Roommates for much of college and a couple of years afterward, she and Kit were sisters-by-choice.
Frankie’d been Kit’s birthing partner and helped raise little Aric until Kit married the first time. When the newlyweds moved to Texas, Frankie had bawled her eyes out.
Sure, she had lots of friends, but none like Kit. No matter how much time or distance—and Texas was certainly distant—they always picked up where they’d left off.
“Amica mia, you should have come back to New York when your husband died.” Instead, Obadiah had deluded Kit until she’d disappeared into “the little woman”. The perfect wife.
Frankie had met the bastardo only once for a few seconds at the wedding. The conservative crackpot had already decided she was a bad influence on Kit. He’d pressured Kit until she’d stopped calling, writing, or visiting.
Unwilling to cause problems, Frankie had honored Kit’s withdrawal. Obviously, that had been a mistake.
Before Obadiah, they’d always been there for each other. Through missed job opportunities and celebrations and relationship disasters. After Kit moved, they’d spent hours on the phone. When Kit’s husband died, Frankie had flown to Texas, cared for Aric, and kept things going while Kit mourned.
When Frankie’s marriage fell apart, Kit had come to New York. After lots of handholding and enduring the wailing and weeping—because Frankie wasn’t a silent sufferer—Kit had pushed her out of the house and back into living.
Although not back into dating. Kit had always been more of an optimist there, which seemed strange since she had lousy taste in men. The dominant guys she fell for inevitably turned out to be creepers or controlling or basic assholes. Kit’s miserable childhood had left a glitch in her nice-guy radar.
But Obadiah? “You really picked a bad one, this time.”
Frankie read over the letter again.
Alaska—seriously?
But there was no way she’d leave her bestie or her godson with some abusive asshole. With luck, all Kit needed was someone pulling strings to get her and Aric out.
I’m good at making things happen.
If Kit needed more than that, well… Frankie pressed her lips together, determination rising inside her. She’d do what she had to do.
She punched the office intercom button and waited until the shared administrative assistant answered. “Hey, Nyla. How would you like to hold down the hot seat for a while?”
Her family would just have to cope.
Chapter Two
By failing to prepare, you are preparing to fail. ~ Benjamin Franklin
No taxis, no skyscrapers, no people. And now that she was off the Sterling Highway, there weren’t even paved roads.
Welcome to Rescue, Alaska, huh?
Admittedly, the scenery on the drive from Anchorage had been spectacular with stark, snow-covered mountains and foothills, deep river valleys, and miles of lush forests. Every time the road curved, another view had taken her breath away.
As Frankie turned off Dall Road and onto a muddy dirt road, branches from the dense forest on each side clawed at her rented sedan. She winced at the harsh scraping noises. Sorry, car.
Was the Patriot Zealot property around here? The teenaged gas station attendant in Rescue had given her directions, but there were an awful lot of small roads that branched off of Dall.
She drove around another corner, and there it was. The home of the Patriot Zealots.
Six-foot fencing topped with razor wire—seriously? Talk about unfriendly. A gate barred the way, and inside the fence, a small shack stood next to the road. Somehow, she doubted it was a bus stop, more like a guard hut.
Up the slope, the cleared forest still lay under snow. High tunnel greenhouses dotted the fields. Farther away, log houses mixed with prefabs in an unsightly mess. The buildings were too distant to see the people. Are you there, Kit? Is Aric?
At the gate, Frankie turned off her car and stepped out, avoiding a patch of ice. Brrr. The cold, damp air smelled like evergreens and snow with a hint of wood smoke—and was so clean her city lungs might go into shock.
As she approached the gate, she heard barking. Two dogs jumped out of the hut, followed by a man who held a rifle. Frankie knew Obadiah was a Christian fundamentalist fanatic, but this place felt like a third-world prison camp.
Her plan to loudly demand to see Kit was a bust. The isolation here and the guard’s rifle wiped out that strategy. In fact, telling these people she knew Kit would be a mistake. She needed more information first.
Wearing a black winter jacket, jeans, and black boots, the scruffy-bearded guard scowled at the big black dogs. “Shut up. Sit.” After the dogs obeyed, he turned his attention to Frankie in a long, leering study. When his gaze lingered on her mouth, she was glad her coat covered her curves.
To her relief, he angled the rifle so it didn’t point directly at her. “Are you lost?”
“I don’t think so.” Frankie gave him a wide smile—something she rarely had to force, but everything about this place was creepy. “Is this where the Patriot Zealots live?”
His face went cold. “Yeah, who wants to know?”
“Uh, I do.” Duh. Am I not standing right here in front of you? “I heard my aunt joined and was here, and I thought I’d pop in for a visit. She’s getting old and—”
“No visitors allowed.” He moved the rifle to cover her again. Cavolo, that was a big gun. Didn’t they have any laws in this state?
She widened her eyes, all girly shock. “No visitors? Like, at all? How am I going to say hi?”
He shook his head. “If yer aunt wanted to be around the modern world, she’d be out there. She wants to be here with no contact with the outside. No contamination, just peace.”
“Huh. But what if she gets sick? She’s not young anymore.”
“We care for our own.”
“Can I leave a messa—”
“You can fuckin’ leave.” He gestured with the rifle—such an unsafe move.
“Okay, right.” She huffed out a breath and lifted her lips into another brainless smile. “Sorry I bothered you. You have a good day.”
Followed by the dogs, he swaggered back to the guard shack.
Turning the car, she drove back down the road, suppressing the urge to peel out and splatter mud and rocks over the hut and stupid guard.
So much for her idea that she could just make noise and get Kit and Aric out.
Once around the bend of the road and out of sight, she pounded her fist on the steering wheel hard enough to hurt her hand. “Cazzo, cazzo, cazzo!”
Her Italian grandmother would’ve had a fit at such swearing. Women didn’t use the f-word—no matter what language. Then again, there had been that summer when the nasty rooster spurred Nonna, and Frankie’d learned a whole bunch of new Italian swear words.
The rooster had made an excellent escarole soup, and the experience taught Frankie a valuable lesson—a sweet personality could exist side-by-side with a steely core.
With a grunt, Frankie sat back. The swearing might relieve stress but didn’t offer any solutions.
She pulled out onto Dall Road and headed back to Rescue. Contacting Kit would be difficult with that no visitors rule and no way to get a message into the place. For all Frankie knew, Kit might not even be in that—that compound. The cult compound.