HELLO LITTLE GIRL

KAY BRATT

HELLO LITTLE GIRL

A Hart’s Ridge Novel

BOOKS BY KAY BRATT

Hart’s Ridge Series

Hart’s Ridge

Lucy in the Sky

In My Life

Borrowed Time

Instant Karma

Nobody Told Me

Hello Goodbye

Starting Over

Blackbird

Hello Little Girl

So This is Christmas

By the Sea trilogy

True to Me

No Place too Far

Into the Blue

The Tales of the Scavenger’s Daughters series

The Palest Ink

The Scavenger’s Daughters

Tangled Vines

Bitter Winds

Red Skies

Life of Willow duology

Somewhere Beautiful

Where I Belong

Dragonfly Cove Dog series

Pick of the Litter

Collar Me Crazy

Standalone Novels

Wish Me Home

Dancing with the Sun

Silent Tears; A Journey of Hope in a Chinese Orphanage

Chasing China; A Daughter’s Quest for Truth

A Thread Unbroken

Copyright © 2024 by Kay Bratt

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

without the express written permission of the publisher

except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Printed in the United States of America

First Printing, 2024

ISBN 979-8-9879668-7-7

Red Thread Publishing Group

Hartwell, GA 30643

www.kaybratt.com

Cover Design by Elizabeth Mackey Graphic Design

This book is a fictional dramatization that includes one incident inspired by a real event. Facts to support that incident were drawn from a variety of sources, including published materials and interviews, then altered to fit into the fictional story. Otherwise, this book contains fictionalized scenes, composite and representative characters and dialogue, and time compression, all modified for dramatic and narrative purposes. The views and opinions expressed in the book are those of the fictional characters only and do not necessarily reflect or represent the views and opinions held by individuals on which any of the characters are based.

CHAPTER 1

Caleb Grimes felt like ripping off his badge and throwing it at the sheriff. What did it even stand for if, in his greatest moment of need, he wasn’t granted the same resources as the average citizen? It took everything in him to be calm and listen, with respect, as he was told that, for now, they would not have any help from outside agencies to search for his wife, who had been missing over a year now.

“She’s out there, Sheriff,” he said, unable to keep the pleading from his voice. “I just know it. We need helicopters, dogs, and—and ... do we have drones?”

They were still out at the property belonging to Kenneth Addler, but in six hours nothing else had been done, or found. Caleb was antsy to get started searching. Standing around wasn’t getting him any closer to finding his wife.

Sheriff Dawkins sighed heavily, a sound filled with pity. “Slow down, son. Lydia may be out here somewhere, but an earring and some drawings do not prove that. Nor do they prove that she was ever in this house unless we can find certifiable evidence.”

“Are you trying to tell me that we aren’t going to do anything?” Caleb said, nearly exploding with frustration as he gestured toward the huge expanse of wilderness in the distance. “We aren’t going in after her?”

“I didn’t say that. Yes, we’ll search, Grimes. We will, but you need to be patient so we can get set up properly. I’m pulling every bit of manpower I can to get out here. The Gilmer County fire and rescue volunteers are on their way, too. But until forensics comes back with a positive for Lydia’s DNA from this house or property, this is a closed case as far as the big guys are concerned.”

Forensics would take weeks. Time that Lydia might not have.

Sheriff Dawkins continued. “I had a call with Gilmer County Sheriff Mize, and he’s handed the lead off to me until we can come up with some better evidence that Lydia is in these woods somewhere. An earring you think is hers—and some drawings that look like her work—just aren’t enough. Now I suggest we put all the bad news aside and get to work.”

Caleb stomped off, not caring how it looked to the sheriff. It was better to walk away, rather than say what was really on his mind. He couldn’t afford to lose his job. When he brought Lydia home—and he would, damn it—he needed to be able to take care of her.

When he rounded the back of the house, Taylor was coming his way and she stopped directly in his path.

“I got in touch with the supervisor of the search and rescue team we used last year at Amicalola. He’s sending a small group of his best people. They’ll be here shortly and set up a base camp. Most of them are from the original team and already know Lydia’s story. I’ve also called in some favors with a couple more dog teams.”

“That’s great. Thanks,” Caleb said. “I just talked to Penner. He’s putting something together for social media in both Hart’s Ridge and here in this county. There’re hundreds of hikers out here every weekend, and we’ll ask if anyone has seen her on the trails.”

“Whoa. Let’s think that through first. Weaver will be back in the morning and will try to catch up with who saw Norman Addler last. He’s making the rounds to talk to his parents and his colleagues again. But let’s just say that he has Lydia and he’s got her somewhere in these woods. If he sees or hears that we are putting together a search, he might run even further.”

Caleb’s head was spinning with all the different scenarios.

“But someone may have seen them out there. If we don’t make this public, they won’t know to reach out,” he said.

“Let me go talk to Sheriff Mize and see what he says. I think we give it a day of searching quietly, and, if we find nothing, then we put out the press release and go to social media. On the bright side of that, as soon as we release this information, half of our town will be showing up to help. We’ll find her.”

“Okay, I’ll call Penner right now,” Caleb said. He dropped his head into his hands, trying to escape the déjà vu moment. He’d heard this before, and it hadn’t turned out okay.

“Listen, Caleb. You need to stay strong,” Taylor said, putting her hand on his shoulder. “This is going to get tougher, and we need you to pull it together, or Sheriff is going to send you home to sit and wait. You don’t want that.”

He looked up, locking eyes with her. He thought about the drawings on the wall in the basement, and the broken crayons they’d found hidden under the mattress. Imagining his wife held there, just crayons and drawings to bide time with, was breaking him. “You’re right, Taylor. I know. I’m terrified, though. Once word gets out, the girls are going to get their hopes up, too. Lydia’s parents. Her sister. I can’t fail them all again. I just can’t. They can’t take another botched job, and me coming home without her. Neither can I.”

“You need to remember something. The only reason we are here today is because you refused to give up. We’re on to something, Caleb. To everyone else, an earring and those drawings on the wall mean nothing, but you and I both know it’s a big deal. So, stop doubting yourself and start manifesting what it’s going to look like when you hold her in your arms again.”

Tears flooded his eyes and Caleb turned away. She gave his shoulder one more squeeze, then left him to compose himself.

