When Cult Leader Silas Kincaid Casts Disabled Sister Miriam Into a $4 Million Montana Blizzard, Administrative Caretaker Hannah Risks Her Secret Past to Trigger a Federal Raid Nine Days Later
Silas stalked back into the infirmary, his boots crunching softly on the floor. He didn’t look at me, his eyes fixed on the screen where I was still pretending to work. The cold from outside clung to his thick wool coat, making the air in the small room feel like ice.
“The logs, Hannah. Quickly now.” His voice was low, laced with an impatience that made my spine stiffen.
I nodded, my fingers flying over the keyboard, making superficial changes that wouldn’t hold up to any real scrutiny, but would satisfy his immediate demand for compliance. I could hear Caleb just outside the door, the low murmur of his voice against the raging wind. He was stalling.
This was my chance. I slid off the stool, making a show of reaching for a stack of old files on a nearby shelf. My hand brushed Caleb’s arm as he hesitated in the doorway, his back still partially turned to Silas.
“Here,” I whispered, pressing the folded printout into his clammy palm. “Section 12 B. Read it. Miriam’s care is tied to the land charter.”
Caleb’s fingers closed around the paper like a lifeline. His head snapped down, his eyes scanning the crumpled page in the dim light. I watched his face, hoping for any flicker of understanding, any spark of defiance. His jaw tightened, a muscle jumping in his cheek.
“Prophet Silas,” Caleb said, his voice surprisingly steady, a desperate firmness I hadn’t heard before. “The cold… it’s too much. The elders… they require a moment.”
Silas turned, his gaze sharp, piercing. “A moment? Caleb, the will of the Lord is absolute. Your mother’s purification begins now.”
His eyes narrowed, suspicion clouding them. He glanced from Caleb to me, then back to the crumpled paper clutched in Caleb’s hand.
Caleb visibly swallowed, his knuckles white around the document. “But… the charter, Prophet. Section 12 B. Her well-being… it’s fundamental to our tax status. To the very land beneath our feet.”
The air in the infirmary crackled. Silas’s eyes, usually so confident, flickered with something I hadn’t seen before: doubt. He hadn’t considered the old charter. He was a man of immediate power, not archaic legalities.
“What charter are you babbling about, Caleb?” Silas growled, stepping closer, his shadow engulfing Caleb. “There is no clause that supersedes divine will.”
“But it’s… it’s legally binding, Prophet,” Caleb insisted, though his voice wavered slightly under Silas’s glare. He looked at me, a silent plea in his eyes. He understood. This was the opening.
Silas snatched the paper from Caleb’s hand. His eyes scanned the archaic language, his brow furrowing deeper with each line. The wind outside roared, filling the tense silence that had fallen between us.
This was precious time. Enough, I hoped, for Marcus.
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