That's everything.
Tor emerges last.
His face is wet.
I pretend not to notice.
"They're going to be okay," I say.
"I know." His voice is rough. Broken. "I just—I wish someone had come for me. When I was in there. I wished for it every night. Prayed for it. And no one came. It only stopped after I finally told my father."
"Shit, that’s rough."
"Yeah." He wipes his face with the back of his hand.
"And now you're paying it forward."
He nods.
Doesn't say anything else.
Doesn't need to.
Some things don't need words.
The ride home is quieter than the ride out.
The adrenaline is fading.
The exhaustion setting in.
The weight of everything we did pressing down on our shoulders.
But there's something else too.
Peace.
It's over.
The trafficking ring—dismantled.
Eddie Womack—dead.
The kids—safe.
Ingrid's attacker—already rotting in an unmarked grave somewhere.
We won.
I keep repeating it to myself as the miles disappear beneath my wheels.
We won.
It's over.
But that nagging feeling from Room 8 won't quite go away.
The way Womack hesitated.