He took a few deep breaths and straightened his shoulders. It wouldn’t look good to the rest of the guys out front if they saw him crying like a baby.

It was four o’clock in the afternoon before the SAR team arrived and set up their ground zero. Now there were three tents with tables, one of them strictly for keeping track of who went in and who came out. Priority was for each person to sign in and out, so they didn’t end up losing anyone else in the span of wilderness.

Another tent was set up with huge paper maps stretched out on three plastic tables, with trails marked and grids already set up to keep the teams organized. Caleb knew it had to be done this way for the best chance of finding Lydia, but it felt like it took forever to get set up, create the first teams, and hand off their parameters.

The third tent held bottled water and granola bars and would be stocked daily to keep the searchers revitalized as they went in and came out.

“We’ve got less than two hours today for the hasty search,” Mira—the Incident Commander—said, her voice loud and clear. “You’ve got your maps and we’ve marked the linear features like the streams and trails for each team to follow. Stay with your team. Don’t wander off course. We’ll get more detailed tomorrow. If you find any clues, your team leader will flag it, take a photo, and leave it in place. Does everyone understand?”

The three teams of searchers nodded simultaneously. One of them held the leash to a German Shepherd who looked raring to go.

“Hike one hour in, then turn around and one hour back,” Mira continued. “Go.”

Caleb watched her, taking in her confidence and the way her people looked up to her, respect in their eyes before they disbursed and began heading into the woods.

Mira had arrived just in time to stop the Gilmer County fire and rescue team from going in and stomping all over her grid, and she’d been fired up enough that Caleb had half expected fire to go shooting from her eyes before the fire chief had agreed, calling his men back.

“She knows her stuff,” Taylor said from beside him. “I’m thinking if anyone gets out of line, she’s going to have no problem kicking their ass back in shape.”

He completely agreed. Mira, with her dark hair pulled back in a strict ponytail, and her camouflage fatigues and black tank top, looked like some kind of bad ass mercenary. He was a little ashamed that, at first, when he found out a woman would oversee the search, he’d been disappointed. However, now he felt lucky to have her, especially after she’d calmly told him that she’d been doing search and rescue for over fifteen years with an over 90% success rate.

He’d try not to think about the other ten percent.

Mira came to where he and Taylor stood under one of the tents.

“I’m not happy about the fact that we won’t be able to get our hands on a helicopter for tomorrow,” she said. “I do have a few drones coming, though.”

He nodded. “That’s good, but the trails are so dense I’m not sure how well the drones will be able to see. I hope you’ve got some talented operators.”

“I’ve got the best,” she said sternly, looking around him at the teams leaving before she went to sit down and look over the maps.

Caleb noticed that she wore a black leather belt, engraved with her name, Elmira. That was a good old fashioned mountain name, and he’d bet that she’d grown up somewhere close. He could see why she’d shortened her name to Mira, something more fitting for her strong personality.

“Mr. Grimes, are you ready to answer some questions?” Mira asked.

She’d asked him to stay put and not go with any teams until the next morning because she wanted to pick his brain about Lydia.

“Yeah, sure, but please call me Caleb. I keep looking around for my dad when you say Mr. Grimes.”

“Guys, I hate to leave,” Taylor interrupted, “but the sheriff said he wants to meet with me in his office before he goes home for the night. Weaver can be reached on his phone, if you need anything from us.”

Caleb wouldn’t need Weaver. He couldn’t stand the man.

“Okay. Thanks, Taylor. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He followed Mira around to the other side of the table and took a chair next to her. It was going to be hard as hell to sit there doing an interview when everyone else was out there looking for his wife, but he’d do whatever Mira wanted him to, if that’s what it took to keep her and her team there.

CHAPTER 2

Taylor pulled into the department's parking lot just as the clock struck five, casting a dim glow over the mostly empty space, save for the skeletal night crew vehicles. Among them, an unfamiliar car caught her eye, parked beside the sheriff's truck.

With a sigh, she shut off her engine and leaned back in her seat, feeling the day's tension seep into her bones. Though her physical exertion had been minimal, the weight of anticipation and uncertainty left her drained. Like Caleb, she yearned to plunge headfirst into action, to scour the wilderness until Lydia was found.

But she knew the importance of methodical investigation, of preserving evidence amidst the urgency. The search team had a methodical process for a reason.

Sending a quick text to Sam, she let him know she’d be home soon, before mustering the energy to step out of her vehicle.

Inside, she made a beeline for the sheriff's office, her mind already racing with questions about the unexpected meeting.

Why Dawkins had to see her tonight was a mystery. Seems that whatever it was could’ve waited until morning, but, according to him, it couldn’t.

Inside, she went straight to his office and peeked her head in.

“Come in, Taylor,” he said, waving her in. “Sit down. I want you to meet Sheriff Comer, from Rango County. About three hours south of us.”

Taylor's curiosity piqued as she entered, her eyes falling on the rotund figure of Sheriff Comer, his red hair and beard adding to his imposing presence.

Rising from his chair, he extended a hand in greeting.

“Hello, Deputy Gray,” he said. “I’ve been hearing a lot of good things about you.”

“Oh—I—thanks.” Compliments made her feel so awkward.

“I know you’re wondering what’s going on,” Sheriff Dawkins said. “And Sheriff Comer is going to explain it to you. Comer, you have the floor.”

He was right. She was baffled at why she was invited to meet the Rango County Sheriff, especially on a day like this one, when all she wanted was to keep her focus on the search for Lydia.

Comer turned his chair, so he was facing Taylor.

“I know you wonder what I’m doing here and what it has to do with you,” he said. “First, let’s go over what I’m doing here. Sheriff Dawkins and I were just talking about an experimental program I’m about to start in my county jail. We’ll be the first in Georgia to take this on, and maybe the first in this side of the country.

He paused dramatically. He was beating around the bush, and Taylor wished he’d just get on with it.

“What we determined is that we must find a medium where we still hold detainees responsible for their own actions yet empower them at the same time. Right now, my jail is on 23 and 1. Because of our shortage of staff, they’re locked down twenty-three hours a day, and, to me, that makes a person that much angrier during the one hour they’re allowed out of their cell.”

Taylor nodded. “I’d have to agree.”

In many places, 23 and 1 was now the norm. Keeping prisoners in their cells was the cheapest answer to the staff shortage in the facilities.

