A Deadly Influence (Abby Mullen Thrillers #1)(85)

On the wet ground, under the bush, lay a black dumbbell, spotted with Abby’s half-digested danish.





CHAPTER 57


Abby tossed and turned in her bed, thinking of Eric Layton lying dead on the floor. He’d called them just hours before. If she’d gone there earlier . . .

A cop’s life was full of regrets. Decisions made in seconds that could mean life or death. A hair not properly labeled at a crime scene could mean a killer going free. A moment’s hesitation in a conflict could mean a person getting hurt or killed. The wrong action or word in a crisis could escalate into a disaster.

Over years of police service, these moments piled up, hounding you at night. You had to learn to push them away. No matter how much regret you poured into a single moment, it never changed its outcome. Time moved only in one direction.

Still, if she’d gone there just a bit earlier.

She threw the blanket off her and plodded to the bathroom.

The skin on her palms itched. She had an urge to turn on the faucet. Let the cool water run over her hands. Some soap. Wash them clean. Really, methodically wash them, peeling away all the dirt, that satisfying feeling of the fingernails scraping the filth, and dead skin cells, and yes, the germs . . .

She forced herself to step back and shut the door.

She returned to her bed, picked up her phone, and sent a message to Isaac asking if he was awake. Usually he stayed up late. This night, however, there was no answer. Sighing, she picked up her laptop from the night table and turned it on. She intended to write some emails, maybe read an article about cult intervention.

Instead, she dragged the cursor over to the transcript icon. If icons could have wear and tear, that one would have been tattered and frayed at the corners. She double-clicked it, the familiar report filling her screen.

N: Hello?

A: Hello.

N: Hi. My name is Nick. What’s—

“—your name?” His voice was kind, but Abihail knew he was one of them.

“My name’s Abihail.” She clutched the phone in her sweaty palm. Eden was sobbing in the background. People sat huddled all around her.

“Abihail, that’s a lovely name,” Nick said. “How old are you, Abihail?”

“Seven and a half.” The cold, hard gun muzzle pressed against her temple, hurting her. “I have a gun pointed at my head.”

Abby shivered as she read the transcript, the events of that night more vivid than they’d been for years. Things had escalated so fast. A terrible armed conflict ending up with seven dead and numerous wounded on both sides. And then a cease-fire. And the phone call.

A: He says—

“—that if you come closer, he will shoot,” Abihail said. “He says you should stay back.”

She glanced at Isaac. He was sitting on the floor, clutching his small backpack, frozen in fear.

“Who has a gun to your head?” Nick asked.

“Father Wilcox.”

“Can you put him on the phone?”

The muzzle dug into her temple. She looked up at Father. His eyes flinty, unrelenting. “Tell them,” he said.

“No,” she answered Nick. “He says you should all stay away.”

“Okay, Abihail. We’ll stay away. Where are you right now?”

She looked around her at the benches, the upturned tables pressed against the door, blocking it. The members of the Family grouped together in the center of the room. “We’re all together in the mess hall. All sixty-two of us. It’s important that you stay back. Or he’ll shoot me. He says if you stay back, he’ll start sending people out in one hour.”

“Okay. Is there an adult who can talk to me?”

There wasn’t. Only Abihail could talk to the cops. Only she was allowed. “I have to hang up.”

“Wait—”

She placed the phone in the cradle. She raised her eyes to Father Wilcox again. Saw the satisfaction in his eyes. Her chest swelled with pride.

“Now lock the door,” he said softly.

She walked over to the door. There was no lock, just a bolt. She could just reach it if she stood on her tiptoes.

It slid easily, locking them inside. All the members of the Family were protected now.

Abby shut the laptop and set it aside. She recalled her childish belief that they were safe, that the danger was outside. She tried to recall the moment that Moses Wilcox lit the fire, but couldn’t. All she remembered was the flames and the—

—smoke. People screamed. The air was hazy, and she was coughing violently. She had to get the door open.

She ran, hand over her mouth, to slide the bolt back, to open the door. 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.

Her hand flew to her neck, and she let out a shuddering breath, tracing the decades-old scar.

Exhaustion settled over her like an extra blanket.

Thinking about the past wouldn’t change it. Just like she couldn’t go back a few hours and save Eric Layton.

And Nathan Fletcher still needed her. She had to get some sleep.





CHAPTER 58


Nathan hardly managed to get out of bed. The floor tilted this way and that, and for a second, he wondered if he was somehow on a ferry. He’d gone on the Staten Island Ferry with Mom and Gabrielle a few times, and it had felt a bit like this. But after a moment, leaning against the wall, he felt the room steady.