Casey waits for me at the Poughkeepsie station.
She’s dressed in jeans and a black wool jacket, a messenger bag slung over her shoulder, her hair in a tight knot at the back of her head. She’s far from the woman in the white dress with her red hair flowing over her shoulders, wearing her faith in Lev like an accessory. This is more the Casey I know. The one who constantly stood in my way.
“How was your train ride?” she asks.
“Uneventful.”
“Better than the alternative.”
She gestures for me to follow her. We navigate the crowded station to the parking lot, where a dirty white SUV awaits us. Casey takes out her key fob, pushes a button and with a light chirp, the doors unlock. She gets behind the wheel and I climb in beside her, buckling my seat belt as she turns the ignition on, then the heat. As the car slowly warms, she digs into her bag.
“Before we get there, I’ll need something from you.”
I eye her warily as she produces a piece of paper. She holds it out to me and when I make no move for it says, “I can read it to you, if that’s what you want.”
I take it from her none too gently to look over.
As a guest at The Unity Project’s Chapman House on November 22, 2017, I understand that I may have access to confidential information about The Project, its history, its members, its inner-workings and daily operations … a space at the bottom for my signature.
“You want me to sign an NDA?”
“It’s for the duration of your visit today.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Why do you think we haven’t left the station?”
“This is a goddamn gag order.”
“We’re protecting our membership.”
“Do you treat all your guests this way?”
“We pride ourselves on our transparency as an organization, but our members are entitled to privacy. You are a member of the press—and you’re headed into their home.”
“Do you treat all your guests this way?” I ask again.
She looks at me. “We don’t have guests at Chapman House.”
I bite my lip, furious, and turn away from her, staring at the cars pulling out of their parking spots, onto the next leg of their destination. Clever, bringing me all the way to Chapman and then shoving this in my face. Most people would rather hold themselves hostage than feel like they wasted their time. The NDA forbids me from sharing my experiences within the walls of Chapman House without prior written permission from Lev or Casey.
“Only for today,” I repeat.
“Yes.”
I reread it, making sure that’s all it holds me to. After a long moment, I ask Casey for a pen. I hesitate before signing my name on the dotted line.
Gloria Denham.
“Thank you.” Casey tucks the paper away. “I know it wasn’t easy for you.”
She pulls out of the lot and into traffic. I swallow hard and look at my hands.
“You don’t drive, do you?” she asks me.
“Sometimes I do.” Patty forced me to learn. I don’t care if you ever get behind the wheel after this, you should know how if you need to. “Just try not to make a habit of it.”
“That’s fascinating. Because of the accident, I presume?”
I don’t answer her.
“You were a passenger, though,” she says.
I still don’t answer her.
As often as I can stand it, I glance out the window. Chapman is one of the smaller cities in the valley. Has that pretentiously artisanal vibe, the kind of place made for professional Instagrammers, but if you drive long enough that part of it slowly fades away, stretching into wilderness. That’s where you’ll find The Unity Project’s Chapman House, far removed from the world’s main feed.
There are fewer and fewer cars the farther we drive. A sparsity of houses dot either side of the highway, eventually giving way to no houses, to forest, to rougher road. It begins to snow. After some time, Casey turns onto a road I can only assume leads to our destination, judging by the small smile that lights her face. And then:
“Chapman House.”
It’s not a house. It’s a lodge. Two stories and wide enough to stretch beyond the view of the windshield. It’s beautiful and its beauty is something I hate about it because it’s impossible to ignore. The trim and roof are a deep, forest green. Its angles, modern and pleasing.
The large, timber frame entrance is illuminated by the inviting glow of a light overhead. Narrow windows on either side of the door hint at what’s beyond, though from here, it’s too far to see. Casey parks alongside a handful of snow-covered cars.
“How many live here?” I ask.
“Here in Chapman, or here in Chapman House?”
“Both, I guess.”
“We’re at a little over three hundred members in Chapman. They’re spread out across Project residencies in and just outside of the city. We have fifty members living here—staff. We develop and oversee Project initiatives, tend to members’ needs individually and as a whole. Depending on what’s happening within The Unity Project, we can have upwards of a hundred members in and out at one time. The house also serves a similar function as the farm; we host gatherings, meetings and sermons here, particularly when the weather’s nice. Past the house there’s a lake. It’s quite beautiful.”
“Who paid for this?”
“My father donated this property. He used to hold company retreats here,” Casey answers. “He’s a huge proponent of our work. It cost The Unity Project nothing.”
“He’s a member?”
Jerry Byers is the CEO of NuCola—the best-tasting zero-calorie soda on the market—and he’s swimming in cash. Whenever Casey’s in the news for Project work, they don’t leave the fact of her parentage too far behind. But I’ve never heard Jerry Byers identified as a member, or even a fan, and I’d remember something like that.
“No. Not officially.” Casey pulls the keys out of the ignition. “Come on.”
She exits the car.
I stare at the house, knowing Bea won’t be there, and letting myself imagine her there anyway, imagine her keeping herself from me somewhere inside.