She still didn’t understand what that had to do with her, though.

“My goal is to increase their freedom and hope that a community-driven atmosphere will be created within them. In one week, I plan to unlock the doors of one of my women’s units, twenty-four hours a day.”

He waited on a reply, but she was too shocked to come up with one.

“Sheriff Comer thinks that giving the unit a higher degree of freedom will result in the prisoners taking accountability for their environment and striving to create their own community of rules and behavior-based privileges. There will also be no guards inside the unit,” Dawkins said.

“No guards? No Correctional Officers at all?” Taylor repeated.

Comer shook his head. “No guards inside. I will have some COs stationed outside the unit, but they are only to go in under drastic circumstances. I want to humanize these prisoners and allow natural leaders to emerge. Through their guidance, we hope they can have a positive impact on others in the unit and teach them that their behavior inside and outside of the detention center walls is what dictates their lives and consequences.”

Taylor exchanged a skeptical glance with Sheriff Dawkins, struggling to comprehend the potential ramifications of such a radical departure from traditional incarceration methods.

“I really don’t see how this can be done,” she finally offered. “It sounds like the best circumstance for a riot to happen. Unlocked doors twenty-four-seven and no guards? Why don’t you just do what some other facilities do and let them all in the common area most of the day, then lockdowns in the evening? This is going to be a disaster.”

“Well, it might be,” Comer said. “But I’m ready to give it a try. The system is not working as it is, and the jail has a revolving door for repeat offenders, so what do we have to lose? We need to change the dynamic of what happens in the units, and it’s my opinion that those who do know how to police themselves—and will do so to try to keep the privileges—will teach those who don’t yet have those tools. Once learned, their techniques can be used on the outside to keep them from coming back.”

“I like the idea,” Dawkins said. “I also think you’re brave to try it.”

Comer laughed. “Brave or crazy, not sure which.”

“How many inmates are in that unit?” Taylor asked.

“Thirty-eight as of today,” Comer said.

She whistled lightly, shaking her head. “Thirty-eight female inmates with doors unlocked, and no officers inside,” she said. “I agree with Sheriff Dawkins. You’re mighty brave. When do you plan to start this?”

“In three days. If they do well in the first week, we’ll start to introduce more privileges. I know what behaviors I’ll tolerate and what I won’t. One incident from one inmate can shut down the program on day one or two. They must prove that, as a group, they can do this. If one screws up, they all lose the opportunity, and we’ll go back to 23 and 1 with locked doors.”

“Sounds like you’ve got it all worked out. So, what am I here for?” Taylor asked. “Advice? I’d say to give this some more thought before you pull the trigger.”

“No, you’re not here to give advice,” Sheriff Dawkins said, then nodded at Comer.

“You’re here because we need you on the inside,” Comer said, smiling as he leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his big stomach.

An hour and some later, Taylor pulled up to the gate of the farm and hit the button, grateful for the extra seconds before she’d have to go in and talk to Sam about the offer from Sheriff Comer.

The gate swung open slowly, and she finished the short drive to their house.

That she was nervous was putting it mildly. Just on the rare times that she took jail duty, doing intake or some other random position when needed, Sam was worried that something would happen to her. She had never liked jail duty herself, either. She much preferred patrol, living for the days that she was allowed to do investigation.

And that was exactly what Sheriff Dawkins was betting on. He’d dangled the idea of a promotion shamelessly, leading her along with the carrot of possibility.

“If you take this undercover assignment,” he’d said, “when the next detective position comes open, you’ll be able to put this on your resume and it’ll go a long way in considering you for the spot.”

So, he didn’t exactly promise her, but he was right. Doing undercover work was usually only available to those with experience, or already a detective. The fact that it was being offered to her was a rare windfall.

She cut the motor and climbed out, her heart racing. Time wasn’t on her side. She had to tell them in the morning if she was in or not. Sam wasn’t going to be able to push it off and tell her to think about it more.

He opened the door before she got there and Diesel made a running leap off the porch, then just about knocked her over with his excitement.

“Okay. Okay, boy. I know. Mama’s home. So exciting …”

She bent, rubbing him from his ears to his tail over and over until he calmed.

Sam held his arms out. “I’m so glad you’re home.”

She climbed the steps tiredly and walked into Sam’s safe embrace, instantly feeling protected and loved. God, she hoped he wouldn’t be too angry with her.

He kissed the top of her head and stepped back.

“I’ve kept the lasagna warm for you. Alice insisted.”

They went inside. Lasagna would normally sound delicious after a long day but the butterflies in her stomach weren’t going to allow her to enjoy it.

“Where is she?” Taylor asked, setting her stuff on the new hall tree that Sam had built her. She leaned against the counter, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Bed. She has a biology exam tomorrow. Wanted to be well-rested. I have you all to myself. Be afraid. Very afraid, m’lady.” He raised his eyebrows up and down, teasing her.

Taylor chuckled. He was looking pretty damn good in his white T-shirt and boxers, and if she wasn’t so tired …

But she was. And things were about to get serious. “Not tonight, buddy-boy. Oh, and good for Alice. Most would be staying up until morning, cramming because they hadn’t kept up in class. You know she’ll ace the test.”

“No doubt.” He went to the kitchen and opened the oven, took out the lasagna and set it on the cabinet next to a small plate. When he scooped her some out, he took the plate and a fork to the table, then went to get a glass.

“Did she get to see Honor and Hank?” Taylor asked. She crossed the kitchen and took a seat at the food. He’d given her enough for two people and, when she looked at it, her nervous stomach rolled.

When Sam returned with a glass of iced tea, he sat across from her.

“Yeah, they were here for nearly two hours. Begged to stay. They love playing with the animals here and, of course, getting attention from their big sister. It’s good of their dad to help them keep that bond. He’s really stepped up to be better about everything, honestly.”

“Agree,” she said, picking up her fork.

Before she could take a bite, Sam reached out and gently grabbed her around the wrist, lowering the fork back to the table.

“Put it down,” he said.

She looked up into his eyes. “What?”

“You’ve got something you need to tell me, but I can see that you don’t want to. Let’s get it out so you can eat your dinner, and we can enjoy at least an hour of us-time.”

She let go of the fork and sighed loudly. He knew her too well.

