She waited and when he didn’t offer any more, she said, “I know you had to sort through the system to track me down, so I’m guessing you’re aware I have an FBI clearance.”
He nodded. “I am.”
“Then I can assure you I’ll be as confidential with any information you give me as I am with federal investigations.”
“Fair enough.” Hughes stopped beside a water fountain and glanced once in either direction. “She has no ID, no tattoos, and there are no missing person reports filed meeting her description. We’ve asked repeatedly about her identity and she continues to claim she’s Shanna Kinley, born February seventh, nineteen eighty-nine. She says she grew up in the Refuge cult created by her father, Simon Kinley, and that after the subsequent fire destroyed the compound she was abducted by a man called Harold Rainier. Does that name ring a bell?”
Clare took a deep breath. “Yes, he was basically my father’s right-hand man. An acolyte in his church. He went on supply runs for the group and helped facilitate new recruits.” Hughes’s eyes narrowed. “But that doesn’t mean she’s telling the truth. His name was listed among the dead in every report made about the cult. It would be easy to find that information.”
“Very true.”
“So where does she say she’s been all this time?”
“Held against her will by Rainier in a shack somewhere in the woods. There are some large swaths of state land north of where she showed up. So far she hasn’t been able to give us a detailed location. A court-appointed psychologist has been in to see her twice. He says she’s doing remarkably well for being captive that long.”
“And her wounds?”
“Several to the middle of her back and one on her flank, probably made by a knife. Deep enough to cause substantial bleeding and basically impossible to inflict on your own. She’s a little malnourished and dehydrated, but not dangerously so. We also collected tissue from under her fingernails, so if it comes back as someone else’s there’s a good chance she was being held against her will.”
Clare blinked a few times and went to the water fountain, drinking deeply before facing Hughes once more. “I’m sorry, this is all a lot to deal with.”
“I understand. I hated to call you and open this whole mess up again. I remember how this town treated you afterward, how afraid and cruel a lot of people were. You were only a child. It wasn’t fair.”
She gave him a wan smile. “Thank you. It’s funny, as I learned more and more about people I realized how they treated me was a natural reaction. Fear of the unknown is the oldest and strongest of all fears, I think Lovecraft said that. I was all that was left of a horrific incident no one understood, so they didn’t have anything else to be afraid of.”
“Didn’t make it right,” Hughes said quietly.
“No. No, it didn’t. Once I changed my name and moved away it got better.” They stood silently for a beat before Clare said, “You mentioned a child?”
Hughes ran a hand through his hair. “That’s where the waters get muddied further. She says she was . . . abused for many years and the assaults eventually resulted in a pregnancy. She gave birth in this shack and afterward Rainier took the child away. She never saw it again—all she knows is it was a boy.”
A young nurse bustled toward them, stopping beside the nearest exam room doorway. “Are we ready, Sheriff?” she asked.
“Are you okay with doing the cheek swab now? The faster we get it to the lab the better,” Hughes asked Clare.
“Of course.”
Clare stepped inside the exam room and signed a waiver concerning the DNA sample while the nurse donned latex gloves and opened a sample container. She swabbed the inside of her cheek with a long-stemmed Q-tip and placed it inside the container, asking Clare’s name and date of birth for a second time as she affixed a label. When it was done she left Clare and Hughes alone once again in the deserted hallway.
“So what now?” Clare asked. The day was coming down on her. The travel, the stress, and yet she contained a strange giddiness, not entirely good or bad. It felt like anticipation.
“If she’s who she says she is, the DNA test will come back with at least a twenty-five percent match. That would indicate half siblings like you and Shanna were. It would be closer to fifty percent if you’d been full siblings. Until we know more or have the test results back, you can do whatever you’d like as long as you stay in the area. I’ll be in touch as soon as we learn anything new, which shouldn’t be long one way or another.” Hughes paused. “The other thing to keep in mind is the press. A reporter from the local paper’s been sniffing around after she caught wind of the woman being brought in with stab wounds. She’s a tenacious journalist for a small town like this and if she were to make the connection of who you are and who this woman might be . . .” Hughes let the implication sink in. Her entire past, all of the vile and terrible scars of her father’s cult, would be torn open again for the whole world to see.
“Don’t worry, I won’t talk to anyone.”
“Good. Eventually the story will come out, whatever it actually is, but until then we keep a tight lid on this. No reason to rile up the public if this is a case of mistaken identity or some kind of hoax.” Hughes glanced down the hallway and Clare followed his gaze.
“She’s here, isn’t she?” she asked, still looking down the quiet corridor as if she expected to see the woman in question standing at its end.
“Yes.”
“I’d like to see her.”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea right now. We don’t know enough about her or what she’s involved in yet.”
“But she hasn’t committed a crime.”
Hughes hesitated. “No.”
“Then I’d like to visit her.”
The sheriff wavered but she could tell he wouldn’t deny the request. Maybe it came down to how she’d been treated after her arrival in Sheen, or maybe he was just as interested as she was to see what her reaction would be upon meeting the mystery woman in person. His deliberation only lasted a few seconds.
“This way.”
He led her deeper into the building to a pair of elevators. They rode to the second floor and stepped off into a hallway where a janitor walked behind an electric mopping machine. He nodded at the sheriff and eyed Clare from the soles of her shoes to the top of her head. They took a right and walked another ten paces toward a door where a young deputy sheriff sat idly, scrolling on his phone. Clare counted the steps she took, added together the room numbers they passed, anything to keep her grounded as her heart jackrabbited in her chest and the corridor seemed to lengthen.
“Travis, the lady has a visitor,” Hughes said as the younger man rose to his feet. “This is Clare Murdock.”
“Travis Wilt,” the deputy said, shaking Clare’s hand lightly.
“Anything pertinent?” Hughes said.
“No, sir. Still stable. Quiet, mostly. Skittish whenever anyone comes in the room. Turned on the TV, but she didn’t care for it.” Wilt’s eyes slid to Clare and away. “Seemed to be frightened of it.”
“Thanks, Travis. Why don’t you hit the vending machine.”