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T here might have been a Sara…

Those words sear into my brain until everything blurs, and I don’t hear anything else the girl has to say. She should be glad there’s a wall between her and the violence simmering in my veins. It’s just more proof of the phrase I heard too often growing up: the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

After all, I am the Devil’s spawn. I wasn’t allowed to forget that.

My swollen eyes rise to that little red light in the corner of the ceiling. It blinks with smug laughter, reminding me I have an audience, like I’m a mildly interesting bug in a reinforced jar.

She was here.

And now she isn’t.

With that thought, the control I’ve been grasping with all the strength in my bloody fists disintegrates, and I erupt. “You motherfucking bastards. Fuck you. FUUUCK YOOOU .” I slam the chain against the tile, the cot, the wall, my voice roaring in my ears as it rips through the room. Even with my vocal cords ready to give out, and all my broken parts screaming in protest, I don’t stop.

This rage is for more than my captor; it’s for every person who dismissed my instincts.

And it’s for me.

“Son of a bitch. You fucking—” I can barely hear myself anymore, my senses drowned out by the pounding of my heart. My head. My wrath.

If I could spew fire, I’d burn this goddamn place to the ground with myself at the center, and God knows what would be left of me when it burns out. Maybe I’ll turn into a pillar of ash and crumble to nothing. Maybe I should be so fucking lucky.

I scream until ragged breaths heave from my lungs . Until my limbs are as useful as cold ramen noodles weighted by iron chains and my chest caves under the hollow reality of failure.

After years of fighting for justice, I’m reduced to ranting harmlessly in a cell while an insane businessman plays games with countless lives. Because, for the six-hundred-and-seventy days I’ve been tracking these disappearances, my gut has told me they were all connected.

Turns out, I’ve been right.

“Fuck!” Spinning toward the wall, I slam my palms against it, again and again. They sting like I’ve smacked a nest of bees and the strain on my shoulder is enough to make my vision blur, but it’s nothing compared to what she went through.

If I could spare her now, I’d gladly switch places. Take every bit of pain and fear and compound it times a hundred. Drown me in it for eternity. I deserve it. I’ve earned it.

I was born for it.

But Sara…

I’m pretty sure she was an angel, put on this earth as a balance for the darkness I was created from. She invaded my stone-cold world, bringing light, compassion, and music. Enough to fill the abyss that exists inside me—or at least, patch it enough to allow me to breathe for the first time. I would have self-destructed years ago if she hadn’t stepped in.

Then she was ripped away, and it was my fault.

With my arms braced against the wall as I catch my breath, I notice its condition—chipped and dented, the once-white paint scratched and discolored. How many people have scraped at, beat on, and mumbled their last confessions through this wall?

Turning my back, I slide down until I collapse on the floor, letting the heavy chains clank against the tile. My hands shake with the need for a cigarette. I let my head thunk backward lightly.

If I’m being honest with myself, what I’m really craving is something stronger.

Seems safer to admit now that I’m trapped in here with no way to access my poison of choice. But it still feels something like blasphemy.

Like I’m spitting on her unmarked grave…wherever it is.

A long exhale hisses from between my teeth. I’ve been empty inside for so long, this spark of hope aches worse than the hollow reality I came to terms with a long time ago.

See, I’ve known she’s dead. I’m not some starry-eyed family member holding out hope that my loved one will be found alive and in one piece after years. Being a detective has a way of squelching that na?ve positivity early on, and I was never that optimistic to begin with. This has always been about finding the guy who did it and enacting justice.

Until the moment the girl on the other side of this wall told me her name.

Tap, tap, tap.

“Nick?”

And there she is.

Facing that damn security camera, I’m aware that every meltdown, conversation, and flicker of emotion is being witnessed by a sociopath who won’t hesitate to use it against me. I’ve got to squash the outbursts before I draw too much attention to myself and blow my cover. That’s the only thing I have going for me right now, no matter how ridiculous that might be. Nick Ford is the face I can hide behind while I stew in the shadows.

While I formulate a plan.

“Is there sound on those cameras?” I ask, knowing it’s a dumb question. She wouldn’t know. Can’t imagine her captors giving a damn about her crying for water or begging for mercy.