“Well,” she said softly, easing into the conversation, “You’re right. I do have something to talk to you about. You know how much I want to be a detective one day.”

He nodded, a smile creeping across his face. “Wait—did you get promoted?”

“No. I didn’t.”

The smile disappeared. “You’re already doing the job, Taylor. It’s just department politics that you don’t have the title.”

“Yeah, I know. But I’m getting closer, Sam. Something has come up that I think will get me the next opening. It’s an opportunity, of sorts.”

He leaned back in his chair, his brow creases suddenly present. “If it’s an opportunity, why are you so scared to tell me about it?”

“I’m not. It’s just been a long day. I’m tired. I tell you what, can I put this lasagna up and eat it later? Let’s move to the couch and get comfortable.”

He stood and picked up her plate. “I feel like I’m about to be thrown into the lion’s den, but okay.”

She beat him to the couch and picked the corner, sitting cross-legged and grabbing a throw pillow to hug against her waist for emotional support.

“Lay it on me,” Sam said, taking the spot in the middle and reaching for one of her legs. “But let me at least rub your feet while you talk. I know they’re hurting.”

“No, it’s fine,” she lied, keeping her legs tucked under her stiffly. “Sheriff Dawkins asked me to stop in before going home. I just left there.”

“Okay, now I know something is up,” he said. “Today’s a big day with Lydia’s case and he knows you’ve been at it. What did he want that couldn’t wait for tomorrow?”

She felt a rush of guilt. If she took the undercover project, she wasn’t going to be able to help Caleb for a while. “He had a colleague there. Sheriff Comer from Rango County. Comer’s doing an experimental project in his county jail, and they need a female undercover on the inside.”

“What do you mean, on the inside?”

“Posing as an inmate,” she said, then began to lay out the details as were told to her. When she got to the part about no guards inside the pod, Sam held his hand up.

“Wait. No guards in the pod? What happens if a fight breaks out? Or someone tries to kill you? You will be in there with real criminals. Have you thought about that, Taylor?”

“I have. But I’m not planning on going in and making enemies. I’ll be keeping my head low to stay out of trouble.”

He frowned. “You’ve already decided.”

“No, but I have to tell them in the morning if I’ll do it.”

“You’re using language like you’ve made up your mind, Taylor. I know you well enough to know you won’t turn this down, no matter what I say. It’s too tempting for you.” He stood, crossing his arms as he looked down at her. “Why even pretend it’s a discussion and that I have any say in it? It’s a done deal.”

“That’s not fair, Sam. It is not a done deal. I want your input.”

“My input is no,” he said, running his hand through his tousled hair. “I don’t want you to do it. I fully support you pursuing a career as a detective. Especially because you’ll usually be going in after the crime. If you do this experiment, you’ll be going in amidst crimes happening, and nothing you can say will change my mind. I’ll worry myself sick. And Alice, too. What are you going to tell her? You know how scared she is that she’s going to lose one of us now that her mother died so suddenly.”

“She doesn’t have to know. I’ll just say I’m going out of town for a few weeks of training,” she replied. She could feel a line of sweat break out over her lip.

This wasn’t going well.

“So now we’re going to start lying to each other? I thought we decided that our family circle was going to be built on a foundation of truth and trust. A concept that your family struggles with that causes too much drama.”

Taylor jumped to her feet, feeling the blood rush to her head. Her family might be a mess, but she wouldn’t allow anyone else to say it. “Drama? You have no idea what my family has been through. Unlike you, being brought up in a Beaver Cleaver atmosphere, we had real issues that most can only imagine. In my family, trust wasn’t something readily available and truth had to be swept under the rug for us to keep surviving.”

“C’mon, Taylor. Your family aren’t the only humans to ever have tragedy or hard times. You forget, my mom really did die and wasn’t waiting in the background to reappear one day. You had siblings to help you through life without your mom. I only had my dad. How Beaver Cleaver is that? You’re being selfish.”

They faced each other, glaring and both too stubborn to give in. She hadn’t seen Sam this angry since, well—ever. The fact that they were talking about whose family had it the hardest was ridiculous. How had things spun out of control and into a competition of calamity? This wasn’t about her family. Or his.

It was about her career. Her future in law enforcement. Did he want her to stay in patrol forever? Yes, she got it that Sam put up with a lot, knowing every night that there was a possibility she may not come home, and she didn’t like what this would do to him. Or to Alice. She felt guilty as hell about it.

But she had to do this.

This was her chance to show the sheriff what she could do. She loved Sam, but he’d married her knowing that her job was her passion, that it wouldn’t be easy to live life with a partner who was in law enforcement.

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” she said, keeping her tone calm. She didn’t like this side of Sam, but he was right about one thing.

Her mind was made up.

Sam was just going to have to get through this. And hopefully once she was finished with her assignment on the other side and then back in his arms, he’d forgive her for it.

CHAPTER 3

As Taylor sat in the back of the cruiser, her mind raced with a tumult of emotions. The scenery passing by outside the window seemed surreal, the familiar landscapes coming into view while leaving Hart County taking on a new perspective from the confines of the backseat. She was already starting to regret the feeling of being an actor, playing a role to be on the wrong side of the law, of being a criminal instead of the one usually enforcing it. And her word was everything to her. So this was going to have to play out for the next six weeks without that tendency to be brutally honest being in the forefront.

Deputy Johnson had served her a warrant at dawn, as expected.

Taylor was already at the gate waiting and praying that none of her family members would be up early enough to see what was happening. Especially Alice and the other kids.

Her worry for Sam gnawed at her insides like a relentless beast. For the first time in their relationship, they’d gone to bed angry. Well, at least one of them had.

It was so unlike Sam to give her the silent treatment, and he hadn’t woken up to see her off.

Was he just playing possum?

Only Diesel had given her a proper goodbye, and he’d looked worried, picking up the vibes from her that something was off. The guilt at choosing her career over his worries weighed heavy on her, each passing mile only deepening her apprehension and making her feel nauseated.

What if he didn’t forgive her when this was all over?

The deputy driving her remained silent, his stoic demeanor giving away nothing of his thoughts. Taylor couldn't help but wonder if he believed she was truly guilty of whatever crime he thought she had committed. Did he see her as just another criminal to be processed, or did he harbor doubts about the legitimacy of the warrant he was serving?

