"She's my niece!" Colleen's voice cracks. "I need to be there when—"
"Claudia needs to see a familiar face when you guys get her out of there," I point out, stepping closer to the officer. "She's her family. She's the person she'll want to see. But she's never been down there before, and I know the exact location of that maintenance room. I was just down there."
Colleen whirls on me, eyes wild with panic and desperation. "Then tell me where it is! Just tell me exactly where to go!"
Truth is, I want to be there for Colleen, in case Claudia is in bad shape, in case my friend needs someone to hold her together when she sees what's waiting in that maintenance room.
"You won't be able to find it by yourself. The basement's a complete maze—hallways branch off in every direction, rooms that all look identical." I reach out and grab her trembling hand, squeezing it tight between both of mine.
"Let's all go now."
The officer nods. "Let's move."
I count the team as they assemble. Three officers—two men built like linebackers, the woman who'd been talking to Julian. Two firefighters carrying what looks like heavy-duty tools. Two paramedics with medical bags slung over their shoulders.
Seven people. Plus me and Colleen.
The tallest of the male officers—the one built like he could bench-press a car—steps forward and gestures toward the stairwell with an outstretched arm. "Lead the way," he says, his voice firm but not unkind. There's an urgency underlying his words that matches the adrenaline already flooding my system.
I nod once, sharply, and turn on my heel.
I head toward the basement stairs, my pulse roaring in my ears.
We cluster at the maintenance door. One firefighter steps forward, hefting bolt cutters. The metal lock glints dully under the single fluorescent bulb overhead.
The firefighter positions the bolt cutters carefully, the thick metal blades sliding around the rusted shackle of the lock with a metallic scrape that sets my teeth on edge. He adjusts his grip as he prepares to apply pressure. For a moment, everything goes still—the only sound is Colleen's shallow breathing beside me and the distant hum of machinery somewhere in the building's depths.
Then he bears down hard, and the blades bite into the metal with brutal force. A sharp, resounding crack splits the air, the sound bouncing off the concrete walls and reverberating through the narrow corridor like a gunshot, making me flinch involuntarily.
The lock falls to the concrete floor with a dull clang.
The door swings open, revealing a dank narrow hallway. Emergency lighting casts sickly green shadows on the walls.
"Stay close," the female officer says.
I follow behind them, Colleen's ragged breathing loud beside me. The air grows thicker as we descend—musty, stale, tinged with something sour that makes my throat tighten.
The walls press in. Narrow. Claustrophobic.
I picture Daniel dragging Claudia down these stairs. Did she scream? Fight back? Was she conscious?
My stomach lurches.
Maybe he drugged her. Carried her limp body through this dungeon while she floated somewhere beyond awareness, spared the horror of watching her prison approach step by step.
The alternative—her awake, struggling, seeing exactly where he was taking her—
I can't.
I glance at Colleen. Her face has gone chalk-white, lips pressed into a bloodless line. Her hands shake so violently she shoves them into her jacket pockets.
"Almost there," I whisper.
She doesn't respond.
The dim hallway stretches before us, concrete walls sweating moisture. Exposed pipes run overhead. The fluorescent lights flicker intermittently, casting everything in stuttering frames.
The officers move forward, boots scraping against grit.
