Natalie waited at the bottom of the stairs and listened. Samuel hurried down the hallway. He opened a door. She could hear two voices now—one male, one female. The female was pleading. Samuel was gruff. A short discussion.
Then silence.
A wave of despair crashed over Natalie. The corners of everything were beginning to blur. She waited until Samuel had gone back to his room at the end of the hall and closed the door.
The wooden stairs were narrow and slippery. The treads were worn to a dangerous smoothness. She was desperate not to make a sound. Every creak, every squeak, gave her pause.
She finally made it to the top and faltered on the landing. There were four closed doors to chose from. Samuel’s room was down at the other end of the hall, loud music pounding behind the door.
Natalie had three choices left. She reached for the nearest one. The metal knob had a ding in it. She swung the door open and stepped inside, aiming her gun at the shadows.
The lights were off. The blinds were drawn. She let her eyes adjust to the darkness. A narrow bed. A recliner chair. Faded tulips on the wallpaper. A chipped rocking horse. Everything thick with dust.
Wrong room. She gently closed the door behind her and faced the room across the hall. Her heart had parked itself in her throat. She opened the door and stepped inside.
The lights were on. Bed, bureau, desk. A lamp in one corner cast a pale glow. Natalie shook her head, disgusted by the fetid, cloying odor of the room.
Behind the bed, something stirred on the floor. She moved cautiously into the room. The poor woman was collared to the wall, her head wrapped entirely in duct tape. Mummified, except for a slit for her eyes and a slit for her mouth. She struggled to sit up. She wore a lavender track suit with white geometric patterns. Her bare feet had superficial cuts and sores on them. The wounds didn’t penetrate deeply. The bleeding had slowed, and the blood loss was not enough to cause shock.
“I’m here to help,” Natalie whispered. “You’re going to be okay.”
The victim’s bloodstained hands were splayed across the floor. Her swollen fingers looked like jointed sausages. The leather collar around her neck had left blisters on her skin. There were spots of dried blood on her tracksuit.
The room was chilly. Natalie’s breath steamed ahead of her.
Now the lights flickered. The music was so loud, the floorboards were vibrating to the bass line. Thud, thud, thud.
Natalie knelt down beside the woman and made a quick assessment: She was dehydrated, had a rapid pulse and respirations, but otherwise appeared to be okay. She could survive this. Just as long as Natalie could get them out quickly and safely.
“My name is Natalie,” she said. “I’m going to get you out of here, okay?”
The woman struggled to speak. She attempted to sit up again, but collapsed in pain and muscle weakness. She curled up on the floor and looked at Natalie through the eye slits in the duct tape. Natalie could see her glinting terror and sat on her rising panic. Fear was contagious. Fear could be paralyzing.
“Shh. He’s listening,” the woman hissed. “The Devil can hear you!”
“Bunny?” Natalie breathed. “Is that you?”