Sheriff Comer said that only he and his Chief Deputy would know that she was there undercover. Not even the Jail Administrator—the Captain—would be aware. The jail sergeants and correctional officers would also be in the dark.

It made the experiment that much more dangerous.

As they finally arrived at the county detention center, Taylor felt a surge of unease knotting in her stomach. The sight of the intake garage triggered another wave of anxiety. She’d delivered perps to her own intake garage many times. Now she was the one being escorted inside, her hands restrained by the cold metal of the unforgiving handcuffs.

Inside, the first pat down search was about to begin.

“Are you carrying anything that can poke me, stick me, hurt me?”

“No,” Taylor said.

“Drugs or paraphernalia?”

“No.”

“Are you diabetic?”

“No.”

The female deputy handling the procedure was rough and brusque, her movements devoid of any hint of empathy or understanding.

Once that search was over, she was ushered into another room labeled Intake.

“State your name and d o b.” The officer said.

Taylor did so. She’d decided to use Tanya as her first name and Wilkins—her mother’s maiden name—as part of her cover. Sheriff Comer had even arranged for her to have a fake ID to get through processing with.

“Sit in the third row. Don’t talk or get up. Keep your hands to yourself.”

Taylor took her chair, her eyes scanning the room, observing the array of individuals being brought in. Some came in defiant, others resigned, each bearing the weight of their own circumstances in whatever way they could.

An obviously inebriated man was escorted in, his demeanor belligerent as he shouted obscenities at the deputies. “What the hell is this? You got nothing on me, you filthy pigs!” he spat, struggling against the firm grip of the officers.

Taylor was suddenly grateful that she’d landed in patrol after graduating the academy. It looked like a miserable job to have to deal with angry people all day and night. Now she was growing a newfound respect for the uniforms around her. Their patience and tenacity to just work the arrestees through the process as smoothly and quickly as possible was evident. The only time any physical control was used was if an arrestee got out of control.

Another woman, much older, appeared defeated as she shuffled forward, her bloodshot eyes downcast, gazing at her handcuffed hands in front of her. “I didn't mean to,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “I just needed the money ...”

Taylor's heart clenched at the sight of her suffering, an abrupt reminder of the human cost of poverty, as well as of drugs and desperation.

Finally, it was her turn to be led into a private room by a female officer and told to undress completely. This was the part she was dreading the most. The more thorough search was conducted with the same rough efficiency as before, leaving her feeling exposed and vulnerable. She thought of Cate, and how her mother had experienced an initial search like this one, then many more over the years of being caged like an animal for a crime she didn’t commit.

Tears rushed to her eyes.

“Wilkins! Listen up,” the officer called out. “I want you to squat, knees spread, hands together and cough.”

Now that Taylor knew her mother so intimately, and how sensitive and caring she was, the thought of her going through something like this made her want to weep uncontrollably.

She fought to keep it in. The officer was right; she shouldn’t show weakness.

It wasn’t that the strip search was surprising. It was just as degrading for her as she’d imagined it to be for others. The officer didn’t know her from anyone else and, when she felt Taylor wasn’t squatting low enough or coughing as hard as she could, she chewed her up one side and down the other.

But the girl next to her was barely touched by the other female officer that did her search, an inconsistency that Taylor noted to tell the sheriff about. It was probably one of the ways that contraband was getting inside.

When it was over, she was handed a set of yellow jail clothes and a pair of plastic shoes at least two sizes too big.

“Hurry up and dress,” the officer said.

Taylor didn’t need to be told to hurry. She put clothes back on her body as fast as she could. The baggy, dingy yellow pants and shirt were a far cry from the uniform she was accustomed to wearing as a deputy. They were plain and drab, lacking any semblance of dignity or authority. As she changed into the ill-fitting attire, she couldn't help but feel a sense of loss, as if shedding her street clothes was akin to relinquishing a part of her identity.

The scratchy fabric clung uncomfortably to her skin, but, as she slid her feet into the plastic slippers that were at least two sizes too big, she forced herself to steel against her expressions and not to show the discomfort, knowing that any sign of weakness would only serve to undermine her resolve.

Thankful that there were no mirrors to reflect what she looked like now, she was then led to a wall for her mugshot to be taken. She followed the instructions of the officer, her movements stiff with apprehension. The bright flashes of the camera seemed to sear into her soul, capturing her likeness from every angle. Each click of the shutter echoed in the silent room, a blunt reminder of the gravity of her situation.

Comer had sworn that the photos would be destroyed after she was out.

Next was medical clearance. At the booth, she was told to sit down and only speak when asked a question.

“Do you have any medical conditions we should be aware of?” the woman asked, her tone professional but devoid of warmth. “On any prescription medicines or have you taken street drugs in the last 72 hours?”

Taylor shook her head, her jaw clenched with tension. “No.”

The woman eyed her skeptically, as if gauging the veracity of her response. “And do you have any history of mental illness? Any thoughts of self-harm?”

Taylor hesitated for a moment, before finally forcing out a response. “No and no, I don't.”

The woman nodded, jotting down notes on her clipboard.

As she continued her interrogation, Taylor sunk into a feeling of detachment, as if she was watching the scene unfold from a distance. This wasn't her world anymore, she reminded herself. She was just a pawn in a game much larger than herself, a game she had willingly chosen to play in pursuit of her ambitions.

“Alright then,” the uniformed woman said. We'll proceed with the process. Follow me.”

As Taylor was led further into the facility, she couldn't shake the feeling of unease that gripped her. She was a deputy, trained to uphold the law and protect the community. Justice ran through her veins.

Would the inmates be able to immediately sniff out that she wasn’t one of them?

But she couldn't afford to dwell on her doubts now. She had a job that she’d agreed to do, a mission to complete. And no amount of uncertainty or fear could stand in her way.

She was taken back to where she’d started and was instructed to sit back down and wait for further processing. The room was filled with a tense silence, broken only by the occasional shuffle of paperwork or the distant sound of voices echoing down the corridor, or another female inmate being escorted there to sit and wait.

When it was time for her to move to the holding area, Taylor got ready for some serious uncomfortableness. On the women’s side, she was shown to the large concrete room with a bench that ran around the edges. It only had two corners and they were already claimed, so she had nothing to lean on, and nothing to block the frigid air that blew down on them constantly from the vents in the ceiling. She knew the logic behind keeping the holding rooms cold, an attempt to keep the inmates too miserable to fight among themselves, but she’d never wanted a blanket so bad in her life.

