Wolfhunter River (Stillhouse Lake #3)(108)

“Tell me about the cult in Wolfhunter,” she says. “What you know of it, anyway.”

“It started in the sixties,” I tell her. “Carr’s grandfather opened some kind of fringe church. A lot of people joined initially, some left. Those who stayed became a cult, and Carr’s grandfather claimed to be the voice of God on earth. He started the practice of . . . training.”

“Training women,” J. B. says. “To be a man’s perfect servants. His goal was to purge them of original sin.” She looks disgusted. “I’m just quoting the text they found on the property.”

“Some of the women ran. Some died. But enough stayed. The children were brought up in the—I don’t want to call it faith. Cult.” I feel the camera on me again, even though I know rationally it’s not watching. “Hector Sparks’s father was one of them. And he trained his son and daughter, though they broke from the cult after his death.”

“Hector started abducting women, with the aid of his sister. Pretending he was somehow saving them, at least to himself.” J. B. nods. “Horrible.”

“Yes,” I say. “It was. All of it.”

“You kept your name out of the papers.”

“I tried. I had help.” Nobody, it turned out, really wanted to credit the infamous ex-wife of a serial killer with solving a case, so it was an easy answer for the FBI, TBI, and county sheriff’s office to give the praise to the dead Detective Fairweather. I was fine with that. So was Sam.

“And . . . Mr. Cade’s charges?”

“Chief Weldon confessed to trying to have Sam and my son killed in exchange for his plea deal,” I tell her, and even now, that makes my blood boil and my hands shake. “The charges were dismissed. Thank God.”

“Good. And I understand the documentary about Melvin Royal is stalled.”

I relax, just a little. “Miranda’s obsession died with her. It’s going to take years to settle her estate, so they have no funding to continue.”

J. B. Hall sits back and studies me. It’s warm, but somehow analytical at the same time.

“I really want this job, J. B.” I blurt it out, and though it’s true, I wish I hadn’t tipped my hand that far.

“And you’d be good at it,” she agrees. “Are you sure you want to stay there, at Stillhouse Lake? I can make a place for you here in the office. You can find a home in town.” She’s offering me the job. My God. I somehow didn’t prepare for this moment. I wanted it so badly that I forgot to think what to do if I actually got it.

Sam didn’t leave for his dream job. I can’t either. Not if I’m really committed to making things work between us. “I thought the point was for me to work remotely.”

“If you’d prefer. Most of my investigators work from their homes, or out of suitcases on the road. The ones you see in here are locals who enjoy structure. To each their own, I say.” She pauses for a second. “You come with baggage. I’m well aware that you could bring us some . . . notoriety, both good and bad. You’ve got people on your trail who want you hurt, or dead, and that can be a complication we don’t need. But fact is, most of my people have never faced down a dangerous situation. Even most who came out of law enforcement never found themselves in a real gunfight. But you have. And that’s valuable. There are cases—like Ellie’s kidnapping, or the women in Hector’s basement—that aren’t about the routine work. They need insight and creativity. I think you have it. I just worry you’re inviting trouble by staying back at Stillhouse Lake. I read the police reports. You’ve got some local trouble with some hill folk from around there.”

“We do,” I tell her. “But I promised my kids that we won’t run. They have a stable life, friends, a real home. I can’t take that away from them now.”

“You know you may have to fight to protect it.”

I manage a smile. “I think you know that’s not new.”

If she’s trying to mother me, she gives it up. “How’s your right hand these days?”

I hold it out. It’s steady, no tremors. I make a fist. It’s fast, fluid, and convincing. The fact that it hurts doesn’t mean I can’t fake it well.

“Excellent,” she says. “We’ll get to the important bits like health care and benefits in a second, but I have to ask: How would you recommend we handle the press that comes from hiring you?”

There it is. She means it. She’s really offering me a job. And now I feel a golden burst of excitement. It’s so . . . strange. Is this happiness, the kind of happiness regular people feel? I’m not used to it. Not for anything outside my family.

But this is mine. Something for me. And it’s precious, like a breath of air I didn’t know I needed.

“Use my controversy,” I tell her. “Look, there will always be people who hate me. I can’t help that. The Lost Angels—the group founded by families of Melvin’s victims . . .” By Sam. That still hurts, but it’s a distant, familiar pain. “The Lost Angels will always believe I had something to do with his crimes. Conspiracy theorists are everywhere. But I’ve learned recently that we all make our own hells out of our pasts; I want to use mine to help people. And I hope you’ll help me do that.”