Page 117 of Stolen Faith
Amaya looked back to the TV, turning up the volume when it came off commercial break, and it seemed like the press conference was about to start.
She’d been following this dramatic situation since the first breaking news report, as both the FBI and Atlanta PD raided the Crossroads Salvation Church. She’d watched live as the authorities rescued two people who’d been kidnapped by the church and held prisoner in the basement.
This story had more twists and turns than a movie.
That a prominent reverend and his daughter had kidnapped and tortured people was wild. Add in the identities of the victims—daughter of a famous actress and son of a prominent, wealthy New York family—and the news stations had all experienced some form of nirvana.
Then, as if that wasn’t enough, came the first twist. One station managed to interview a member of the church before the man lawyered up and was arrested for his part in the false imprisonment.
Before that, Amaya had been interested because, well, drama! But what the church member said, what he accused the victims of, was what had made Amaya sit up and take note.
“We’re about to hear from Juliette Lissand and Devon Asher, in their first public statement since their rescue.” The reporter was standing in front of the FBI’s Atlanta offices, an empty podium on a stage behind them.
“Has there been any word on their condition?” the anchor asked the reporter from their box on the split screen.
“Not since the hospital gave a statement saying that both Juliette and Devon had been released. However, a source inside the investigation said that there was an intended third victim who got away and we might see that person here today during the press conference.”
“This story is truly shocking,” the anchor said with barely suppressed glee. “Let’s take a minute and remind our viewers as to the alleged reason for this kidnapping.”
The screen cut to a recording of a heavyset man in camo standing outside his home. He held a gun with one hand, the other gripping the unseen reporter’s mic.
“They’re members of a secret cabal trying to undermine this country,” the man bellowed. “They’re agents of the devil, of Satan, sent to drive us to sodomy and sin!”
“What do you mean by secret cabal?” The reporter’s voice was faint, since she couldn’t bring the mic back to her mouth because the man had a death grip on it.
“It’s a secret society. Called the Trinity Masters. They control everything. Everything! And they want us all to practice sin.”
“What do you mean by sin?”
“They want everyone to be gay and have multiple partners!”
“How do you know about this?”
The man’s eyes were wide and wild. “They—”
“Excuse me!” The image jiggled as the cameraman was pushed aside, a well-dressed lawyer stepping between the man and reporter. “My client has nothing more to say.”
The reporter stuck the mic in the lawyer’s face. “And you are?”
“No comment.”
The replay cut out, and now the anchor and field reporter were back onscreen. “It looks like we’re about to start,” the anchor said. “Stay tuned after the press conference for more information as we hear from experts on this developing story.”
Amaya scooted forward until her butt was barely on the edge of the couch. The whole situation was fascinating, but what really caught her attention was the allegation not just about a secret society but a secret society that practiced polyamory. And based on the name—Trinity Masters—probably that polyamory was limited to three people. Amaya glanced at her research bookcase. And given that it was Trinity Masters…they might have ties to the Masters’ Admiralty.
Could it be that the European secret society she’d spent years researching and writing about had a U.S. counterpart?
Onscreen, Juliette Lissand walked to the mic, a piece of paper in one hand. Devon Asher was wheeled onstage by a dark-haired Latino man, who rested his hand on Devon’s shoulder.
Juliette wore a loose dress with a V-neck and simple gold drop earrings. She looked understated and expensive, and a dark red-purple line was partially visible on her chest. Doctors and torture experts had been all over the news cycle as talking-head experts, discussing her injuries, based on still images from her rescue where glimpses of her back were visible. Now she had considerably more skin covered, but that hint of a bruise or welt was a reminder of what the woman had suffered.
She smoothed her papers on the podium and looked up.
“My name is Juliette Lissand, and the first thing I’d like to do is thank the brave men and women of the Atlanta PD, and the local FBI, who rescued us. In particular, I’d like to thank…”
That went on for several minutes, during which an image of Juliette’s mother, the famous actress, popped up in the bottom corner of the screen. Finally, Juliette got to the good stuff.
Amaya scooted forward, fell off the couch, cursed, and scrambled up, sitting on the coffee table so she could be closer to the TV, as if that would make the information come faster.