No . . .
What has he done to her? I stare in horror at the sight in front of me. Blood covers the stone floor, pooling in places where the rock is uneven. The girl in the middle of the floor is so thin and pale, her lips blue. The dress she’s wearing is ripped in multiple places, and barely covers her. When I step closer, I realize the rips are cuts. She had been cut, stabbed, and sliced into over and over until she bled out.
My eyes trail down her slim frame, and I swallow roughly, wanting to throw up. Her body is not only covered in deep gashes from a knife. Her, oh my god . . . her thighs are covered in bruises. More precisely, fingerprints. Did he rape her?
I can’t even stomach the thought. Who would do this? I spin around, putting my back to the girl on the floor, trying to control my breathing as it saws in and out rapidly. Nausea swirls in my stomach, and I put a hand over my mouth.
A small whimper comes from the dark corner, and I snap my head in the direction of the sound. How did I not hear the heartbeat or breathing before? Oh, I know. My own heartbeat was thumping so loudly in my chest I couldn’t hear anything over my own ragged breathing.
“Hello?” I call out, slowly stepping away from the body toward the darkened corner of the basement. I can feel my vision slowly sharpening as my eyes adjust to the darkness.
With a deep breath, I take another step toward where I heard the noise. “I won’t hurt you. I’m here to help. The police have been called.”
A shuffling noise comes from the dark, and two soft brown eyes stare back at me from a small, frail face. Bruises cover her arms and legs, and her white blonde hair hangs greasy and limp around her face.
“Help,” she whispers, her small voice raw, as if she has been screaming for hours.
A quiet sob slips from her lips, and I rush forward, my arm wrapping around her shoulders, pulling her into my side as I slide next to her, my back against the wall.
“Shh . . . it’s okay. You're safe now,” I murmur into her hair, my body rocking hers back and forth. It’s something my mother did when I was young. It didn’t matter how old I got, she always rocked me when I was upset. She told me it was a habit, one she got from when we were babies.
I hear sirens in the distance and the girl curls into me, her head resting on my shoulder, crying uncontrollably. My heart breaks for her at what she has been through and witnessed.
Police fill the house with the sound of pounding footsteps in a matter of minutes. I hear them clearing each room and then heading down the stairs into the basement. They shine the torches on us, and the girl huddles closer, burying her head in my chest. I raise my hand, blocking the light from my eyes.
“It’s me, Salena. I called it in,” I call out.
I sense Logan entering the house a moment later, his fury like a tidal wave of energy. He charges down the stairs, pushing past the officers in front of me.
“Put your fucking guns down,” he snarls, stalking toward us.
Stopping a couple of feet away, he slowly squats down, his eyes scanning me and then the young girl, who looks petrified.
His icy blue eyes move back to me, concern shining in the depths. “Are you okay?”
I can see he’s restraining himself, he wants to rip me away and shield me from all this. I nod and he turns his attention to the young girl. “You’re okay now. Can you tell me your name?”
The girl sits up and looks at me. When I nod, her gaze shifts to Logan.
“Katlin,” she whispers, tears escaping her red-rimmed eyes.
I have spent hours in the hospital with Katlin. I’m tired and exhausted, but she asked me to stay, and after everything I’ve seen I didn’t want to leave the poor girl by herself. Katlin is sixteen, and was taken from Colorado Springs three weeks ago while walking to school. Her parents are on the way. They’ll be here by morning, and I’ll stay til then. Right now, Katlin’s going over the description with the sketch artist. I’ve tuned them out completely, watching Logan’s face as he concentrates on what Katlin is saying. He’s a good detective. He cares, he listens, he’s real.
My heart is overflowing with emotion, and I am filled with a comforting warmth. I love this man.
Katlin’s voice breaks and my attention snaps back to hers. I squeeze her hand. “When . . . When I woke up, I was in that basement. He had his hands around my throat. All I remember was trying to scream. His body weight was crushing me into the floor. He– he– he made a movement with his hips pushing against me, and he was hard, he was– he was getting off on it. I tried to fight him off, but I couldn’t. He just laughed at me. I will never forget that sound.” Her hands cover her face. “I thought I was going to die,” she sobs.
I watch helpless as tears stream down her face. I reach up, rubbing soothing circles on her back until she calms down. My gaze drifts over to Logan.
“Sorry to interrupt, but is this your kidnapper, Miss?” the artist says. I look up at the picture he holds, and my stomach drops out from beneath me.
I draw in a sharp breath.No.No fucking way.
My vision pulses around the edges as I stare at what the sketch artist has drawn. This is a dream. A very bad fucking dream. It has to be, right?
Logan straightens from the wall, picking up on my reaction straight away. “You know him?”
My eyes dart up to Katlin’s. “Are you sure?” I ask her, my voice wavering.
