“It’s Ms. Sandersen.” Darned if she’d keep Obadiah’s name. “I’m sorry, I know we’ve met, but I don’t remember your names.”

It seemed as if every person in Alaskan law enforcement had interviewed her.

The shorter man with brown eyes and hair pulled out his badge. “FBI, ma’am. Special Agent Acosta.”

“Special Agent Langford.” The tall one showed his badge. “We asked the facility to let you know we’d be coming.”

Kit let out a pained breath and tried to settle her nerves. Be brave, Kittycat. Her father’s affectionate name for her always helped. She’d clung to the memory of his voice when she was growing up. Still did. “What with vacation season, the place is understaffed. I’ll probably get your message tomorrow.”

Langford barked a laugh. “Figures. Sorry, we’d have called you directly if we’d had a number.”

“I haven’t bought a phone yet.” Because she had no money. No income. Her anxiety surged, and she pushed it aside. She’d manage; she always did. “Has something happened? Did you catch Captain Nabera?”

“Not yet, no.” Acosta gestured to one of the café tables in the shade. “He holed up somewhere. Maybe in the forests. The rest of the Patriot Zealots have scattered.”

Arm pressed against her ribs, Kit carefully took a seat. At least the incision where her spleen had been repaired no longer felt like a burning brand. “Then…?”

“Apparently, your husband was one of Nabera’s so-called lieutenants.”

They’d probably learned that during their interviews with the other women freed from the Patriot Zealots. Kit nodded. “He was.”

“Did Obadiah share any information with you about the Patriot Zealots’ future plans—ones they’d been making before they left?”

The night Kit and the other women had been rescued, the PZs had cleared out of the compound and disappeared.

She took a moment to think. “I don’t know of anything specific, but Parrish and Nabera were worried. They were losing people and unable to recruit enough to keep the money coming in. They needed ways to get publicity. Um, like confrontations with the law or government officials or attacking a high-profile politician. Nabera said every time a militia group got into a standoff with a liberal, money would flood in.”

Acosta’s mouth flattened into a grim line. “That’s an ugly truth.”

“I don’t really know anything else. Women weren’t…” She shrugged. Women were less than second-class citizens to the PZ militia. No, they weren’t even citizens at all.

“The main reason we’re here is”—Agent Acosta shifted in his chair—“while searching the areas around the compound, we found a dump site.”

“A what?”

Langford met her gaze. “We were told that Nabera and his lieutenants would dispose of bodies over a cliff.”