The Taken

After Kit noted the men systematically disappearing, after catching the ripe scent of a good ol’ boys club souring the air, she made quick work of getting rid of Grif. There was no sense in trying to gain access to that back room-some doors, she knew, would never be open to her, so instead of beating her head against this one, she turned the mystery over to the ever-capable Grif.

After letting him think it was his idea, of course.

It was the women that she was most interested in, anyway. Thus, Grif hadn’t been gone five minutes before Kit was breaking her promise to remain in clear sight, and heading up the big, winding staircase in search of Mrs. Chambers. With Grif no doubt occupying Chambers’s attention, this was her chance to talk to Anabelle about the list, the Wayfarer, and Nic’s death outside of her husband’s overpowering presence.

Besides, she was curious. What kind of woman willingly shared her man not just with other women, but other wives? As a reporter, Kit strove for understanding rather than judgment, but as a woman? She believed in the right to bear arms when it came to her man’s body and affection.

Emerging on a landing both quiet and cool, Kit found tasteful but unremarkable artwork adorning the walls, and expensive but unexceptional side tables lining the hall. Antique vases, fresh greenery. Everything stately, and right where it should be. Perfect.

“There’s always something else going on beneath a perfect facade,” Kit muttered, recalling Bridget Moore’s words. So she peered into the first dark doorway she came to, directly across from the landing. It was just a guestroom-also stately, also unremarkable-and Kit shut the door quietly behind her before continuing down the hallway.

And there was more than one hall. All were dotted with doorways, all dark. Where was the life? Kit wondered, looking about. The other alleged wives or women? Or even another child? Because there wasn’t one other sound to accompany her footsteps, and the heavy silence eventually smothered even the residual noise from downstairs.

Yet the final hallway felt different, like the center honeycomb in a hive. A sole door sat at the end, ajar and lit from within, and Kit knew before looking that this was where the queen bee resided. Under the dim light of a vaulted ceiling, she peeked inside to find a warm room done in gingham pastels. Anabelle Chambers was tucked into a corner settee, reading a book to Charlotte, snuggled tightly at her side.

Kit flashed on a memory of her mother doing the same, the warmth of her body, hands stroking her hair, but Charlotte must have sensed her there, because she jolted, causing the book to fall from her mother’s hands. “What are you doing here?”

It was the child, not the mother who asked, and Kit was so taken aback by the strength in the young voice that she almost retreated. “I could say I’m lost, but I’m not,” she said, stepping forward instead. Only then did Anabelle’s gaze finally focus on her. “I came to find you.”

“It’s bedtime,” Anabelle said, but she gazed directly through Kit’s body, and there was a slight slur to her words. “Time for us to sleep and to dream and all be together again…”

“Is she okay?” Kit took another step inside the room. Other than the gingham, the space was unadorned. There was a gilt mirror, but no jewelry or perfume or even flowers lay there. As someone who took great joy in feminine accoutrements, Kit couldn’t fathom that Anabelle Chambers, or even Charlotte, really lived here.

Charlotte was up, tossing the throw aside to reveal a Hannah Montana half-gown and legs that looked like a colt’s. “You can’t be here.”

Anabelle continued slurring. “You should come. I know this place and we can all reach it. She told me. She said everyone is better there, everyone is happy in the Everlast…”

“Hey, did you hear me?” Charlotte crossed to the door and held it wide for Kit. “You’re not allowed up here.”

Then who was? Kit wondered. Because it was an awfully big house for one woman and a little girl. “She just told me to come.”

“She wasn’t talking to you,” Charlotte snapped, grasping the door by its frame, her tiny brows draw down tight. “She’s been ill.”

“Yes,” Anabelle sighed, sliding down further in the settee. “So very ill…”

“Why are you alone?” Kit asked the girl.

Charlotte pointed out the door. “She needs her rest.”

“I thought it was your bedtime.” When Charlotte just looked at her, Kit pressed. “Charlotte, I know something is wrong. Let me help.”

Putting her hand on her hip in a move that looked both defiant and jittery, Charlotte said, “You’re a reporter, right?”

“Yes.”

Charlotte smirked then shook her head. “Then you can’t help at all.”

“Then how about as a friend?”

Charlotte looked back at Anabelle, who’d curled into herself and was mumbling, fingers worrying the blanket over her legs. “She said they’re waiting for me, just beyond those gates, and then we can all be together again…”

“She doesn’t have friends,” Charlotte said, pushing the door shut. “She only has me.”

Kit nodded slowly. “And the baby.”

Charlotte lowered her gaze, and said lowly, “There’s always another baby.”

Of course. The Mormon culture valued children like riches. So why was this woman, who’d claimed to be so “blessed” downstairs, curled into a corner, pale and drawn-and apparently drugged out of her mind-being watched over by a sole thirteen-year-old girl?

Glancing at Charlotte, Kit decided to take a chance. “I need some answers Charlotte. I’m looking for a man.”

The girl jerked her head, causing her long dark braid to swing over one shoulder. “Men aren’t allowed on these floors.”

“I think your father knows him. His name is Lance Schmidt. Ever hear of him?”

“No.” Charlotte lifted her chin. “And don’t bother asking Mother, either. She doesn’t do well under pressure.”

“Very protective of her, aren’t you?”

“That’s my job.”

Kit looked Charlotte dead in the eye. “Usually it’s the other way around.”

“Listen, if you don’t leave you’re going to get me in trouble.” The girl swallowed hard, her eyes now pleading. “And… you’ll be in trouble, too.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know.” Charlotte cast a quick glance over her shoulder, like she expected to be punished. Anabelle Chambers, though, had fallen asleep. “You have to go.”

Kit pulled out her business card, and wrote on the back. “That’s my number on the front, but this is a friend of mine. He’s a cop, and he’s always willing to help someone. You know, if you need it. Just keep it close, okay?”

Charlotte looked at the card, then took it uncertainly. Then she looked up at Kit. “You might want to keep it close, too.”

And before Kit could again ask what she meant, she shut the door, locking it with a firm snap. And as silence descended on the heels of the warning, Kit realized how very alone she was. She could hear nothing from downstairs, which meant no one could hear her, either, and Charlotte’s warning of trouble had her hurrying back through the halls. But then she took the final corner and spotted the light seeping from the room across the hall. She knew she’d turned it off before, and that she’d shut the door as well.

But it was on now, and the door ajar, and a feminine humming rose and fell in the air, drawing Kit close. Once again, she looked in, and this time there was a woman in the rocking chair. The humming immediately cut off, and she looked up.

“Curiosity killed the Kit.” The woman smiled.

Kit did not. “What did you say?”

“The cat,” the woman said, putting down the Bible she was reading, resting it on her lap. “I meant the cat.”

“Who are you?” Kit asked, because she was fairly sure this woman wasn’t another guest. She wasn’t dressed