The Never List

thanking my lucky stars that the rental car was dark gray. I didn’t think I could be seen, but I was closeenough to make out in the distance, probably fifty yards from me, a small warehouse with one garage door and a small windowless entrance to the right of it. A single floodlight covered the front yard of the building.
    As a precaution, I slowly turned the car around, so I could drive out facing forward. I sat perfectly still, my breathing faster than normal. I turned off the engine and twisted myself in my seat so I could see. After that I didn’t move. Not even to find my phone.
    I could just make out Noah Philben’s outline as he walked over to the back of the warehouse and picked up what looked like a large tarp. The other man followed him, and together they covered the van, then turned to go back in. Suddenly Noah paused, walked over to the side of the building, and flipped a switch, killing the floodlights.
    I kept as still as possible, holding my breath, as though that would make a difference. I held my keys in the ignition, ready to turn them if he so much as took a step forward. I waited, the seconds feeling like hours. Go back inside , I tried to will him. Finally, after an excruciating minute or two, he turned around and trudged back into the warehouse.
    I wanted to know what was in that van. Why was there a tarp? What could they be doing in that warehouse? Was this somehow related to his cult?
    All I knew about religious cults was taken from headlines. Maybe they were doing something mystical. Or planning a mass suicide. Maybe it was a wedding with plural wives and child brides. Or maybe that’s where they kept the cache of weapons they’d need in case the feds invaded. Whatever it was, it was my only connection to Sylvia, and I knew I needed to understand what was going on to make any progress.
    I waited for at least half an hour, not moving, barely breathing. I rolled down my window a few inches to let in the cool night air.I briefly considered getting out of the car to get a better look, to see what was under that tarp, but the very thought of it made me sick. I was stuck here for now.
    Finally, I decided nothing more seemed to be happening. Maybe they were staying the night. My heart was heavy as I finally started the engine, knowing it was pointless to wait here any longer and definitely too dangerous.
    As I slowly drove back down the driveway, my hands were shaking so hard I could barely grip the wheel. Only when I had put several miles between me and that warehouse did I start breathing regularly again. But as I continued along, the back roads suddenly seemed like a maze, a labyrinth specifically designed to trap me.
    I pushed several buttons on the GPS to try to get the route back to the club, but it only told me it was “recalculating.” Cursing, I turned it off.
    It seemed hours before I happened upon the main road, and by then there was no way I was going anywhere except straight back to the hotel. Adele would have to wait until tomorrow for an explanation.

CHAPTER 17
    When I was safe in my hotel room, I decided the time had come to call in Agent Jim McCordy. This search had gotten too dangerous for me; they needed someone without post-traumatic stress disorder to go following vans out of S&M clubs.
    Even so, I was feeling proud of myself. A year ago, a month ago even, I would have had to page Dr. Simmons on an emergency basis if I had even thought about something that frightening. Now I felt a little bit stronger, a little more determined, each day out of my apartment. That felt good. And I knew I was on to something here. It was too much of a coincidence that Noah Philben would be there at Jack Derber’s old haunt. “What are the odds?” as Jennifer would have said.
    It was four a.m., which meant seven a.m. Eastern time. Late enough to call. I dialed Jim’s number. As usual, he answered immediately.
    “Sarah? Where are you? Dr. Simmons said you’d canceled another appointment.”
    “You might say that. Jim, look, I need your help. I think I have figured out a strange connection. It might not mean anything, but—”
    “Connection? Sarah, what are you doing? Right now you should just be meeting with Dr. Simmons regularly to prepare yourself to face Jack at the parole hearing. That is how you can best help to keep him in prison.”
    “You’re right. Theoretically. But I think I’m on to something.”
    I took a deep breath.
    “Jim, I’m in Oregon.” But before he could