The voice in the tape.

The patterns

Chapter Three — The Patterns

Morning came like a confession — slow, hesitant, unsure of its right to be here.

I hadn’t really slept. My mind had been a restless reel of Leah’s voice, the bells, and that nameless warning in my inbox.

Still, I woke up feeling something I hadn’t felt in weeks.

Purpose.

Frightened, trembling purpose, but purpose nonetheless.

I showered, dressed, and slipped my cross pendant over my neck. The metal felt cool against my skin — grounding. Like a reminder of who I used to be before grief and fear turned me into a whisper.

Before leaving, I opened my grandmother’s Bible again, the one I’d stopped reading when Leah died. It fell open on its own this time — Romans 8:28.

> “And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love Him, who have been called according to His purpose.”

I didn’t know if I still believed that fully.

But I whispered, “If You’re still working, Lord, show me where to start.”

St. Mary’s Church stood at the edge of Franklin Street, its steeple rising like a quiet plea into the morning sky.

The bells didn’t ring that early, but their silence still carried a strange weight — like they knew what I’d heard on the tape.

Inside, the air was cool, smelling of candle wax and time. Dust floated through stained light. A few elderly parishioners knelt in prayer, heads bowed.

I sat at the back pew, hands clasped, trying to look ordinary.

But my heart thudded like it wanted to break the silence.

A woman approached — early thirties, coffee skin, tired eyes, and a soft smile that carried both grief and grace.

“Mind if I sit here?” she asked.

“Of course,” I said.

She slid in beside me and sighed. “You’re Maya Brooks, right? From the radio?”

I hesitated. “Yes.”

She nodded slowly. “I recognized your voice. My name’s Jasmine Cole. I knew Leah.”

My breath caught. “You knew her?”

“Not well. We volunteered together at the youth outreach here. She helped with the counseling program for young girls. She… she was trying to help someone.”

Jasmine’s voice trembled.

“Help someone?” I pressed gently.

She nodded. “A girl from our program — sixteen. She went missing for two weeks last spring. When she came back, she wouldn’t speak to anyone except Leah. Said she’d ‘seen something she shouldn’t have.’ Leah promised to protect her. Then suddenly… Leah stopped showing up too.”

It felt like the world tilted slightly beneath me.

“Do you know the girl’s name?” I asked.

Jasmine looked down, fidgeting with her rosary. “I can’t say here. But if you’re serious about finding the truth, meet me tonight. There’s a café by the old bridge — Harper’s. Seven o’clock.”

She stood and walked away before I could ask more.

As I watched her go, I noticed something glint on the pew where she’d been sitting — a small, silver flash drive.

I picked it up.

On one side, written in shaky pen, were two words:

> “For Maya.”

Back home, I plugged it into my laptop, heart pounding.

The screen filled with folders — recordings, transcripts, voice notes. Leah’s voice again, steady but tired.

> “Journal entry, April 14th. Jasmine’s girl isn’t the only one. There’s a network — men hiding behind charity work, using their power to silence victims. I think one of them funds the church programs. I’m collecting names, and I think someone knows I’m close.”

The recording clicked off, leaving only static.

I sat frozen, the room spinning slightly.

Then — I noticed another file, labeled ‘PatternSheet.pdf.’

It was a list. Names. Dates.

Every incident tied to a town event — donations, fundraisers, even church retreats. Each one coincided with a missing or silenced girl.

At the top of the list, in bold:

“St. Mary’s Men’s Fellowship — Donor Circle.”

And next to it, underlined twice —

Eddie Malone.

My breath caught. My boss.

The man who’d told me to stop thinking about Leah.

The man who said the email was corrupted.

I sat back, shaking.

The world I’d trusted — my faith, my work, my friends — suddenly felt like glass, fragile and cracking.

---

I closed the laptop and stood by the window, watching the clouds darken.

The wind was rising — the kind that carries messages if you’re still enough to listen.

And for the first time in months, I felt the strange stirring of God’s presence again. Not loud, not obvious — just a quiet nudge in my spirit, whispering,

> “Truth sets free.”

It wasn’t comfort exactly. It was conviction.

I pulled out my phone and called Jasmine.

She picked up on the first ring.

“I listened,” I said. “I believe you.”

There was a long pause. Then she said softly, “Good. Because once you start pulling this thread, there’s no going back.”

“I’m already in,” I said. “Leah deserves the truth.”

“And what about you?” she asked gently. “You ready for what truth might cost?”

I looked at the silver cross around my neck. The metal had warmed against my skin.

“I’m not sure,” I admitted. “But I think God is.”

She was silent for a moment, then whispered, “Then I’ll see you tonight.”

That evening, the sky bruised purple. The streets were half-empty, the lamps flickering on one by one.

I drove slowly toward the café, the radio humming low gospel songs that felt like old prayers.

My hands trembled on the wheel, but underneath the fear, something else pulsed — faith. Quiet, stubborn faith.

I wasn’t sure what waited for me at Harper’s Café, or what Leah had really uncovered, but I knew one thing with certainty:

> God wasn’t silent anymore.

He was speaking — through the tapes, through Jasmine, through the stirring inside my own voice.

And this time, I would listen.