Liam took a deep breath, intoned, “Peace, brother,” and retreated to his private quarters.
As Noah briskly left the room, he literally bumped into Gabby and gave her an annoyed look. “I don’t believe you are allowed on this floor, Gabby.”
Gabby shrunk in embarrassment. “I’m very sorry. I was told to retrieve the platters from this morning’s breakfast.”
“Fine. But in the future, know your place,” Noah added sternly. “We have a hierarchy for a reason.”
“Yes, sir. I know that spiritual growth comes in steps,” Gabby readily responded with the appropriate answer.
“Very well. See that you remember those words.” Then Noah turned sharply and walked away.
Liam overheard his brother admonishing Gabby and went out to the hallway. “Are you all right?” he asked her kindly.
Gabby was still shaken from the brusque encounter with Noah. “Yes. Yes, sir.” Her hands were trembling. The last thing she wanted to do was get on Liam’s bad side. If there was such a thing.
“Please, call me Liam.” He looked her straight in the eye, causing Gabby’s stomach to flutter. But it wasn’t a bad kind of flutter, which made her even more nervous.
“I, uh, the rules?” Gabby’s eyes looked directly into his, pleading.
“I didn’t make up the rules.” Liam smiled. “It has to do with our founders.” That was the best word they could use to explain how The Haven was originally financed.
The “official story” was that three men had retired from major religious organizations, pooled their money, and backed Liam. Their names were Devin Marlow, Christopher Giamelli, and Isaac Greenstein. It was said that these founders believed organized religions were too constricting and divisive and that a new ideology needed to be shared. Shared by someone who was authentic. They chose Liam to deliver the right words and the right message. It was close to the truth, but not quite. Liam had the charisma, and the right intentions, but in order to accomplish his goals, he had inadvertently made a deal with the devil.
Gabby blinked several times before she could speak. “Oh, yes, the founders.” She hesitated again. “What would the others say if I called you Liam?”
“Let’s keep it our secret. Okay?” He smiled once more.
“Yes, of course. Thank you.” Gabby was able to get the words out without stuttering. She nodded, turned, and hurried down the stairs, forgetting the reason for her being on the third floor. What is wrong with me? I have interviewed serial killers, rapists, and drug dealers. Why does this man make me nervous? Perhaps it was the very lean diet of The Haven, combined with the heat? Or maybe that encounter with Noah? She tried to shake it off. She listened for footsteps before she began her climb back up the stairs to retrieve the platters she had been sent to get. All quiet. She scurried up and as softly as possible, grabbed what she had been sent for, and bustled back down. As she entered the kitchen, Rachel gasped. “Are you okay? You look all hot, red, and sweaty.” Rachel grabbed a kitchen towel and traded it for the platters in Gabby’s hands.
“I’m okay. I think.” Gabby wiped the perspiration from her forehead.
“What do you mean, you think?” Rachel put the plates in the large kitchen sink, turned, and put her hands on her hips. “You look like you seen a ghost.”
Rachel Steward’s grammar wasn’t the best. Before she fled the backwaters of North Florida and came to Miami, she had lived in a trailer park, with her crack-smoking, beer-drinking parents. They paid no attention to her. None at all. That’s probably why she had gotten involved with someone recently out of jail for armed robbery. He paid attention to her, an underage girl. That was not only a parole violation, it was statutory rape. Back in the slammer he went, and Rachel took a pregnancy test. She was relieved to find that she wasn’t going to have a baby. She tried to be careful, but she was also an easy mark for someone who showed her affection. If you could call using her body a show of affection.
After a year of working the night shift at a convenience store while suffering from depression, Rachel left for good. She packed what few clothes she had and the couple of hundred dollars she had been able to scrape together, bought a one-way bus ticket, and headed to Miami. She landed a job as a waitress at a Denny’s outside Homestead, where she met two other young women who needed a third roommate to split the rent. The rent in that area of South Florida was much cheaper than in Miami proper, so with three of them contributing, they could afford a decent place. Decent enough meaning it wasn’t covered in graffiti, and you could actually walk on the street at night, which was a good thing since she didn’t have a car. Walking and riding the bus were her only means of transportation.
One evening, when she was walking home from work, it dawned on her that it had been five years since she had bolted from that tin can of drugs and foul smells. Her situation wasn’t perfect, but she got along well enough with her roommates and made enough money to pay the rent and her bills and buy a used bicycle. In another year, if she saved enough, she might be able to buy a car. And pay for the insurance. It might not have been a picnic, but she lived a clean, if boring, life.
The weekends were split between work and chores. She usually had either the Saturday night or Sunday morning shift. If she had to run errands, she would ride her bike. It was totally retro, complete with a basket, a bell, and streamers on the handle grips. Rachel stopped at the local farmers’ market and was approached by a young woman, approximately the same age, wearing a white yoga-type outfit. She said her name was Ginny, and she handed Rachel a small jar of honey. “This is raw organic honey. We keep bees on our farm. We guarantee it is one-hundred-percent organic.” Rachel was about to say, “No, thank you,” but before she could utter a word Ginny pulled out a spoon, dipped it in the jar, and said, “Here, please try it.”