Page 118 of Stolen Faith
“Ten days ago, I met my best friend at the library.” Juliette smiled softly. “Yes, we’re grown-ups, but we still like to hang out at the library like we did in college.”
There was a smattering of laughter.
“Devon and I have been friends since childhood. We grew up together, and even briefly dated, before Devon figured out I wasn’t his type.”
Juliette looked over at Devon and smiled. He returned the smile and reached up to take the Hispanic man’s hand. Ah-ha! The new player was Devon’s boyfriend.
“Devon and I went to the same university. During college, we were both members of an academic society. A secret society, except it’s not really all that secret.” Juliette’s expression was wry. “If you google Harvard secret society, you’ll find it.”
Another smattering of laughter.
Juliette’s expression dropped, and she stared down at the podium. The silence stretched. Devon pushed out of his wheelchair. His boyfriend helped him up, whispering something. Devon shook his head and kissed the other man’s cheek, then walked to Juliette, putting a hand on her shoulder.
Juliette looked back, smiled, and took a deep breath.
“Ten days ago,” she repeated, “I met Devon and his fiancé at the Central Library in Boston. We were attacked. During the attack, they shot Devon, hurt Franco, and put a gun to my head.”
There was a ripple among the reporters at the mention of the fiancé’s name.
“I was drugged, and when I woke up, Devon and I were being held captive together in a home outside Boston.”
Onscreen, a small box popped up showing footage of authorities raiding a mansion on the outskirts of Boston. A little tag under the image listed the owner of the property and identified them as a member of Crossroads Salvation Church.
“The people who held us prisoner seemed to believe the club we were both members of back in college was some sort of high-level government control organization. When we told them it wasn’t anything like that, they…” Juliette paused, hand over her eyes.
Franco passed his fiancé a handkerchief, which Devon then passed to Juliette. She took a moment to compose herself, blotting her eyes. She cleared her throat before starting again.
“When we told them they were wrong, they tortured me and denied Devon medical attention.”
Again, a screen popped up in the corner, this time showing stills of Juliette’s chest and back—which had briefly been exposed when the blanket she’d been wrapped in during rescue slipped. The caption said, “Victim whipped at Crossroads Salvation Church.”
“They accused us of controlling the government and promoting what they referred to as a sinful relationship. They not only hated Devon for being gay, but also believed I was in a relationship with both men.” Juliette shook her head.
Amaya looked from Juliette to Devon to Franco…and would have bet good money that the three of them were in a relationship, and the secret society wasn’t just some collegiate organization.
Somehow, Crossroads Salvation Church had stumbled upon the truth, and now that Amaya had the name of the society, and the names of three potential members, she was going to do her favorite thing in the world…research.
Devon took over after a few more statements from Juliette. He repeated the thanks, not only to the authorities but to a private security company that had been integral to the investigation. He went on to state that his fiancé Franco got away during the attack and had been working with authorities in Boston and the Asher and Lissand families. Initially, the Ashers believed it was a ransom situation, and kidnapping and ransom insurance kicked in.
A blurb on the screen promised an in-depth discussion of K&R insurance after the press conference.
Amaya watched the whole press conference, and when it was over, she rewound and started watching again, this time taking notes as she did.
She was smiling as she finished her fourth page of notes. She’d been planning to head to Europe to do in-person research on the Masters’ Admiralty, the focus of her next book on secret societies.
It turned out, she didn’t have to go anywhere. There was a previously un-researched secret society right here in her own backyard.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Brennon walked through the kitchen door, which led to his quaint—okay, tiny—back patio, with a large tray containing three of his world-famous quesadillas with homemade tortillas. Buffalo chicken for him, Philly cheesesteak-style for Rowan, and a loaded veggie one for Izabel.
Rowan and Izabel were already seated at the table, waiting for him. They’d preceded him with the drinks, plates, and napkins, Izabel lighting several of the citronella candles he had scattered around to hold the bugs at bay.
He’d lived in his little Spanish-style house for about ten years, buying it right after he’d sold his first major screenplay and thought, “Hey, I think I can actually make a living out of this.”
As a bachelor, the house had suited his needs. In fact, it was almost too much house for just one person. The kitchen and living room were all part of what the Realtor had called the great room, when trying to sell him the house. It had a decent-size primary bedroom, a smallish office, a guest room that his parents stayed in whenever they came to visit, and two full baths. In addition to the covered patio, there was a small front porch he’d decorated with a couple of outdoor chairs he’d never once sat in.
When the three of them had first arrived in L.A. a week earlier, he’d felt a moment of regret for suggesting that they come to California. Brennon wasn’t sure what had prompted him to offer his house, other than he’d seen that split second of panic in Izabel’s eyes when faced with the prospect of returning to…well, to the scene of the crime.