by Alex Gates
Simon stopped me before the largest house in the compound. I steeled my spine, but the courage rusted away as the men encircled me.
“We’ve been kind so far, Detective,” Simon whispered. “Don’t make us regret it.”
“I love the hospitality.”
“You have no idea what you’re looking to find here.”
“Enlighten me. I’m ready for your confession.”
“I confess my sins only to God.”
“You think he’d listen to a slime bag like you?”
Simon tensed. His arm raised. I dared him, but before he could make that mistake, a voice called to us from the porch.
“Oh! Hello, there!” The woman chastised Simon with a voice softer than the click of the screen door. “Shame on you, Simon Goodman. You didn’t tell me we had guests.”
I turned, but my stomach didn’t. It dropped out of me, leaving me stunned and silenced.
Anna Prescott grinned from the porch.
“Really, you should have called to give me some warning.” Anna dusted her flour coated fingers on her dress and waved me towards the house. “Come on inside. No sense sitting out in the cold.”
It had to be her.
She hadn’t grown since she’d been kidnapped. I stared at all five-foot-five, one hundred and thirty pounds of Eve Goodman—complete with her chestnut hair, hazel eyes, and the port wine stain birthmark stretching over her neck and dipping beneath the neckline of her powder blue dress. She hadn’t worn her hair in a French braid at fifteen, and her last pictures teased her in a mini-skirt, but I knew who she really was.
Anna Prescott.
And the only lingering doubt giving me pause was that she didn’t run screaming as soon as she found a police officer.
“It is simply freezing out here.” She called me up the stairs and shoo’ed Simon and the men with a flick of her hand. “Only half an hour until chapel. Go drop off your gear and change. And don’t forget to wash up. I won’t have you tracking mud through the church again.” She smiled at me—a grin sweet and innocent and completely obvious to the danger. “Last week, we spent two hours chipping mud off the back of the booths. Such a shame too. It took Jonah a year to build those pews for the chapel, and fifteen minutes for the boys to muck it all up. John was livid. No need to start a holy war over muddy boots, right?”
“Uh…” The bubbly enthusiasm blindsided me. “Right.”
Who was this woman?
Healthy. Vibrant. Anna acted as if her kidnapper’s porch was the most comfortable retreat in the world.
“I’m Eve.” She spoke the name naturally. “Come inside. Make yourself at home. I’ll put on a fresh pot of coffee.”
“No, thank you.” I stepped inside, somehow more tense inside a perfectly pleasant home than surrounded by guns in the forest. “I’m Detective London McKenna. I think I should speak with Jacob.”
“If only.” Anna rolled her eyes. “He’s so busy lately. Hardly has time to chat with me. But come in. We’ll have a cup of coffee and see if he comes out of his office.”
Anna patted her braid, accidentally leaving a handprint of white flour in her chestnut locks. She brushed at her hair, sighed, and ignored the smudge while welcoming me inside.
The house smelled of cinnamon and apples, yeast and bread. Overwhelmingly so. A window opened in the far corner of the living room, but the heat smothered the home. Anna fanned her face.
“The ovens have been on all day. It’s like my own little bit of summer in here, don’t you think?”
Sure, summer. But where?
Anna’s home appeared modern enough—white leather couches, hand-crafted tables and chairs, and subdued crimson rugs that popped against the hardwood and cream walls.
No TV. No radio. Anna didn’t have a laptop or iPad plugged into an outlet. A lone recipe book sat on the kitchen counter, faded and worn like it had been handed down generation to generation with a detour into a soapy sink. Someone recently rebound the blue spiral binding and attempted to repair the tears and stains. Anna picked it up and carried it close.
“Please excuse the mess.” She collapsed in her chair with an oomph. “It’s my baking day. I’ve been so busy that this is my first chance to catch my breath. Up and down, rolling and baking, prepping and scrubbing, peeling and stirring, crimping and sugaring. It’s exhausting just listing it.”
