A Deadly Influence (Abby Mullen Thrillers #1)(89)
Eden let out a sharp sob.
“What did they do to you?”
“It’s so . . . I’m so ashamed.”
“There’s no reason to be ashamed. Whatever happened, you weren’t in control of the situation.”
Eden shook her head, covering her mouth with her hand. Abby got up and brought her a glass of water. She waited as Eden emptied it.
“Otis came to me one day,” Eden said. “And said he wanted to marry Gabrielle. He said he’d found the perfect guy for her.”
Abby kept her face blank, shutting away the disgust. “How old was Gabrielle at the time?”
“Twelve.”
“So you got up and left?”
“No,” Eden whispered. “That’s why I didn’t tell you. I was happy. Otis told me this guy would take care of Gabrielle when the end of the world came. David was thrilled to hear it too; his daughter would be safe. Can you imagine? A mother happy to marry off her twelve-year-old girl?”
“I can imagine,” Abby said. She could. She’d seen worse.
“This guy was about to join the community in a week or two. And when he joined, Otis would marry them. A date was set. People were preparing things for the wedding. I made a white dress for Gabrielle. A wedding dress. A size eleven wedding dress.”
“Did Gabrielle know?”
“No!” Eden’s eyes widened. “She still doesn’t. Please don’t—”
“I won’t tell her. What happened then?”
“Otis told me Gabrielle should arrive pure to her wedding. She should do her first private confession session with him.”
Abby shut her eyes.
“I knew what happened in those confession sessions,” Eden said. “I already did several of them. Otis didn’t schedule them often for me. Some younger women had weekly confession sessions. And when he told me Gabrielle had to do one . . . I just couldn’t let her do it. I couldn’t. I wanted Nathan and Gabrielle to be far away from there. At the time, I was in charge of the everyday administration of the community. I bought clothing, hygiene products, anything basic we needed and couldn’t make on the farm. So I had some access to the community’s cash. I stole three thousand dollars and left with the kids. I planned on giving them up for adoption.”
“Adoption?” Abby asked, surprised. “Why?”
“Because I thought I would die,” Eden said. “It was something we all knew; people who left the farm died. The FBI killed them, or they got sick or had a terrible accident. No one survived for long.”
“That’s what Otis told all of you.”
“Yeah. I believed it. So I figured I’d give the kids up for adoption and then wait for death. But I couldn’t even figure out how to start the adoption process. And a week went by. And then another week. And I didn’t die.”
“So you went back for a divorce.”
“Yes. I went back to the farm and told David I wanted a divorce. I said if he didn’t give me a divorce, I would tell the police about everything that went on in that community. I think Otis nearly had me shot.”
“You’re lucky he didn’t.”
Eden nodded. “Instead, he ordered David to sign the papers. That I was possessed by Satan and that my soul was already gone.”
“Do you know the name of the guy Gabrielle was supposed to marry?”
“No. I never met him. But I think he was related to Otis in some way. That’s part of the reason we were excited about it at first.”
Abby’s heart sank. “Otis’s nephew?”
“I think so.”
Karl Adkins. He was the one who had been supposed to marry Gabrielle when she was twelve. Abby had had it all wrong. She’d thought Otis had recruited Karl because Eden had left, but it was the other way around. Eden had left because Karl was about to join—and marry her daughter. Later, Karl had found Gabrielle online and stalked her.
“I need you to repeat that story to someone else,” Abby said. “It might help Nathan.”
CHAPTER 61
“Thanks for coming,” Carver said, his tone dry.
He sat in one of the precinct interview rooms with Tom McCormick, the journalist. Carver, and the rest of the cops in the station, had little love for the New Yorker Chronicle, which had published an article about police ineptitude in the 115th Precinct a year before. McCormick hadn’t written that article, but it still rankled.
News about the Layton murder had broken that morning. The journalist seemed dazed. He must have heard about it recently. “Of course. I’m horrified by what happened. Whatever I can do to help.”
“When did you interview Eric?”
“Two days ago, on Sunday evening.”
“And how did he seem when you talked to him?”
“Well, he was obviously upset because of the kidnapping.”
“Did it seem like there was anything else on his mind?”
McCormick frowned. “I . . . don’t think so. The kidnapping was all he talked about. The kidnapping and Gabrielle Fletcher.”
“Did you record the interview?” Carver asked hopefully.
“No, I transcribed it while we talked.”
“Can I have the transcriptions?”