“Flynn, I need you …” Rivera said after I got to the top of the basement stairs with Cohen, the paramedics standing by with a gurney.
I made sure Cohen was comfortable and that he knew where he was being taken and didn’t need anything from me before they wheeled him off.
Then, I finally turned toward my partner.
“Come with me,” he said and began walking back down the steps into the basement, his shoes making a sound each time they landed on the wood.
I didn’t understand.
Forensics had a lot of work to do down there. Pictures had to be taken and processed, samples had to be collected—it was going to take them all night and probably half of tomorrow morning. And they would want us completely cleared out before they started, so entering again was just delaying their work.
“Where are you going?” I asked halfway down the steps.
“Just follow me.”
My stomach fucking dropped at the thought of what he could be showing me.
Two victims, powerless, whose voices had been taken away, whose lives had been tortured and trashed.
I couldn’t stand the thought of finding more.
As I reached the bottom, he led me past Cohen’s cell and through the rest of the hallway. When I’d been down here the first time, I’d assumed it was a dead end. That was because everything—the walls, floor, ceiling—were the same color, masking the dimension, and the lack of light didn’t show that the hallway actually turned, leading to another door on the right.
He stopped several feet before reaching it and faced me. “I had the officer cut off the bolt.”
“Is there anyone in there? Are they alive?”
He shook his head, breathing deeply, loud enough that I heard every exhale. “Damn it, Flynn …”
This was the first time any emotion had shown on his face. I hadn’t seen it when we entered Little’s house or found Mills or even Cohen.
We had been trained to hide our feelings. In our jobs, they could cost us our lives. But my friend was breaking down, and this was the first time I’d ever seen that from him.
“Are you all right, man?” I put my hand on his shoulder, squeezing.
He wiped his face. “Fuck.”
He didn’t say another word for several seconds, and I tried to figure out what had shaken him this badly, how ugly things could be behind that door ahead of me.
“Go look for yourself,” he said, nodding toward it. When I didn’t move, he said, “Please … go.”
I held in my breath as I walked toward the door, pausing before I reached it to get control of myself. Seeing Rivera crack wasn’t something I had been prepared for. This was hard enough, and to keep myself emotionless was even more challenging. But he had put me in a headspace I needed to get out of, so I took the little time I had to set myself straight, and then I turned to the entrance.
An officer was kneeling next to the victim, tending to her while her face was pointed to the floor, hair covering most of it. Her condition and cell were just like the previous two—deplorable, filthy—and her clothes and feet were covered in muck.
I reached into my back pocket, taking out my wallet and opening it to my badge. “I’m Detective Flynn,” I said to the girl. “We’re here to help you, and we’re going to bring you home.”
She gradually looked up at the sound of my voice, her hair parting, her eyes showing through the few greasy strands that stayed.
I took in their size.
The shape of her thin face.
Lips that I could never forget.
There was no mistaking who I was seeing.
I heard myself gasp, reaching for the doorway, needing something steady to hold on to as my heart launched into the back of my throat. A pain shot through my stomach, another inside my chest. My entire body shaking as I whispered, “Pearl …”