She hesitates. “I don’t think so… I spent those first few days screaming into the camera, until Roger came in and told me not to bother. No sound. He said when they wanted to hear me scream, I’d know.”

“Better theory is he’s lying.”

“He doesn’t have the brains to lie.”

Well, she might be right about that.

And I suppose if these fuckers are as arrogant as I think they are, they don’t have much use for sound. “Tell me something else, Beverly.” My voice has been reduced to a rasp.

“Everly,” she corrects.

“Sure.” I bet she’s heard it her whole life. Not my fault her mother gave her one of those creative names that screams of trying too hard.

She sighs loudly enough for me to hear it through the wall. That could be my imagination, but I can picture it. I can picture her —a tiny little thing, topped off with enough wild, frizzy curls to cover four of her. Like a lion’s mane, treading the boundaries of fashionably ridiculous.

Okay, fine, there’s a reason she attracted attention. The woman is undeniably stunning. Not that it matters in here. I’m sure her beauty has faded, just like her former life.

And that’s the real clincher, isn’t it? The thing sending me into a tailspin and turning all my assumptions upside-down. Everly Cross, the girl who was taken a full two months before Sara, and by all logic should be long dead, is still alive.

Which should make me more hopeful.

And yet?—

“Hey.” Two taps send vibrations through my aching head. “Nick?”

I can’t shake the thought that if she were alive, I’d feel it. My instincts are better than most; I’d like to think something deep in my gut would have told me there’s reason to hope. And, even now, with this new evidence, this open field of possibility, I feel…

Nothing.

“What did you want to know?”

Oh. Yeah. “Right. Let’s pretend you’re a competent individual who was able to find your way out of here after two years. How would you go about that?”

Silence.

Then, finally, a soft voice, stiff with irritation. “I’m not sure insulting the one person on your team is the best way to go about finding a way out of here. Which, by the way, there is none. Plenty of people have tried. It’s locked down.”

My lips twitch, despite myself. “Oh, we have teams now. I didn’t realize.”

“Yeah.” A forced brightness infuses the word. “I like to call it ‘Team Don’t Die in Here,’ and, might I point out, that as the last known member standing, you might want me on your side.”

I hold back a laugh. She’s got some bite to her. Maybe that’s helped her stay alive.

“Sorry.” Her tone softens a bit, taking the wind from her sails.

“Oh, don’t stop now. I’m a big boy; I can handle it.”

“Still.”

Maybe it’s time to change direction.

Try not to antagonize all the time, I remind myself, in Tanner’s voice.

“All right, I’ll figure it out. Tell me about when you were taken.”

Of course, I know more than I’m letting on. The disappearance of Everly Cross is just one of many pieces that ultimately led me here, and unlike most victims, there were plenty of photographs of her activities in the hours before. I pored over every bit of it after Sara was taken, looking for anything that could connect the dots.

In the end, it didn’t matter. Everyone was convinced I was reaching. Even with a history of solving cases no one else could, it wasn’t enough. The minute someone close to me became a victim, anything I said was tainted with the possibility of emotional bias. My instincts were tossed into the pile of wishful thinking and outlandish connections.

Well, every last one of them can go to hell. After I’ve dismantled this operation, piece by bloody piece, I’ll gladly join the bastards and make them suffer for eternity.

But that’s for another day.

“My husband and I were just getting home from a party.” Everly recounts the details I asked for. “Someone broke into our house.”

“And took you, obviously.”

“Well, I didn’t exactly volunteer. So, yes, they took me.”

I might smile if I weren’t so busy examining the cuff that connects my ankle to the heavy chain. Police issue, with a double-locking ratchet system. “Go on.” The cuff isn’t difficult to spring when you know what you’re doing, but I need some kind of tool. I suppose a stray bobby pin lying on the floor is too much to ask for. Shit, I’ll take anything at this point—even a piece of duct tape could work in a pinch, but unfortunately, my captors don’t seem to be idiots. “Had you felt as though you were being watched that day, or any other?”

“Yes.”

