He removed a printed map from the folder. “According to our intelligence, the commune is off the grid in an undeveloped area of Northern California.” There was a mark on the spot. Diaz moved his fingertip north. “You turned up here, in Lorella, Oregon.”

Avery examined the distance. She hadn’t flown over those mountains. She’d hiked along trails and back roads when she could. When she couldn’t, she’d trekked through forests with thorny underbrush. “I had shoes.”

“Pardon?”

“I had shoes,” she said, moistening her lips. “I wore them until they fell apart. I wasn’t barefoot until the end.”

He lifted his gaze from the map. “Is that why you stopped in Lorella?”

She hadn’t stopped so much as she’d been caught raiding Ruth’s garden, but she didn’t say that. The memory made her stomach queasy. She’d gotten sick on summer squash and couldn’t move. Ruth had found her curled up in a sunflower patch, half-conscious.

“There are a dozen small towns between the commune and Oregon,” he said. “You didn’t seek help in any of them.”

“I wanted to leave California.”

“Why?”

“I thought Oregon was a different country, and that I’d be safe if I crossed the border.” It was an embarrassing admission, revealing the extreme isolation and ignorance she’d been kept in. Neither Diaz nor Richards appeared surprised by it.

Diaz rifled through the papers under the map. He had several color photographs of varying quality. The man in the first picture caused Avery’s blood to run cold. “Do you know who this is?”

She took another sip of tea before answering. The cult leader had more gray in his hair and beard, but she’d recognize him anywhere. She still had nightmares of being his child bride. “It’s Father Jeff.”

“What can you tell us about him?”

“He’s the leader of The Haven. The people worship him like a god.”

Diaz showed her another photo. “And this?”

Avery studied the bespectacled young man with black hair and serious eyes. He looked like the Father Jeff she’d known twenty years ago. Jeff had two sons around Avery’s age, by two different wives. Sister wives. “It looks like one of Jeff’s sons. Jonah.”

The next photo depicted a member of Jeff’s militia. He was wearing an army jacket, holding an AR-15. His belligerent scowl triggered Avery’s memory. “That’s Jeremiah,” she said. “I went to school with him.”

“But not Jonah?”

“Jonah had private lessons, separate from the rest of the children. Father Jeff said he was gifted.”

“Jeremiah wasn’t?”

“No. He had behavior problems. Always in trouble.”

“Did he get punished?”