Chapter 21 #2
It’s proof that we existed here, together. That we loved each other. That all the fucked-up shit we went through mattered.
“The hiding spot is up there,” Clover says, pointing to where the tree splits. “In the hollow between the branches. We’d climb up—well, you’d boost me first, then pull yourself up—and there’s a gap in the trunk. Like a natural pocket.”
“You want me to check it?” Chief offers.
I snort. Right. Like I’m going to let this seventy-year-old man climb a tree.
“I’ll do it,” I say. This is personal. This is me and Clover.
I grab the lowest branch and haul myself up, and my left foot naturally finds the hitch in the bark that acts as a step.
It’s been fourteen years, but my body remembers this.
The angle of the branches, the rough texture of the bark, the way you have to twist your torso to get by that one spot where the branches grew close together.
I reach the Y split and look down into the hollow, then push away the piece of plywood I recall stealing from the shed, hoping it would be enough to protect our belongings. But when I lift the weathered piece of wood out, the hole is empty.
Not just empty. Wrong.
I flip over the plywood, ready to replace it when I see it. Red writing.
Fourteen years too late.
“Valen?” Clover calls up. “Did you find it?”
“No, it’s gone. Someone took it.” And they left a message in its place.
“Shit,” Chief curses.
Tucking the piece of plywood under my arm, I climb down and hold out the message so they can both see it.
Clover’s face pales. “Fourteen years too late.”
No one dares look away from the message, the implications settling over us like a shroud.
Someone has been here. Recently because the red writing isn’t faded with age, and they know how long ago we left ROS.
Someone who knew where to look.
Someone who knew we’d come.
Someone who knew when we’d come.
Someone is fucking with us.
“We need to check all the buildings again,” Chief says sternly. “Terra’s private quarters, and yours, Clover. If someone’s been here, there might be more signs that Roman wouldn’t know to look for.”
Clover nods even as her entire body trembles. I pull her into my side, and she clings to me as though she’s trying to disappear.
“Hey,” I murmur into her hair. “We’re okay. We’ll figure this out.”
“I’m…I’m just so confused, Valen. Nothing makes sense,” she whispers. “We’re missing something—something big, and I’m afraid if we don’t find it soon, someone will get hurt. They knew, Valen. This person knew we’d come here.”
She’s putting a voice to all my fears, and I don’t know how to ease hers when they mirror my own.
“Let’s head back to the main building. Roman and Rip are on their way here from town. They’ll watch the property while we search it for anything they may have missed.”
Her wet lashes lift so she can look up at our tree one more time before she nods. “My childhood was hell, Valen. But it wasn’t all bad. You. This tree. They’re the things I cling to when the darkness seeps in.”
“You can cling to me anytime, baby.” I take her hand in mine, my gaze taking in the magnificent tree—it’s still standing, and so are we.
The joyful innocence Clover exuded at the inn has been replaced with something darker, something edgier. Something that comes from a place of prolonged fear, and I’ll do whatever it takes to find her sweet innocence again.
We walk back to the compound with thoughts so loud they cause a riot in my mind.
The main building looms large and imposing as we approach. Its broken windows remind me of sad, empty eyes, watching our every move. The front door hangs open, creaking in the wind.
“Terra’s quarters took up the third floor,” Clover says. “Her office and bedroom. She called it her sanctuary.” The bitterness in her voice could cut glass.
When we step inside, a chill coats my skin, but it’s Clover who audibly shudders against it.
My hand gravitates toward hers, and this time, I don’t let her go.
The entry hall is enormous—with high ceilings, water-stained wallpaper peeling in large strips, and a staircase leading to the second floor. There’s old furniture in here still, covered in dust and bird droppings. There’s a pulpit at one end, facing rows of pews, some tipped over, some broken.
On the wall behind the pulpit, barely visible beneath water damage and peeling paint, is a symbol. A tree with roots that spiral into infinity, and at the top, it splits into a Y shape, like open arms welcoming you home.
I’ve seen it somewhere before.
“This is where she preached,” Clover whispers. “Every morning. Every evening. She’d tell us how lucky we were to be here. How the outside world would only hurt us. How she was saving us. How thankful we must be for her guidance.”
“What a fucking nutbag,” Chief mutters.
A portrait hangs on the wall, faded but still visible. A woman with dark hair pulled back into a severe ponytail. She has sharp cheekbones and cold eyes. The plaque below it reads, Mother Terra Stone, Founder and Prophet.
Jesus Christ.
My fucking egg donor.
Clover follows my gaze. “She commissioned that when the compound was at its peak. Children had to bow to it before leaving the building.”
Wrecks growls, low and vicious, before nudging Clover toward the front door.
I glare at the portrait, searching for any resemblance to myself. There’s something in the eyes, maybe. The shape of the jaw. But the expression—that cold, calculating cruelty—that’s all hers.
“This is some real messed-up shit,” Chief says, already heading for the staircase. “Let’s see what we find upstairs.”
The stairs creak ominously under our weight, and if Roman hadn’t already been through here, I’d worry they were about to collapse. The second-floor hallway is long and dark. Doors line both sides like something straight out of The Shining.