Exhausting hearing it too. But Anna practically vibrated with energy—more than most of the meth head perps dragged through the station house. I’d have demanded a piss test if I wasn’t sure I could twist her enthusiasm into information.
If the excitement wasn’t a cover for something.
Nerves? Fright?
But Anna prattled over her kitchen, stepping on her tip-toes to reach the coffee mugs and reloading her French press for another brew. She tutted her tongue at the pile of dishes in the sink. Loaf pans and pie tins, spatulas and cookie sheets. She abandoned a search for a spoon and used a butter knife to stir the milk into her coffee.
What was creepier—a Stepford wife who had everything perfect for her husband…or the little captive woman so unapologetically imperfect that the house looked absolutely normal?
But none of this was normal.
Anna was a thirty-year-old woman, forced into a fifteen-year relationship with a man old enough to be her father.
He’d kidnapped her. Impregnated her. Held her at the farm against her will.
And this was my chance to save her.
If she wanted to be saved.
Anna looked perfectly peaceful in her kitchen, doting over her baking day and serving a complete stranger a cup of coffee.
“Oh, let me get you a slice of pie!”
Anna nudged a gorgeous apple pie towards the edge of the counter. She’d baked it well, golden crust even dazzled with a sprinkling of coarse sugar. She’d even braided the dough into a perfect ring around the crust. A pie like that belonged in a New York bakery, not hidden in a farm-turned-prison.
“It’s a family recipe, so I won’t take sole credit for it,” she said. “But I can eat it until I burst.”
I stared at this woman. Was it an act, or was she really this naïve? “I couldn’t, thank you.”
“Just a taste?”
“You haven’t even cut it. I’d hate to spoil something so pretty.”
“What good is an uneaten pie?” Anna winked and gestured to the oven and cooling rack. “Besides, I’ve baked three more over there. I’m swimming in desserts. You’d be doing Jacob’s sugar a favor if you take a piece.”
My stomach was empty, and if I ate, she’d warm up to me. Maybe that would make her drop the Martha Stewart act and become Anna Prescott once more.
“One piece. Small. A sliver.” I gestured with my hands. “Smaller than that!”
“You’re a little thing, Detective. I won’t tell if you don’t.” Anna sliced a hulking piece of pie, slamming what had to be two apples worth of gooey filling onto a plate. “You won’t regret it.”
Light footsteps creaked the hall’s wooden floorboards. Anna didn’t turn before addressing our interloper.
“Mariam, you have twenty minutes before your behind better be sitting in the chapel’s pews…” Anna glanced over her shoulder. “Get cleaned up now. I want you and the baby in fresh dresses for the service.”
I turned, my stomach twisting. I recognized the little girl—the ten-year-old pixie from the cemetery. I’d tucked my card into her pocket, but she’d never called.
Christ, I hope I hadn’t gotten her into trouble.
Mariam kept her head down, almost like scolded child caught, but she obediently approached under Anna’s direction.
“We have a guest,” Anna said. “Detective McKenna, this is Mariam. She’s one of our new girls here. We’re so lucky we’ve found her.”
“We’ve met…” I arched my eyebrows. “Do you remember me? I’m London. I’m the detective from the cemetery.”
Mariam didn’t answer. She looked up at Anna.
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br /> For instruction.
No. She edged closer to her. Almost like…
She looked to her for protection.
“What’s wrong?” Anna asked.
Mariam swallowed, hard, avoiding my gaze. “Should the baby wear a jacket too? Or just the blanket?”
The baby?
Anna teetered on the decision, humming to herself. “Last night, John nearly sweated us out of the chapel. Simon was supposed to fix the heat…just a blanket for now. No sense melting the poor thing if it’s still hot as Hades in there.”
Mariam nodded and skittered past me as quickly as she could. She bolted from the kitchen before I had a chance to ask her any other questions.
My eyebrow rose. Anna simply chuckled.
“She’s shy. You’ll have to forgive her.”
“She’s very young.”