Interesting. I don’t remember seeing that documented. “Really? Tell me more.” I move on from the cuff and down to the chain. I’ve yanked on it plenty, but now I study each connecting point for any hint of weakness.

“Well, I was modeling, and an ad I was in went viral. So technically, there were millions of people watching?—”

The chain clanks to the floor. Now I can’t tell if she’s being sarcastic or dumb. “I meant, tell me something useful. Like whether you thought you were being stalked or targeted. Specifically .”

“Okay, but your question wasn’t very specific .”

“Touche.” Between the douchebag who put me here, and this conversation with Beverly minus the B, I can’t remember the last time I spoke this much in one day. It’s exhausting. Pressing two fingers between my eyes, I attempt to massage the ache into something slightly more bearable. “God, I’m bad at this.”

“To be fair, it’s not every day a person gets kidnapped. This kind of pressure throws all of us off kilter.”

A sound akin to a scoff comes from my throat. “I thrive under pressure; it’s patience that’s not my forte.”

“Ah. Then no, not specifically. Occasionally, I’d get a weird message on social media, but nothing that seemed particularly threatening. Someone else usually handled those and called it to our attention if it was something we needed to know about.”

Of course, the department had combed through every email, message, and contact on record, looking for leads, and they’d all been cleared. But my interest is in whether there was something she knew that we didn’t.

Resting back against the wall, I’m close enough to pick up on the sound of crunching in between pauses. Is she snacking over there? What kind of setup does she have?

When she speaks again, the words sound slightly muffled. “I guess someone who thrives under pressure is probably not bad to have as a neighbor.”

“Are you chewing on something?”

“Sorry.” Her voice is farther away now, accompanied by the sounds of items being shuffled. “I had some carrot sticks left over from earlier.”

Carrot sticks. Not exactly the stale bread and gruel one pictures when they’re held prisoner. I’ll have to ask more about her life in here later. My setup is sparse, but maybe her accommodations are different. “What do you know about the men who broke in? Do you ever see them here?”

“It’s hard to say.” Her voice is closer, like she’s settled into her spot just behind me. “They were wearing black clothing and masks, and everything happened so fast. But the one who grabbed me had red hair.”

“Let me guess—big guy, but a little smaller than the ogre in the hallway. Like if a Viking and a troll had a baby?”

“I didn’t get a good look at him at the time, but there’s a guy who comes through here that fits that description.”

“Fucking Dolph.” The bastard has been connected to this from the beginning. “Fuck, how do you keep track of the days? I’m already lost.”

“As cliche as it sounds, I mark them on the wall. I’m sure I’ve missed a few.”

“Mark them with what?” If I had a pen, I might be able to get creative and use the spring to get out of this cuff.

“Lipstick.”

“Why do you need lip—” I stop short. I’m getting sidetracked again. “Never mind. What happened after the Viking-troll took you?”

“I woke up here.”

“Well, that’s no help whatsoever.”

She releases an exhale, but it’s closer to a laugh than annoyance. “Just like you, I was drugged—everyone is when they get here. They don’t want to damage the goods if they can help it . Sounds like you got yourself banged up, though.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve never felt better.” In a moment of shit timing, I stretch my legs out in front of me, causing the cuff to rub against the open wound on my ankle, which doesn’t feel great. It’s the involuntary flinch, twisting my ribcage, that steals my breath. My teeth grind. “Goddammit.”

She spares me the “I told you so.” In fact, she’s quiet for several minutes while I breathe through my nose as calmly as possible, head resting against the wall. My eyelids are so heavy, I stop fighting to keep them open.

“No one remembers much about my disappearance. It was so long ago now…”

My chin dips, hitting my chest, and when I jolt awake, my head starts throbbing all over again. I force my eyes open. There are so many things I need to be doing right now. I need to assess whether I can detect blind spots for the camera, examine the sink and toilet for parts I might covertly dismantle and utilize. Come up with a concrete plan.

After spending my adult years as an insomniac, it’s some kind of irony that my body decides to shut down here.

“It’s like the world kept going,” she murmurs, her voice fading as I drift away. “But for me…time stopped the minute I entered this room.”