My cell phone rings. I take it out of my bag.
I don’t recognize the number.
“Hello?” The slow, familiar sound of breathing reaches my ear at the same time Casey turns to me expectantly. My blood goes cold. “Who is this? How did you get this number?”
Nothing. Casey’s expression turns impatient and I disconnect, try to shake it off. I get out of the car and make my way to the front door. She pushes it open and gestures me in ahead of her. After I step over the threshold, she takes the lead again and we enter a wide-open living space.
“This is the Great Room,” she says, her voice echoing slightly.
It’s huge. The opposite side of it is a wall of windows, a door tucked neatly at the heart of them, and the view beyond is breathtaking, like a Bob Ross painting. Snow swirls through and around the magnificent pine trees and the lawn extends toward them, an expanse of pure white. All the furniture in the room points toward the scene and all the furniture looks expensive. No doubt it came with the place. The ceiling is tall, beautiful wooden beams and hanging lights. I turn around and stare at the second-floor balcony above us, facing the windows. On either side of the room are heavy wooden doors shut tight, leading to parts unknown.
“Where is everyone?” I ask.
“It’s the middle of a workday, Lo.”
I know, I want to snap. I took one of my sick days to be here.
It’s hot, reminding me of the suffocating tent on the Garrett Farm. I pull at my collar, feeling Casey’s eyes on me as I absorb my surroundings. I move slowly around the room, tracing my fingers along the edge of a sofa, a mahogany chair. I come to stop at the windows. The snow falls harder now.
“You can’t see it at the moment,” Casey says, joining me, “but there’s a path between those trees leading to the lake. In the summer, the sky out there looks like it goes on forever. I love it out here. It’s so peaceful. Quiet enough to gather your thoughts and be truly alone with yourself. To be truly alone with God. Like a place at the end of the world.”
“Looks it,” I say. “Where’s Lev?”
She stares out at the trees before moving to a small table in the corner, where a pitcher of infused water sits next to some glasses. She pours one for me. For a moment, it seems she’s awaiting my thanks but I never give it to her and it’s times like these I wonder what my mother would have made of me. If she would have been disappointed in how bitter and obstinate I’ve become. I’m less afraid than I used to be but I’m not sure it was worth the cost. I take a drink of the water. It tastes citrusy, clean.
“Make yourself comfortable,” Casey says, “and I’ll tell him you’re here.”
She leaves, disappearing behind the door at the far left side of the room. She closes it gently, then there’s a telltale click. I wait a minute and then I trace her path out until I reach the door. I test it and find it locked. The same holds true for the door at the right side of the room. I face the windows and I have that same thought I had at the sermon—that if I died out here no one would know.
I wait a long time. I expect to. Lev Warren has made a compromise for me and the cost of it will be whatever The Unity Project believes they can make me pay. I sit in one of the chairs and what remains of the light surrenders itself to the later afternoon. Every so often, I hear the sound of movement upstairs but its source never reveals itself to me. I take my phone out. NO SIGNAL. Really? I get to my feet and move slowly around the room, my arm held up, watching the bars. I’ve just about done a full circle when a couple finally appear. Good to know if this whole thing goes horror movie, all I’ve got to do is make sure I’m standing exactly in this spot to call 911.
The sound of the door opening on the right side of the room startles me, my heart thrumming a this-is-it kind of time because however ready I pretend to be, I’m not.
I swallow and turn.
A dog stands in the middle of the open door.
It’s a gorgeous white husky. It stares at me, its mouth hung open, panting slightly, one eye a vivid sky blue, the other a rich amber. Beyond it, a hallway with a staircase leading to the second floor. The dog moves forward, sniffing the air, toenails clacking along the hardwood. I still, nervous. I like dogs on a case-by-case basis, mostly depending on whether or not they like me. This one doesn’t seem to pose any immediate threat so far.
I glance at the door behind it, still open, tempting me to walk through, to find out what secrets lay hidden beyond. There have to be secrets; they wouldn’t have locked me out, otherwise. I make my way over and when my intention becomes clear, the dog positions itself in front of me, blocking my path. Or is it? I take a tentative step forward, and it lets out a disconcerting whine, teeth flaring a little: a warning …
“Easy,” I whisper.
It growls.
“Atara,” a voice says sharply behind me.
The dog—Atara—backs down, languidly moving past me to its master.
I turn.
Lev stands at the opposite side of the room.
Atara stops at his feet and he rests his hand atop her head before she pads away from both of us, slipping out the door he came through. We regard each other for a long moment. His hair is pushed from his face, the stubble along his jaw more pronounced than when I saw it last. He wears a brown sweater and worn blue jeans.
“Where’s Bea?” I ask.
He lets the silence build, because he can, and when he finally speaks, he offers no answer. He only points to a pair of chairs near the window and tells me to take a seat.
I stay where I am.
“Have it your way,” he says.
