A Deadly Influence (Abby Mullen Thrillers #1)(125)

“He had a knife to her throat. It’s very understandable.”

“Yeah . . . of course it is. I . . .” A storm brewed in her mind, threatening to break. She didn’t think she could stop it. “Do you know, when I was seven, during the Wilcox massacre, I talked to the police negotiator on the phone. I remember talking to him. There’s also a transcript; I’ve read it a million times.”

She put her fork down, realizing her fingers were trembling. “Moses Wilcox had a gun to my head. I remember it. The way it felt.”

“Tell them what will happen if they come near us. Tell them about the gun.”

The cold muzzle, pressing against her temple.

“What did you say to the negotiator?”

“I . . . in the transcript I tell them Moses is holding a gun to my head. I told them that if they broke inside, Moses would shoot me. They asked if I was okay. I said I was okay, that all sixty-two of us were okay, that no one was hurt.”

She held a paper in her hand. On it was the number sixty-two, underlined. She couldn’t read yet, but she knew how to read numbers up to ninety-nine.

“He probably told you what to say.”

“He did. I remember it.”

“Tell them.”

“And then, after the phone call ended, I remember he told me to bolt the door. I did. I walked to the door and bolted it, locking us all inside the hall. Which he later set fire to.”

“You were seven; you can’t blame yourself for—”

“Why did he tell me to bolt it? Why didn’t he do it himself?”

Carver said nothing, looking at her intently.

“And when the fire started, why didn’t anyone open it? Sixty-two people in a burning hall. Are you telling me no one ran to the door to open it?”

“There probably wasn’t time. I read the report about the incident. The cooking cylinders in the hall exploded.”

Abby shook her head. “There was time. There was . . .”

The smell of smoke. Screaming for help.

The bolt. She ran to the door to slide the bolt open. Behind her, she heard Eden shout, “Abihail, get away from there!”

She had to open the door.

Isaac grabbed her, pulled her back.

An explosion, the searing pain on the back of her neck.

“Eden doesn’t remember it the same way,” she said hollowly. “Memories get warped during traumatic experiences. And cult members’ memories often change to match what they believe.”

“That makes sense.”

“Gabrielle sounded so scared. And back then I had a gun to my head. I was completely cool. I read the transcript a million times. I didn’t cry. Didn’t stutter.”

The number sixty-two on a piece of paper.

“I don’t think there was a gun to my head,” Abby said.

“Tell them about the gun.” His finger pressing against her temple—just like a gun. “Tell them all sixty-two of us are together. Will you remember that, Abihail? Sixty-two.” He scribbled the number on a piece of paper. In the background, she heard Eden crying. But Abihail didn’t cry. She was brave. Moses always said she was a brave girl. That was why he wanted her to do this and not Eden or Isaac. He only trusted her.

“I don’t think I was in that hall with the rest of them. Everyone in that hall died. He told me what to say, and then he went to that hall to join them, and I . . .” She shut her eyes.

“After I leave, call them. Tell them what will happen if they come near us. Tell them about the gun. And then, go to the dining hall door and bolt it.”

“The bolt was on the outside,” Abby whispered. “I locked them in—like he told me to. Eden, Isaac, and I were outside the hall.”

“You can’t be sure—”

“I’m sure.”

They screamed for help. Mommy and Daddy—and everyone else. There was smoke.

She ran to slide the bolt open. She had to let them out.

Eden’s scream. “Abihail, get away from there!”

Isaac grabbed her, pulled her back.

An explosion, the searing pain on the back of her neck.

She raised her fingers to touch the scar on her neck. “I made the call to the negotiator to buy Moses some time. I locked them inside the dining hall. And he set it on fire. They were locked in. They couldn’t get out. By the time I went to open it . . .” Tears ran down her cheeks.

Carver swept her into a hug. She buried her face in his chest, weeping.

“You were only seven,” he kept saying. “You were only seven.”





CHAPTER 84


Abby slowed the car down as she got to the crossroad, fields of green in every direction. She turned left, listening to the music from her Spotify, trying to tune out Eden. The woman was speaking to the babysitter. Again. Fourth time in a three-hour drive. And as they got farther and farther from home, the anxiety in Eden’s voice was more and more apparent—until it was almost unbearable.

Abby didn’t judge her. It’d been only two months. And it was the first time Eden had left Nathan and Gabrielle for a whole day since . . . well, since they had been born.

“Can I talk to Nathan?” Eden asked. Then, a second later, “Hey sweetie! Yes, we’re nearly there. We’ll be home late afternoon. Yes, before bedtime. Did you eat?”