Chapter 2 - The Dungeon Beneath the Floorboards
“Speak, Marco,” I commanded, my voice dropping into a register of cold, absolute death.
“Boss... there’s an iron padlock on the heavy storm cellar door behind the pantry,” Marco said, his breathing shallow with disgust over the static line. “The floor is bare concrete covered in moldy blankets. There’s a single bucket for sanitation, no lightbulb, and scratch marks on the bottom of the wood where Leo was clawing to get out. The forensic officers found zip-ties and dried blood on the water pipes.”
My fingers tightened around the phone until the tempered glass cracked under my grip.
The doctor standing beside me, Dr. Julian Hayes, pointed to the secondary luminous scans on the lightbox.
“Look here, Mr. Moretti,” Dr. Hayes said softly. “The fibula on the right leg suffered a spiral fracture approximately four weeks ago. It began knitting incorrectly without a cast. The left clavicle shows a healed stress fracture from two months ago, and there are multiple micro-contusions along his ribcage consistent with repetitive blunt force trauma.”
“And Maya?” I asked, the words tasting like copper and ash.
“Acute malnutrition, severe dehydration, and chemical burns on her wrists from industrial disinfectant,” Dr. Hayes replied. “If Leo hadn’t managed to pry open that rusted basement egress grate and crawl two miles through the drainage culverts with his sister on his back tonight... Maya would have gone into hypovolemic shock by sunrise.”
I looked through the double observation glass into Room 4.
Little Maya was asleep under three warmed blankets, an IV drip restoring her electrolytes, clutching a small plastic dinosaur Leo had given her. In the adjacent bed, Leo lay with his leg immobilized in a temporary pneumatic splint, his eyes fluttering under the sedative, murmuring in his sleep: “Don’t hurt Maya... please don’t lock the door...”
I stepped into the corridor. Four of my private security operators stood at rigid attention along the hallway, their hands resting inside their dark tailored jackets.
“Marco,” I spoke into the phone.
“Yes, Boss?”
“Where is Rebecca?”
May you like
“She isn't at the house,” Marco reported. “Her neighbors say she packed two leather suitcases at six this evening, got into a silver Mercedes driven by a man named Gregory Cole, and left for the high-roller lounge at the Riverfront Club.”
“Lock down every exit of that casino,” I ordered. “She doesn't leave the city.”
