Page 38 of The Idol

I picked up the folder closest to me, a flash of recognition going through me at the name on it. Michelle Raymond.

She had been the one punished. I flipped through the contents of her folder, snapping pictures of it all.

There was a photocopy of her driver’s license, her birth certificate, her Social Security card, old employer records, her banking information, even a printout of the deed to her house.

I gritted my teeth at how much control Malachi had over this woman. It was insane. This was the culmination of years under his rule.

I put Michelle’s file back and grabbed another, then another, then another.

Each had enough information to stalk the person if they left, impersonate them, drain their accounts, and destroy them.

I thumbed through the rest of the box, finding my own folder pretty empty with just the copy of my fake ID. I was guessing he made them hand over more information the longer they stayed, once they were good and brainwashed.

I closed my folder, moving onto the last of the box.

My brows lifted in surprise at whose folder it was.

I hesitated for a second, then opened it.

This one was almost as bare as my own. There were no IDs, no medical records or banking info—nothing but a birth certificate.

Elior was born in April. A spring baby. That suited him, I thought.

His mother’s name was Annabelle.

I thought back to my first night here—that first sermon. Malachi had said something about“The Mother.”

Something that had made it sound like she’d passed during childbirth.

I took a photo of the document and sent it off to Patel. I was about to move on to the next box when I got a prickling feelingat the back of my mind. On a hunch, I texted a short message, asking him to look into this Annabelle woman.

Then I started on the CONFIDENTIAL box.

If the other box was bad, this one was a nightmare.

Punishment logs. Notes about which members “responded well” to fear. Logs of who cried, who begged, who broke fastest. Medication compliance charts. A list ofapproved restraining methods.

A spreadsheet titled temperament flags, with color-coded indicators next to each member’s name.

Green: compliant.

Yellow: wavering.

Red: defiant.

Blue: requires isolation.

Purple: condemned.

What the fuck did that mean? Condemned? That wasn’t fucking ominous at all.

Suddenly, I heard faint footsteps coming from directly outside the building.

Shit.

I shut off my flashlight instantly and ducked behind a row of crates, flattening myself against the cold metal of the shelf at my back.

The door creaked open.