Or was it more lies? I couldn’t be sure.
If I didn’t belong here, why was I here?
And then it hit me. I wasn’t the only one here.
I thought about Tobias, all the other babies, and the children who called my name from the depths of the day care. I envisioned the followers, the chosen and the ones I didn’t know as well—the women, men, children. How many of them were living lies? How many were lying?
My friends . . . more heartbreak. Did they know they were lying?
My thoughts were all over as my eyes roamed our small apartment and I clenched my teeth.
Father Gabriel lives as we do—bullshit!
Bloomfield Hills. The new images clawed at my newly founded belief system: Father Gabriel had a huge, sprawling, multi-million-dollar mansion in Bloomfield Hills with a landing strip.
My heart continued to crumble.
For the past nine months I’d been conditioned to turn to Jacob, to seek not only his approval but also his guidance. Admittedly, there was still part of me that wanted that. I wanted to close my eyes in his arms and give this all to him, but the newly awakened part of me knew I couldn’t.
Jacob had told me stories of our past, a past I now believed had never existed. Our entire relationship was based upon lies that he’d perpetuated over and over until I believed his every word. Had he invented those stories, or had he been told to tell them to me? He’d said more than once that he had rules to follow too.
Despite the evidence, I wanted to believe that my husband had done what he believed.
My head fell onto my folded arms as I willed my new thoughts to stop.
He wasn’t my husband.
An internal battle raged between desire to know and willingness to accept. My heart told me that Jacob loved me and would always do what was best, but the images, the memories, all painted another picture.
Grudgingly I acknowledged that Jacob had to be part of this deception. After all, not only had he played into the lies about our being married and about our past together but also he flew planes. He flew Father Gabriel. He was with him right now at the Eastern Light.
A new thought surfaced.
Could the Eastern Light be Detroit, more accurately Bloomfield Hills?
If it was, Jacob knew about the mansion. He knew about the landing strip. He knew that Father Gabriel didn’t live as he professed.
My recently emptied stomach continued to twist. Not only did I need to get away but also on the off chance I was pregnant, I needed to get my baby away from this madness.
I peered out the window at the bright, clear summer sky. I was in Alaska—Far North, Alaska. There were walls and polar bears. This wasn’t only a physical prison but a mental one. I had to think. I had to plan. I had to tell my heart to forget the man who’d been my comforter, disciplinarian, and rock. For my survival, my possible child’s, as well as others’, I needed to think.
I poured a cup of coffee, and as the cream swirled through the darkened liquid, questions continued to swirl within my consciousness. As flickers of my former self fought through the uncertainty, I realized that I no longer needed Jacob’s approval to question. I granted it to myself. My mind went to my parents, my sister, and Dylan, and how they must be suffering with my disappearance. It had to be as it had been with Mindy’s disappearance.
Shit! Mindy!
My hand fluttered over my heart. Mindy was here too, with me. I was confident. I remembered the blonde woman who’d spoken to Elizabeth a few months ago. Now it made sense that she’d looked familiar. She wasn’t Mary; she was Mindy Rosemont, my best friend from the dark. However, just as I hadn’t recognized her, she hadn’t recognized me. More than likely her past had been erased, leaving her without memories of her true identity.
How many of us were there? How many of the women and maybe men had been programmed?
Sitting back at the table, I reached for the warm cup of coffee and timidly moved it toward my mouth. I’d learned to be careful. Since heat no longer registered with my fingertips, I’d burned my mouth before. Heeding the steam’s warning, I sucked my lip between my teeth and lowered the too-hot coffee back to the table. With a sickening realization, I rolled my wrists and stared at the ashen flesh on the tips of my fingers.
Oh my God!
I was one of those women—the ones with the burned fingertips, the ones from Dr. Tracy Howell’s table at the Wayne County morgue. The women who’d ended up dead.
A new chill ran through me, and I pulled my robe tighter. I wasn’t investigating a life-and-death story—I was living it!
CHAPTER 4
Sara