A few of the inmates around her were restless, one screaming nonsense for hours, making their time there worse than it had to be.

Another young woman banged on the door repeatedly, until it earned her a seat in the chair, where they wheeled her out and stuck her in a corner, arms and legs restrained and a spit hood on her, punishment for not behaving.

When she was returned two hours later, she was subdued and eerily quiet.

No one talked about their charges, or much of anything else. It was a waiting game, and one played with trepidation and fear of where they’d end up.

When lunch came around, Taylor opened her brown bag to find an apple and a bologna sandwich, the bread dingy white with a coarse texture. She wasn’t hungry enough to try it and gave it and the seemingly valuable mustard pack to the girl next to her.

The girl on her other side also didn’t eat. Her pockmarked face was already pale, looking like a ghost under her bleached platinum hair, but, when the food was passed around and the scent of bologna rose around them, she was back at the toilet, vomiting and gagging.

“Heroin withdrawal,” another girl said. “She’s going to have a rough night.”

A young woman who barely looked old enough to drive leaned in and whispered to Taylor when the officer walked away. “You bringing in anything?” she asked, showing a mouth full of yellowed and rotted teeth. On the streets, they called it Meth Mouth.

“No,” Taylor said, backing away. “I’m not.”

“I got a balloon past them assholes.” She laughed harshly.

Taylor turned her head away. This wasn’t a friendship she wanted to cultivate.

A balloon was drugs being transported inside the body, enclosed in a finger from a plastic glove or something similar. Sometimes actually a tiny balloon. Most likely pushed far up the girl’s vagina or maybe even her hind end. It could be heroin, marijuana, or anything, really.

A whiff of someone’s body odor settled closer to Taylor and she started breathing through her mouth. She’d always been sensitive to smells but now wasn’t the time to show it.

She couldn't shake the feeling of isolation that washed over her. She was surrounded by strangers, each absorbed in their own thoughts and fears. And yet, despite their too-close proximity, she felt utterly alone.

Taylor had heard it said that life without liberty was like a body without a spirit, and she could now attest to that. Twenty-four hours after she was brought handcuffed and shackled into the South Rango Detention Center booking area, given a wristband with her name and prisoner number on it, searched, interviewed, fingerprinted, showered, and dressed in yellow jail clothes and cheap plastic flip flops that were two sizes too big, she was relieved to hear the door open and an officer call her name again to tell her she was finally going to the next area, called Classification.

He called a few other names with hers and they all lined up against the wall, waiting to be told to move forward.

She needed a shower. Not like the cold one she’d had with the lice shampoo, but a real one. Taylor had continued to think of her mother all night. How she must’ve felt when she’d been taken to jail to await her trial. Cate was a mother of four daughters when she was arrested. Taylor wondered if Cate had thought she’d get out of jail before going to prison—if, in those first few hours, someone would realize she was innocent and let her go home to her children.

Cate didn’t know anything about Taylor’s current situation.

Taylor had sworn Sam and Alice to secrecy because her family didn’t need to know. It would only make them worry. Especially Cate. Taylor had already set a story up that she was going to Rango County to help on patrol for a couple of weeks while a few of their officers were on vacation. She hoped that Sam would stick to it, despite being upset with her.

Finally, they were once again paraded into the corridor. Taylor and five other inmates followed the officer to an alcove to get their bed roll, which was like the thinnest yoga mat Taylor had ever seen. With hers came a sheet, blanket, tattered towel, and a roll of toilet paper.

The others also got another package that contained a small bar of soap, shampoo, toothbrush and paste, and deodorant. Also, a pair of socks, bra, granny panties, a big sleeping shirt and four sanitary pads. There wasn’t any left by the time it was Taylor’s turn at the window.

“Where’s my fish kit?” she said. “I didn’t get all my stuff.”

“Cool your jets, Wilkins. We’ll get it to you,” the officer said. “This isn’t the Hilton, and I’m not your concierge. You get it when you get it. Unless you want to spend another night in holding and wait on it?”

She kept her mouth shut.

The next stop was where inmates stayed until they were officially assigned a housing unit, and wasn’t much better than Holding, but at least she had a bed roll and a blanket. Of course, she already knew from another conversation with Sheriff Comer that she would be going to Pod B, but she wasn’t supposed to know that, so she had to just sit it out until they came and got her.

Classification consisted of a huge concrete room with a few tables, the stools welded to the floor, that they called the dayroom. There were rooms placed around the perimeter, only curtains for doors. Stairs led to a second level with two dozen small concrete rooms fitted with metal bunks, a toilet and sink. The first steps inside had them on display to about thirty inmates staring at them from various places. Not a single welcoming word from any of them came, only abrupt commands that their rooms were already full, except for a group of African American girls who invited Jones up to the upper tier and showed her to an empty bunk.

A voice broke through the silence, stern and commanding. “You'll be called for transfer to your pod after it’s logged into the computer,” the officer instructed, her tone leaving no room for argument. “Don’t expect it to happen tonight, and you’ll be lucky if you get assigned early tomorrow. Get comfortable and keep your mouth shut.”

“No bunks available,” one of the inmates called out. “You’re camping.”

Taylor pretended it didn’t bother her a bit to pull a plastic boat—what they called the boat-shaped plastic cots—around and set her mattress and blanket up in it against the wall of the dayroom. The others followed suit, lining their boats up in a row against the wall.

Once that was done, Taylor checked out the dayroom bathroom. There were only two narrow shower stalls, and she grimaced at the hair and grime in the floors of them. The toilets were also filthy, and she hoped it wouldn’t be the same once she was in her pod.

There was no real possibility of sleeping more than a few minutes at a time and, when evening came and she was called out with the two women she’d come in with the previous morning, she breathed a sigh of relief to be leaving.

She stood to gather her things into her bedroll.

“Hurry it up, Wilkins. Look at Lundin, all ready to go,” the officer said, laughing at the first inmate he’d called. She’d jumped up like a jack-in-the-box.

Taylor had heard Lundin say she’d been there two days already. She was in on drug charges and coming down off heroin and she’d curled herself into a ball on the bench, scratching and moaning all night, making all of them ready to shut her up. It was hard not to feel sorry for her. She barely looked old enough to drink, much less to be doing a stint in county.

