Lily beams up at her in the way babies do when their entire world is focused on a single entity, and nothing and no one can take it from them. Sloane holds her in a way that she’s cradled against her, supporting her lower back and her head, and she sings to her while she dances in the middle of the living room.
Lily giggles when she gives them a gentle spin, so light and free. And this continues for at least another twenty minutes, the songs changing, and if the lyrics don’t match the mood, Sloane is quick to change them. I can’t hear it though; it remains in her earphones, and the only clue I get is the words she belts out.
Sloane can’t sing.
But fuck, if I wouldn’t listen to her off key melody any day.
I had plans to look into her attack today, to go through those files with a fine-tooth comb. She deserves peace, and if I can give that to her, then I’ll pay whatever price is necessary.
“I’m going to go head down,” I call to her, hoping she can hear me over whatever music is blaring inside of her ears.
She flicks those pretty eyes to me, “Okay.”
“You okay?” I ask, hesitating to leave.
“Yeah,” She smiles, “I’m okay.”
My eyes bounce between her and my daughter. “Okay.”
She gives me a small, gentle smile, so I turn and leave, heading to the door to the basement. I input the code to unlock the door and step through, letting it close behind me and listen to all the locks re-engage. Once they’re in place, I head down the stairs to the space I have created to be purely my own. A long desk sits against the back wall, with five monitors on top. There are several others mounted behind the desk, showing different feeds, some CCTV I have hacked to keep watch, other databases I am monitoring. Left of the desk is a bar with several different brands of whiskey, ranging from twenty-five year old to one hundred and fifty, and the taps are hooked up to some of the finest lagers and ales from across the world. My favorite happens to be an ale from a small little village brewery situated in the middle of nowhere, England.
It’s far too early right now though to have a drink, so instead, I push the button to start the coffee machine I have down here and make myself a cup.
Hacking into federal databases isn’t something new, I’ve done it plenty, looked into specific cases, got names, faces, files on people of interest. I’m the reason several criminal cases have fallen through. Missing evidence and statements from witnesses. I’ve done a lot for the Farrow Organization.
I bring up the file for Sloane and change her name from Reynolds to Harding with her state and other data, and a whole list of new information comes up.
Twenty-five years old, born March twenty-second, year two thousand.
Born to Sean and Patricia Harding.
I go through her information, noting her siblings’ names and their history, seeing her employment and medical history, which is where I pause.
The attack only happened fifteen months ago, and her injuries were extensive. Broken fingers, as well as contusions to her throat, chest, arms, and legs, and a deep laceration to her left flank with puncture wounds through her torso and back. She was admitted for over two weeks, going in for surgery initially to fix the damage her attacker caused and then again because of an infection.
The police kept in contact with her for only a few months, providing her with nothing but disappointment after disappointment.
Were they even trying?
I hit play on the recording of her emergency call.
“Sloane,”His voice is muffled by a door but clearly audible,“Come on, Sloane. Let me in. It’s just you and me, right? Just you and me.”
Sickness churns in my stomach as the day before comes crashing back. I’d said those exact words to her. It’s just you and me. Fuck! I’d catapulted her right back to that time, where she was trapped and fighting for her life. It’s no fucking wonder she shut down.
“He’s trying to get into my bedroom,”Her voice is shaking, her terror staining every note.“I’ve locked the door, but I don’t think it will hold.”She reels off her information.“Please help me.”
The operator tells her to keep the call engaged, ensures that officers are on the way, but I can hear the struggle in her breaths, can hear the terror.
“He’s going to get in.”She cries,“He’s going to get in. He’s going to kill me.”
“…they’ll be there any minute.”The tinny voice assures her, but I can hear the cracking and splintering of the wood, can hear the determination. Her attacker wants in, and there’s nothing there to stop him.
“I don’t think I have a minute,”She cries into the phone, just as a loud crash sounds through the speaker.
“You little bitch. I told you, Sloane, if I can’t have you, no one can!”
Rage boils inside my veins, freezing me to the spot. I am going to find him. I am going to find him and tear him apart. I won’t make it quick; I will make sure he feels it, piece by piece, for what he did to her.
