been six weeks to the day since I’d last spoken to Mindy. I tried to suppress the lump in my throat as I answered the phone.

“Hello, Stella Montgomery.”

“It’s Foster.”

“Hi, I obviously didn’t look at the number. What can I do for you? You’re saving my ass keeping Bernard busy. Otherwise he’d be chewing it every chance he had.”

Eddie Foster’s laugh filled my ear. “Not a problem. We all have some stories that fall into place better than others. Have you found anything lately?”

“Jelly.”

“What?”

“Never mind,” I said, waving my free hand. “What do you need?”

“It’s not so much what I need. I have a couple questions for you.”

“OK, shoot.”

Foster cleared his throat. “You know we keep an eye on our own, right?”