When they were all ready to go, they were instructed to stay on the yellow painted footprints. “Single file. Follow me. Keep your hands in your pockets and don’t talk,” she said, then began leading them out of the room and into a long corridor.

They followed, their footsteps echoing in the empty space.

Taylor glanced at the others beside her, their faces drawn with varying degrees of resignation and anxiety, one girl who looked angry.

Thankfully, Balloon-Girl wasn’t in their group.

The CO stopped at a door with Pod B written on a placard over it.“Open Pod B,” she said into her walkie-talkie.

The door buzzed and it was opened, and the officer stepped aside, letting them trail in. Lundin was dragging her bedroll and looking extra green.

Once again, all inmates’ eyes were on them, and they were immediately met by cat calls, whistling, and a few insults.

“Okay, ladies. Please give a hearty welcome to your new visitors,” the officer said, her tone heavy with sarcasm.

“Welcome to Stony Lonesome!” a woman called out and then cackled like a witch.

“You’ve got fifteen minutes left before doors are locked. Go find your cell,” the CO said to Taylor’s group, then turned and let herself out, the heavy door slamming shut behind her.

Taylor pulled her shoulders back and held her head straight. She was just a little scared. Okay, maybe a bit more than a little, but she wouldn’t let them sense it. They acted like wild animals stalking their prey and Lundin got testy, shooting some of them the finger as she mouthed off. Even Taylor knew that running your mouth wasn’t a good way to enter the pod, but that was on Lundin. It was too early for her to get involved, especially for someone else.

Her gaze swept over the occupants of the room, taking in the various scenes unfolding before her. Some inmates sat huddled together in whispered conversation, while others paced restlessly back and forth or leaned in a cell’s doorway.

A few inmates were engrossed in solitary activities, like reading or sketching, their faces a mask of concentration.

A woman braided another’s hair in tight cornrows.

There were some mumblings from them, and Taylor heard someone say their room was full. This time she had no plans to sleep on the floor. That was for those who didn’t have the balls to claim a bunk. She carried her bed roll to the first room, peeked in, then moved along, when she saw all bunks taken. She made her way to the second level, her footsteps assertive and steady despite the tumult of emotions swirling within her. As she ascended the stairs, another inmate coming down deliberately shoulder-checked her, nearly causing her to stumble.

Taylor bit her lip, fighting to maintain her composure, refusing to rise to the provocation. It was too early for that.

It took her three more cells, but finally she found one with an open bed.

Two girls were on the bottom bunks, one reading and the other picking at her bare feet. They looked up when she stepped inside and, without asking, Taylor tossed her mattress to the top of the bunk and unrolled it, then put on her sheet and laid her blanket over it neatly.

With that done, she climbed up and settled in. On the wall next to her bunk, names, dates, and love notes were scribbled all over it in a tangle of bad graffiti.

At least she had some reading material for later.

“What’s your name?” the girl from the opposite bottom bunk asked.

Taylor turned and faced her.

The woman was older than Taylor, and the scars on her arms and face told the story of an addict, possibly meth. But she was bright and alert, and you could tell that she’d once been pretty; her expression was welcoming.

“Wilkins,” Taylor said.

“I’m Trina,” she said, then pointed at the other bottom bunk to a girl with dark, stringy hair. “That’s Lyric.”

Taylor nodded. She wanted to be friendly, but not too friendly. Strong, but not too strong. She was going to be balancing a tightwire to not be seen as weak, but also not draw unwanted attention.

Trina jumped up and turned her attention to the bunk over hers. It didn’t have a mattress, and she began pushing items around, then sliding them into straight lines. Judging from the shampoo bottles, snack bags, and other items there, she had her own store. Inmates did that, though it was against the rules, but it was a way for them to earn extra money. Other inmates bought from them on credit, paying back more than the storekeeper paid and landing them a nice profit.

The room had two small, metal shelves affixed to the walls, but small was the key word. One held four rolls of toilet paper, and the other had several books and a pair of sneakers. The room had one desk area, just a metal surface with metal stool attached, and, on the far wall between the bunks, a toilet-sink combo. To brush your teeth, you’d have to stand over the toilet bowl.

A small window offered a sliver of sky from the outside world, but its view was obscured by bars and grime.

“Here’s you some space,” Trina said, turning to smile. “For fish kits and commissary items. We like to keep our room neat and organized.”

“I don’t have anything yet,” Taylor said. She was glad she’d fallen into the right room. She sure didn’t want bunkies who were slobs.

“They didn’t give you supplies?”

Taylor shook her head. “Not yet. I’m sure it’ll come. No big deal.”

“Well, we’ve got you covered on bathroom needs, then. Shampoo, soap, and I’ve got sanitary pads, too. You can put back what you use when your commissary comes in.”

“Thanks. I think I’ll be okay,” Taylor said. Sam had promised to put money into her account first chance he could, but it wouldn’t be available to her for at least a day or two. More if she was unlucky. She’d wait it out though. She didn’t want to borrow anything, because she already knew that nothing in jail or prison was free, and you didn’t want to owe anyone.

Trina looked nice, but that could be deceiving.

The other cellmate, Lyric, had ignored her.

Fine with Taylor. Until she knew the lay of the land, she planned to keep to herself.

“We’re on 23 and 1 right now,” Trina said. “But that doesn’t include fifteen minutes for each chow.”

“Fifteen minutes?” She couldn’t see how anyone could get down there, get their food, and eat in that amount of time.

Then the other twenty-three hours locked behind the door, just a few feet of space in the room to walk? It sounded brutal. Taylor hoped, for their sake, the experiment worked.

“Yep,” Trina said, “and you’d better be in the first half of the line or you’re only getting a bite or two. We go down in stages, so that helps. I’ll give you a five-minute warning if you want to catch a nap. I know coming from Classification is stressful.”

“Yeah, thanks. I think I will knock out for a bit.” She turned to face the wall.

The whole area was so loud with talking, arguing, and doors being slammed heavily through the facility that she probably wouldn’t be able to sleep, but she still wanted to be rested up. Tomorrow would be her first real day beginning her mission, and it was going to take every bit of energy she could muster.