At least Anna couldn’t deny the obvious. “Poor thing. Thank God we found her when we did. She’s blessed all our lives.”
She was ten. I didn’t trust a Goodman’s blessing.
“Where are her parents?”
Anna helped herself to a piece of pie as well, taking a tiny bite of hers only once I tried mine. Her fork twirled in the sugary syrup and apples. “Unfortunately, we don’t know. Not many of our girls will even admit to having parents. They ran, they found us, and we took them in. The farm is the only love they’ve ever experienced.”
“Did the families abandon them?”
“Some.” Anna nodded. Was she lying, or did she believe it? “Others hid away from abuses I can’t even imagine…but I suspect you can, being a detective. What is your field?”
I spoke slowly, watching for any twitch, any little reaction in her expression. “Missing Persons.”
Nothing. Anna didn’t miss a beat, though her voice darkened, solemn and fierce. “Then you must see this often. The poor girls—out in the world all alone. It breaks my heart.”
“I see too much of it.”
“How do you cope?”
I held her gaze. “By rescuing as many endangered children as I can.”
Anna smiled. “Then we’re very similar.”
Not in the least.
The pie was delicious, and I delayed my next question with a large mouthful. Anna approved, sneaking her own nibble.
“Mariam…” I said. “She’s living here permanently then?”
“That’s right.”
“And she’s…babysitting?”
“Oh, yes. She’s been a godsend with the baby.” Anna pointed her fork at me. “I know what you’re thinking.”
“…I doubt that.”
“You don’t like a girl her age babysitting. Well, Mariam is young, but she’s more than capable of caring for the baby. This is good practice. How else will she learn to care for her own children?”
The pie soured in my stomach. “She’s got a lot of time before then.”
“Perhaps.”
The baby began to cry, echoing from upstairs. A young cry, not newborn, but not toddler. I tensed, but Anna didn’t react beyond a curious glance to see if she might be needed.
I played dumb. “Is it your baby?”
“Oh no. She’s the daughter of another one of our girls. Poor thing. That ray of sunshine is just a little fussy—growth spurt. She’s not sleep-trained yet, and her momma…well, it’s hard enough being a teenage mother. She needed a little help, so Mariam volunteered to watch the little princess.”
“What’s her name?”
“Oh, it seems to change day-to-day. By the time we’re satisfied, the baby will have picked it herself.”
“How old is she?”
“Eight months.”
The perfect age for Jonah and Nina’s child. I sucked in a breath, but Anna was too quick.
“Do you have children, Detective?”
“No. I’m a bit more…career focused.”
“You’re with the Pittsburgh Police?”
Was it hope in her voice, or just curiosity? “Yes. I can show you my badge.”
She shook her head. “This is a small community. We trust you.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t.”
“I’ll always err on the side of trust, especially in our little family,” she said. “Sounds like you need to get out of the city more.”
If it meant saving these girls, I’d be here every minute of the day. “Maybe.”
“What brings you all the way out here?”
I glanced over my shoulder. Mariam had gone upstairs. Jacob hadn’t appeared. For the moment, we were alone.
If only she knew how valuable that privacy was.
“You did,” I said.
Anna crinkled her nose. “Me? Have we met before?”
“I’m here to help you.”
My promise amused her. “Unless you can cook, clean, sew, and organize an entire wedding…” She winked. “Mark’s wife, Elizabeth, is pregnant again. Ready to pop. I told her that I already scrubbed the chapel floors once. I won’t have her water break and ruin a freshly waxed floor. No thanks. So I put her in bed last week and told her to rest until the baby comes. Been watching her grandkids and helping with the other children in the meantime. Between diapers and the wedding, dinners and cleaning, it’s been absolutely insane here.”
Insane was one word for it.
I leaned in close. “I’m not talking about helping around the home.”
“That’s a shame. There’s always a diaper to be changed, cow to be milked, or wood to be chopped. Fortunately, the family is big enough that we can all chip in and help.” She hummed. “But you’re not here to talk chores, are you?”
