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He parked, noticing no cars were in the driveway.
“You going to get out of the vehicle and approach the house or just call her name from here and see if she comes out?” Violet asked.
He was working up the courage. “You should know, when I said she married the Prophet, there’s more to it.”
“How much more?”
“The Prophet—he’s my father.”
Violet remained stoic, but she’d understand having a monster for a father better than anyone on the team, and maybe that’s why it was easier to confide in her.
“I wasn’t raised only as a cult member, Violet. I was the son of the First Wife, making me, and my two full-blooded brothers, heirs.”
Violet didn’t appear shocked or appalled. But then, nothing seemed to ruffle her feathers other than Ty’s nonsense. “You’re saying the woman you wanted to marry was forced to marry your father.”
His stomach pitched, and he could barely even bring himself to envision it. “That’s what I’m saying. Bertrand Granger. He goes by Rand Granger outside the cult. Inside people call him Father Granger or the Prophet. Even his wives. So that’s gross.” But it had been completely normal until he’d left and seen what the real world was like. “When I was disfellowshipped from the Family, he had twenty wives, and I can’t count how many children.”
“Is it more complicated than that?” Violet asked, and opened the car door.
“Don’t you think that’s enough?” He walked up to the front door and banged on it, then rang the doorbell, his insides trying to claw their way out.
No one answered.
A woman hollered from next door, catching his attention. “She’s not home, hon. She’s at work. If you’re looking for Bexley Hemmingway.”
“I am,” Ty said and held up his credentials. “Do you know Ahnah Hemmingway?”
The woman with a short blond bob nodded emphatically and closed the distance between them. She was probably in her early sixties with bright blue eyes and an easy smile. “Oh yes. She’s a sweet girl. Used to help me weed my herb garden when I was down in the back. Terrible thing that happened to her. She wouldn’t up and leave like that.”
Ty didn’t believe it either. Ahnah and Bex had been closer than close. Bex had protected Ahnah, sometimes at a cost—the last one pretty steep for him and Bex. “Where does Bexley Hemmingway work?”
“Little counseling center near Blue Harbor Baptist Church.”
He nodded. “Thanks.” After searching and entering the address in the GPS, he and Violet traveled in silence the mile and a half to a little slate-gray facility built on stilts and framed by palm trees. A sign outside read Ruth’s Refuge Counseling Services.
Ty turned off the engine and unbuckled, but didn’t budge. Seventeen—almost eighteen—years since he’d laid eyes on Bex. He wasn’t sure he could face her and under these circumstances—to tell her some sadistic killer who might very well have a vendetta against Ty had targeted her sister. That couldn’t be random, and yet who on earth would know that he, Bexley and Ahnah were connected—or alive? Someone who knew how to dig for information like their own analyst, Selah Jones. She could have found the information if she wanted. She might even know already and was sitting on it.
But to go in and face Bexley. It was deeply personal, and he wasn’t sure he could do it.
He needed to, though.
“Vi,” he choked out. He needed to be alone with no one else privy. The uncertainty of how it would go down was nauseating. If Bex never died, then why not contact him? She had a counseling center in Memphis. She had to know he was part of the SCU South Division located in Memphis. Why not reach out? He had so many questions, but he feared the answers.
Violet wrapped her hand over his, a shocking gesture for her. “I’ll be here. Go in. Do what you have to in order to get the job done.”
He shifted in his seat. “I like you better since John came into your life. No telling me to pull it together and get over it—even though you’re a psychologist and should never say that.”
“John isn’t who came into my life who made the change, Tiberius. But he’s definitely made an impression.”
Ty couldn’t deny a change in Violet or Asa and Fiona. But he had a hard time coming to grips with the idea that a higher power did some kind of internal supernatural sanctification. If Ty wanted to quit eating donuts, he quit eating donuts. If he wanted to be nicer, he chose to be. No help from above, just good old-fashioned willpower.
“John’s a good dude. I like him.” He couldn’t speak to the other. Smelled like rot to him. He got out, his intestines knotting and his palms clammy. He climbed the five wooden steps and opened the door. The smell of lavender hit his senses, and soft instrumental music filtered through a speaker. A young woman with short, spiky red hair smiled. “Help ya?”
“I need to speak with Bexley Hemmingway.” He held up his FBI credentials, and her eyes watered.
“Is Ahnah...?”
“Still missing.” He put her at ease—as much as one could be when a loved one was unaccounted for. As of now, they couldn’t say she was deceased. “Do you know her well?” he asked.
