Special Agent Diaz spoke next. “Are you Avery Samuels?”

“Yes.”

“We have some questions for you.”

Special Agent Richards tilted her head toward the door. “Inside, if you don’t mind.”

Prompted into motion, Avery retrieved her jacket and fumbled for her keys. She entered the security code as soon as she stepped inside. They ventured in after her. She set her belongings on the entry table, feeling self-conscious. She must look like a drowned rat with her wet hair and smudged makeup. At least her apartment was presentable. She kept it tidy, even though she rarely entertained visitors. When she gestured at the coatrack, they hung up their dripping jackets next to hers.

“What’s this about?” she asked, swallowing hard.

“It’s about The Haven,” Diaz replied.

Although she’d suspected as much, hearing the words spoken out loud had a chilling effect. She balled her hands into fists, uncertain. She never talked about the cult. She wasn’t in contact with anyone from the commune. She’d left that life behind, but the fear had stayed with her. A part of her had always known her past would catch up to her. She just hadn’t expected it to arrive on her doorstep in the middle of a storm.

She smoothed her dripping hair and tried to stay calm. Aunt Ruth wanted her to talk to these people. Playing dumb wasn’t Avery’s strong suit, and lying to the FBI was a crime, so she gestured toward the living room. She would listen to their questions. When they found out how little she knew, they’d leave.

“Have a seat,” she said.

Special Agent Diaz waited for Avery and his partner to precede him. Avery sat down in her favorite reading chair. Richards got settled on the couch. Diaz took the space next to her, directly across from Avery.

She folded her hands in her lap. A multicolored blanket she’d knitted herself was draped over the side of the chair. She wished she could hide underneath it. Instead of dragging the cozy fabric over her trembling form, she focused on Special Agent Diaz.

He was nice to look at, if you liked rawboned men with big hands. She imagined most women did. He was ruggedly attractive, with hardened features that hinted at outdoor pursuits. His hair was dark and close-cropped, his collar damp. If his accent wasn’t enough to stir interest, the rest of him would do it. She was too nervous to examine his physique in detail, but she got the impression of a lean build. She guessed he was in his late thirties, younger than Richards by at least a decade. Richards was probably his superior, but she didn’t take the lead. The older woman seemed to be waiting for him to speak.