Page 85 of Lethal Danger

“Oh, no. Our leader only wants the best for all of us. He wants us to live our best life. And he does all he can to help us arrive at our spiritual and physical nirvana.”

There he went again. Like she’d pressed the right button to get the programmed answer. Eerie.

“You sure you want to join?” A hint of suspicion crept into Randall’s eyes. “You don’t seem to think very positively of us.”

“Oh, I just don’t understand it all. And I’ve been burned before.”

He nodded. “I get that. I have, too. But you’ll really like it here if you stay.” He gave her what was probably supposed to be a charming smile. “I’ll make sure of that.”

“Thanks.” She managed a friendly expression as she started to put distance between them. “Catch you later.”

She let out a long breath as she left the gift shop. Mission accomplished, hopefully. But where was Hawthorne?

She checked her watch. Thirty-five minutes since he’d peeled off to talk to Sam’s mother. Had he gotten into trouble?

Seemed hard to believe in a place filled with such happy, friendly people. But something about Randall’s programmed responses made her see something different as she looked around now. Saw the people standing in small groups and talking or walking by with books, all in matching white robes. Giving her matching white smiles whenever they saw her watching.

Was it all programmed? Calculated to get people to join the community?

Hawthorne seemed to think there was some danger at Best Life. And he should know. He’d grown up there.

Jazz’s nerves started to tingle as the small hairs on the back of her neck stood on end.

What if that danger had caught up with Hawthorne?

Hawthorne twisted his wrist that was tied to a metal rail secured to the wall. The face of his watch was hard to read in the dimly lit room, so he brought his free hand around to press the button for backlight.

Nearly twenty-five minutes since he’d been brought into this room by the Helpers and left there. His cell was a small rectangle. Dark, smooth floor and white walls with minimal lighting like a haunting interrogation room from a TV show. A metal table stood in the middle of the rectangle.

Unless he missed his guess, the Helpers were getting Patch. Which was the only reason he hadn’t ditched their hold as soon as they’d tried to escort him from Mrs. Ackerman’s dwelling.

It went against the desire of every fiber of his being to acquiesce. To pretend he was as helpless as the scrawny boy he’d been the last time a Helper had pulled him out of class and brought him to a room like this. For guidance, they’d said.

Being forced to kneel on a tray of rocks for ten minutes with his hands tied behind his back was hardly guidance. And all because he’d dared to question his teacher’s instruction on the importance of obeying the stars and the stars’ emissary, Desmond Patch.

When he’d told his parents, his mother had put ointment on his knees. They’d said they hoped he’d learned from the experience. And that Desmond Patch was always right and was teaching Hawthorne the path to live his best life.

Well, Hawthorne was living his best life. Away from Desmond Patch.

And he didn’t need to prove he was right anymore. Didn’t have to prove he was stronger than those goons and far from helpless. There’d be opportunity for that later. When the time was right.

Now, he would take full advantage of this change in circumstances. He’d landed a private interview with Desmond Patch. And he hadn’t even had to make an appointment.

A click sounded. Probably someone unlocking the door.

Light spilled into the room from the hallway.

A shadow filled it. A silhouette he’d recognize anywhere. Desmond Patch.

The cult leader walked into the room with his even, dramatic stride. Then he pivoted in one motion to slam Hawthorne with a stare.

Hawthorne hid the instinctive, inward flinch. A responding surge of anger shot into his chest. How could he still be afraid of this man?

He wasn’t. Not consciously. But it was as if the little boy hidden somewhere inside him had suddenly seen the monster from his nightmares and couldn’t help but recoil.

But only for a second. Hawthorne, the adult, met Desmond Patch’s stare without blinking. All the while searching those charcoal eyes.

Exactly what he’d thought. Calculating, cold, but not one hundred percent confident. Something else lurked far back in that gaze. A hint of doubt. Maybe even fear.

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