He crosses the room toward me and then past me, his arm brushing against mine. I exhale quietly as soon as he’s clear. He stops at the table with the water and pours himself a glass. I watch as he raises it to his mouth, taking his time, and when he’s finished, he brushes his thumb slowly across his lips.
“I’m so used to hearing about you, Lo,” he finally says, “about your misdirected rage at The Project. Your assumptions about us. Casey kept us apprised of your exploits over the years.”
“Us,” I echo.
“It was one thing to hear about you and another entirely to witness.” He holds the top of the glass between his fingers, studying its distorted reflection of the room before setting it gently back down. He turns his head to me. “I told you the work is our first line of defense against our detractors. I stand by that. But you represent a type of false impression about us I’ve come to realize would be better addressed before it takes root.”
“And what’s that?”
“That we’re a cult.”
“The shoe fits.”
“You think we do what cults do?”
“Yes.”
“That we indoctrinate? Brainwash? Isolate?”
With every question, he closes the distance between us until he’s inches from me. I keep myself rigid, forcing myself to meet his stillness with my own.
“You can deny it all you want,” I say. “I know what you did to Jeremy.”
He stares down at me through his eyelashes. “His death is one of the most devastating things I’ve experienced. And the idea of his memory used as a platform for the worst of what you think of us—and what you want others to think of us—is unacceptable to me.”
“You saw Arthur’s Facebook group.”
“I was made aware. It hurt me, deeply.”
“It hurts Arthur too,” I reply. My body aches, tense, every part of me trying to anticipate his next move. This stillness between us won’t hold and I have no idea what it will turn into, but I feel its energy growing. “Did you have it taken down?”
“I didn’t,” he says, and then, at the skeptical look on my face, “I suspect some members might have reported it of their own volition—”
“And which tenet of The Unity Project is that?”
“We’re human, Lo, and I’ve never been called a murderer before.”
“Are members calling me?”
“What?” he asks.
“My office, my phone … hang-up calls … intimidation tactics.”
“Of course not.” I’m not sure I believe him.
“Where’s Bea?” I ask again.
His hand reaches for the pendant at his neck, directing my attention to that small piece of silver. It glints from light I can’t source. There’s an etching on it I can’t quite make out as he carefully rubs it between his forefinger and thumb. There’s no absence of intention in anything he does, not even this small movement.
And then the wind picks up, rattling the windows, pulling our attention from each other for the view outside. I watch the trees sway back and forth, the gray cast of the sky suggesting the possibility of a storm. Lev frowns and the wind stops as suddenly as it started, like a breath, caught, and some small part of me could think he did that.
But the rest of me knows better.
“Arthur convinced Paul there was something here worth looking into, had him poking around. I thought it had been taken care of, and now you…” He turns his face to me, his eyes locking on mine. “I’ve no doubt what you could inspire in others, if given the chance.”
I swallow. “What do you mean?”
“Refusing to engage with the press was the right choice for a very long time, but now it’s time for us to make a different choice.”
“And what does this have to do with me?”
“I want you to write a profile for SVO. On me. On The Unity Project.”
I step back. “… What?”
“I’ll give you unprecedented access.”
I open and close my mouth several times, still not grasping what he’s said. A Cease & Desist would have made more sense than this.
I want you to write a profile … I’ll give you unprecedented access.
“You’re not serious,” I finally say.
“I am.”
“And by unprecedented access you mean…”
“I’ll sit for interviews. You may talk to and interview any willing members, tour our properties, learn about our daily operations, our future plans…”
I bring my hand to my mouth. What Lev is offering is—like he said—unprecedented … it would take up the whole front page of SVO—and Paul would have to give that to me.
Wouldn’t he?
I’d write it first, just to ensure it …
A byline flashes in my mind’s eye and for the first time, it doesn’t feel like a wish, it feels like it’s the future.
By Lo Denham.
“Me,” I say.
“I don’t think it could be anyone else, do you?” Lev asks. I can only stare in response, still reeling. “You’ve dug into a misconception of us for the last six years and I know you’ll do everything in your power to prove it.”
“You don’t think I’ll prove it,” I say.
“I’m confident you won’t,” he returns. “But I know your attempt will produce a profile that can’t be denied.”
I stop breathing. It’s practically those words of Paul’s I’d live and die by, if he ever gave me the chance: The closer you get to the bone, the less you can be denied … but Paul was never going to give me that chance.
I shake my head slowly. It still seems impossible …
“I don’t…”
“You wanted the truth, Lo.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Or are you afraid of it now?”
I look out the window. This place is beginning to have that inside-a-snow-globe quality, making everything seem more unreal than it already is.
“What about my sister? Does my unprecedented access extend to her?”
For a long time, Lev is silent.
“You need to know we’ve always acted on Bea’s behalf as far as it related to you,” Lev says. “She made clear how she wanted us to proceed and we honored that. Every way we dealt with you, Lo, was what she told us to do.”
I look at him, hope in my heart, my heart suddenly in my throat.
“Does that mean she’s changed her mind?” I whisper.
“It means,” he says, “that your sister is no longer a member.”