Page 37 of The Idol

“It wasn’t…” He swallowed. “It wasn’t bad. I wasn’t frightened. Just… surprised. And confused.”

Relief slid through me.

“Still,” I said, “I’m sorry for making you uncomfortable.”

Elior drew in a slow breath. His eyes lifted fully this time, meeting mine straight on, even though it made his blush deepen.

“I accept your apology,” he whispered, gifting me a shy smile.

My chest tightened painfully.

He had no idea—no idea—what he was doing to me. How easy he made it feel to want. How dangerous that was for both of us—well, mostly him.

But I forced myself to smile back, grateful and harmless.

“Good,” I said. “Thank you.”

As we walked in a comfortable silence for a few minutes, his shoulders slowly relaxed. His steps grew lighter again, as if my apology had lifted him up.

* * *

The eastern storage building was mostly deserted at dusk—too far from the chapel to be convenient, too boring for the devout to loiter near.

I checked the path to ensure it was empty, then slipped behind the structure and knelt at the maintenance door. It took only a few seconds of careful pressure in the lock before aclicksounded.

I slid inside, wrinkling my nose at the smell of mildew and dust. God, never had I ever been as glad to not have allergies as in that moment.

I bent down, pulling my cell out of my boot. When I turned on the phone’s flashlight and swept the beam across the clutter, I found myself in what seemed to be a semi-organized hoarder’s paradise.

There was everything from toilet paper to a plastic tub full of robes and shelves of cleaning supplies. Boxes were stacked floor to ceiling in some places, each one labeled.

I started with the nearest shelf—nothing interesting—just bulk toiletries and moth-eaten blankets. But as I moved deeper into the building, the organization shifted from the expected to… unsettling.

On one of the shelves, appearing inconspicuous between a bag of a few deflated beach balls and a stack of chalkboards, was a smaller box containing a couple of velvet pouches.

I tugged one open, expecting prayer beads or bracelets or something similar.

Instead, I found teeth.

Human fucking teeth.

Mostly molars, one canine, all cleaned, neatly bagged, labeled with dates.

Yeah. Hell no. Not today.

I clenched my jaw and put the pouch back exactly where I’d found it.

The next aisle wasn’t much better. Cardboard boxes filled with zip ties, duct tape, rubber tubing, and heavy leather straps—some professionally crafted, others clearly handmade. A box of stun batons—which was clearly a necessity in every cult leader’s repertoire. Another containing old prescription bottles—sedatives, antipsychotics, opioids—some with labels scratched off.

A chill crawled up my spine. I snapped pictures as I went, texting them to Patel. He didn’t text back, besides a thumbs-down emoji at the baggie of teeth.

Which—yeah, I got that.

At the far end of the room, I ran into a stack of boxes labeledPERSONNEL - CURRENT,PERSONNEL - ARCHIVE,CONFIDENTIAL, andFINANCIAL.

I pulled down the nearest box—PERSONNEL – CURRENT—and popped the lid.

Folders. Thick ones. One for every member.