Most doors are open, revealing empty rooms with stained mattresses and broken furniture. The waning light filters into the hallway, casting dark, broken shadows that fuel the anxiety bubbling in my gut.
It’s as though everyone left this place in a hurry, and the life that once filled these halls is all but forgotten.
Perhaps that’s the way it should be.
“She saved these rooms for guests and…donors,” Clover says.
At the end of the hall is another staircase, and Clover stops to stare at it. She’s even paler than before, which I hadn’t thought was possible.
“That’s it,” she whispers. “Her office is up there.”
We approach slowly. Chief reaches for the doorknob at the top of the stairs and tests it.
Locked.
“That’s strange.” I hiss. “Roman said he cleared the place. Maybe it’s just stuck.” But I hold up one finger, telling Chief to wait.
Pulling out my phone, I shoot Roman another text.
Me: You cleared all the rooms? Third floor too?
Roman: Yes. Twice. We’re on the property. Where are you?
Me: Main building. Wait outside.
I pocket my phone, knowing he’ll follow orders. The last thing I want to do is spook Clover any more than she already is.
“Want me to—” Chief says, but I’m already shouldering past him.
“Turn around, and cover your head,” I say to Clover. She reacts without questioning me. It’s another sign that she’s in some state of shock. Clover always asks questions.
One good kick and the old lock gives way, the door swinging open with a crash that sends wood splintering in every direction.
The moment we enter, the smell nearly knocks me over.
Someone has been here recently. There’s lingering perfume, sharp and chemical. But underneath it is a hint of coffee and cigarette smoke.
Clover grasps for the wall, tilting sideways, and I rush to her side.
“What is it?” I ask, scanning the staircase behind her.
“It’s just…it’s a lot. I—I don’t think I was fully prepared for—for this. And that smell? Do you smell it? It’s…”
I haul her into my arms, holding her tight, breathing her in and hoping she can’t feel how hard my heart is beating.
I’m not prepared for the flashes of memories trying to take root in my brain any more than she’s ready to relive them.
“If it’s any consolation,” Chief says, “I don’t believe anyone could be prepared for this after what you’ve lived through, kid. You’re mighty brave, being here now.”
She shakes her head against my chest, but I hold her tighter.
Eventually, she pulls back and stands on her own two feet. “Let’s get this over with.”
Clover turns away from me and takes in the room.
It’s exactly what you’d expect from a deranged cult leader. A massive desk dominates the center of the room, facing the door. Bookshelves line the walls, filled with dusty leather-bound volumes that probably cost more than most people’s cars. I’m surprised they haven’t been stolen.
There’s a sitting area with a dirty velvet couch and matching chairs, and a bar cart in the corner with expensive crystal bottles.
I pull one of the books from the shelf. It falls open to a handwritten page—a list of names and dates. Children’s names, I realize. Birth dates. And next to each one a single word—claimed.
My stomach churns. This wasn’t just a cult. And somewhere in these pages, I know I’ll find my name, and Clover’s.
Chief turns on the light, and it flickers to life, revealing the back wall that had been hidden in shadows, and the blood in my veins turns to ice.
“Oh my God,” Clover chokes out.
A map of the United States covers the entire wall. And on it, marked with red pins, are locations. Dates. Names written in neat script.
I step closer, reading each one.
Happiness, GA—Clover Danforth—Current.
Charlotte, NC—Valen Stone—Current.
Peachvale, VT—PO Box 127—Compromised.
April: Discovery.
May: Planning.
October: Execution.
Below that, a single sentence in block letters: brINGING MY CHILDREN HOME.
“Jesus Christ,” Chief mutters. “This is a stalker wall.”
But that’s not the only thing that has me unable to move.
It’s the photo pinned next to Clover’s name.
A recent photo, from maybe a month or two ago. She’s at the coffee shop in Happiness, smiling at someone off camera.
Laughing.
Happy.
Someone took this.
Someone was close enough to photograph her without her knowledge.
“Valen?” Clover’s voice is so unsteady, she can barely get the word out as she points to the desk behind me.
I turn, dread slowing my movements as I step close enough to see a folder on the desk, thick with papers, and on top of it is a note written in that flowing ominous script.
Welcome home, my seedlings. I’ve been waiting for you.
-M
M.
M for—
“Miriam?” Clover whispers. “But that means—”
I flip open the large binder with my shirt sleeve. Inside is at least ten years’ worth of madness, organized by date with notes in the margins. Analysis. Comments. Plans.
The very last page is a recent addition, dated two days ago.
They’re coming. Just as I planned. And then, together, we’ll finally be free.
“Valen.” Chief’s voice is tight. “You need to see this.”
He’s standing beside the bookshelf, pulling a table aside. Behind it is a small door, painted to blend with the wall, and easy to miss if you didn’t know what you were looking for.
“That’s…that’s my room.” Clover’s voice is void of all emotion. It’s so soft and eerily flat that I can’t breathe.
Chief tugs the door open, and the smell that wafts out makes me gag.
Not decay. Not death.
But obsession.
“Don’t,” I start to say, but Clover’s already pushing past me, into the hidden room.
She gasps.
Then she screams.