“No.”
“Detective, is there something I can help you with?”
Anna watched me with wide-eyes, a chipmunk’s enthusiasm, and all the charm of a school girl. How was this possible? Stockholm syndrome was a powerful and unfortunate consequence of captivity, but this was beyond anything I’d ever studied in my psychology classes.
Anna seemed…normal.
Completely unfazed by her kidnapping.
She acted as though the farm’s pregnant girls had arrived for the charity and support, not because they served the desires of the men who’d captured them.
Whatever trauma Anna had endured, she preserved. Lived through it. Seemed happy.
How?
How could she just…get over it? How could she smile so bright?
I’d lived through three weeks of hell with my captor, and I was ruined.
Anna spent fifteen years with her attacker, and she loved her life.
What had happened to her?
No. What had happened to me?
I swallowed, fearing the worst from this conversation—not that I couldn’t get her out, but that she wouldn’t want to leave.
“Eve…” I surrendered and used her false name. “Your sister sent me.”
“Sister? Someone from the farm?”
“No. Your sister, Louisa.”
Anna frowned, her entire face scrunching almost into a pout. “I don’t know a Louisa. And I don’t have a sister. Plenty of in-laws, of course, but no biological family.”
I pulled the photo from my bag, showing her the grinning images of teenage Louisa and Anna, sitting on the porch steps of their new home in Braddock. They shared the same smile, freckles, and even ice cream flavors.
“This is you,” I said. “Anna Prescott.”
Anna glanced at the photo before laughing like I was the delusional one. “Detective, my name is Eve. Eve Goodman.”
“And how long have you used that name?”
“I’ve been Eve my whole life.”
“You’ve been Eve since you were fourteen.”
She dug into her pie, heaping a sticky apple onto her fork. She licked the cinnamon juice from her bottom lip. “I don’t talk about my past very much, Detective. I prefer not to.”
My heart rate jumped. “Why? What happened to you? When you were younger?”
The fork clinked against her plate, and
she surveyed her kitchen—bright, comfortable, and obviously well-tended. “My life before Harvest Dominion? It was horrible. I was in a bad place with bad people who didn’t care about me, my wellbeing, or my eternal soul. When Jacob found me…it was like a message from Christ himself. I saw that the world could be bright and good. This farm has been my salvation. Jacob has been my salvation.”
“You married your savior?”
She actually blushed. “We fell for each other. He lost his wife years before we met. I think we just…fit together.”
“You were young.”
“You know how these things happen.”
“You were too young, Eve.”
A realization flooded her features, but she merely laughed. “You’re worried about that? Detective, just say so. You can check the county records. We married after I was eighteen.”
“And before that?”
“You have nothing to fear. Jacob is the greatest man I know. I fell for him. Couldn’t help it. He’s so…” She sighed, like a school-girl infatuated with a high school quarterback. “Magnetic. He understands this world and the next. He does the Lord’s work every day and in every way. Godly doesn’t begin to describe him.”
“He sounds perfect.”
“We all have our sins, Detective. Jacob Goodman just has fewer than most.”
No wonder Anna acted the way she did. She didn’t see the danger.
Hell, she couldn’t even comprehend it.
Whatever Jacob had fed her, whatever lies he’d snaked into her brain, worked.
Anna Prescott was completely brainwashed.
And I could only imagine the other girls suffered the same delusions.
This complicated things. Endangered them and me. I had to be careful.
I took another bite of the pie and sipped my coffee, as if I was just a friend, sitting down for a chat with a charming and delightful acquaintance.
“So you’re happy then?” I asked.
“Oh, very.” Anna eagerly answered. “The farm and this life must seem like a lot of work, and it is. Not only do we tend to the Lord’s fields, we’re tending souls of children who have only seen darkness in the world so far. But I wouldn’t trade it for the world.”
“Not even the diapers?”
She groaned, rolling her eyes. “So many diapers.”