Despite the dismal setting, Taylor felt a flicker of resolve ignite within her. She may be a prisoner now, but this place wouldn’t get to break her spirit. She’d prove to the sheriff— and to Sam—that she could handle herself just fine and complete the mission as directed.

CHAPTER 4

Lydia hastily rolled the sleeping bag and attached it to the bottom of her backpack. This would be their second day of hiking, and she had no idea where they were going, but at least she was being treated like a person, and not an animal on a chain.

That was because of the little girl.

Jill.

The first time that Dom had shoved Lydia in front of the girl, snarling at her that she’d better find some strength and get moving, Jill had burst into tears, and he’d immediately apologized. When she’d complained of being too cold, he’d taken his jacket off and put it around her shoulders, over the thin coat she wore.

Finally, Lydia knew what the man’s weakness was. He didn’t want to look like a monster in front of his daughter. He hadn’t put his hands on her since, and there were no chains in sight. How long that would last, she didn’t know. The mind of a psychopath was never totally predictable, though one thing she’d learned is that they were possessive of their things, or what they deemed as theirs. Offspring could fall into that category.

As luck would have it, Jill had immediately been drawn to Lydia, like a moth to a flame, and wouldn’t go five feet without her.

“I want to call my mom,” she’d said a lot on the first day.

“Don’t worry about it. Your mom said you could come camping,” Dom told her. “I told her we wouldn’t have a signal—not a cell tower for miles—so she’s not expecting us to call.”

“But you didn’t let me tell Grandma and Grandpa goodbye.”

“Because they were sleeping,” Dom said calmly, but Lydia heard an edge to his voice that time.

Jill had shot Lydia a doubting look, but she was a smart little girl and was obviously trying not to anger her father.

Now that it was morning, Lydia was feeling a bit stronger and steady on her legs. It was miraculous what a human could do if they had no other choice.

Jill was struggling with her sleeping bag. Lydia went to her and took the bag and folded it in half lengthwise, then showed the girl how to roll it while keeping it tight, then how to attach it to her backpack.

“Thank you for showing me,” Jill said softly. “I can do it next time.”

“Do mine, Linda,” Dom said.

He was busy, bent over a tiny, portable propane oven he’d brought, and was boiling water in the pot atop it. “Jill, you go around and snuff out our footprints with the tip of your shoe, then take a branch to them. We’re supposed to leave nature as we find it, and no one should ever be able to tell we were here.”

Lydia rolled up his bag. She knew exactly what he was doing. The same thing as when he decided to take them way off trail to make camp the night before. He was running with them and trying to leave no evidence behind.

Jill got up and did as she was told, though visibly grudgingly. She didn’t appear to be as happy about camping as Dom wanted her to be.

The morning Lydia had passed out and woken upstairs in his house seemed so long ago now. She’d been so weak from going with no food or water for so long, and, when she’d opened her eyes to see a little girl standing over her, she’d thought for a second that she was home.

A few blinks later, she’d realized the girl was too young to be Ella.

“Are you okay?” Jill had asked, looking worried.

Lydia looked around the room, taking in the antique bedroom furniture, the old quilt spread over her, and the paintings on the wall.

Where was she? Who was the girl?

“She’s fine,” Dom declared, stomping into the room, and pulling Lydia to her feet. “Just lazy and needs to get up. Aren’t you, Linda?”

Linda? It had taken her a minute to realize he didn’t want the girl to know her real name.

He’d guided Lydia to the bathroom and set her clothing on the counter, telling her to shower quickly.

“Why doesn’t Linda talk?” Jill asked from behind them.

“Because she was born that way,” he answered the girl, his tone stopping further questions as he shut the bathroom door.

Lydia was terrified because she didn’t know what was happening and why she was upstairs, but she was happy to wash her hair and her body.

Before she’d stepped into the shower, she’d seen her reflection in the mirror and jumped back in fright, thinking someone else had come into the room.

A wild woman glared back at her.

Lydia’s hair was so long, and she had the darkest circles around her eyes that she’d ever seen. Her body was so thin that her cheekbones and collarbone protruded unnaturally, causing her to look deathly ill.

She’d aged tremendously and was totally unrecognizable.

With a sob, she’d hurried into the shower, hoping that somehow being clean might bring back some of the woman she’d lost over the last year. As the water poured over her face, she’d suddenly felt Caleb’s presence so strongly around her that, for a minute, she’d worried maybe he’d passed away and his spirit had come to her. Then, just as fast, she pushed that thought away, and had concentrated on completing one thing at a time so that she didn’t get left behind or put back downstairs.

Lydia would do nearly anything if it meant she wouldn’t die in that basement.

She’d barely finished rinsing her hair (thoroughly for the first time in ages) when Dom had beat on the door, telling her to come out. She hurriedly found a rubber band in a drawer and pulled her wet hair back in a ponytail. After applying toothpaste to her finger, she quickly brushed it over her teeth and gums, and rinsed out her mouth.

Then she’d put her mouth under the spigot and drank her fill of cold tap water.

It was heavenly.

He’d pounded again, but she took another few seconds to rummage through the cabinet under the sink, hoping to find some kind of weapon she could use against him.

Nothing.

When she’d emerged from the bathroom, Dom had three backpacks ready, and he’d given her a disposable container of fruit.

“Eat up,” he’d said. “We have to go. You can drink water when we start the hike.”

So much had gone through Lydia’s mind that she’d barely taken in the fact that she was finally getting fruit. She had so many questions, starting with who was the girl?

And where were they going?

He’d herded them outside and to an outbuilding where an ATV four-wheeler was parked. After securing their backpacks to the rack on the front, he climbed onto the machine, then waved at them to get behind him.

Jill had sat between them, her arms tightly around Dom’s middle.

Lydia sat at the back, her body close to the little girl, causing all sorts of memories to fill her head. Her parents had ATVs at their property, and Caleb had driven her and the girls around on them in just the same manner. Days filled with fun and laughter, now like wisps of clouds fading into the past.

When they went through a spot that was a bit barer, she’d seen snippets of the distant skyline and realized she was still in the Blue Ridge Mountains.

But where?

The trails didn’t look familiar to her at all. Not that she’d ever been much of a hiker, but she’d gone to a few spots around Georgia with Caleb.

Dom drove them through the woods for what felt like at least an hour or more, narrowly missing some drop offs and low-hanging branches before stopping at a trailhead where they’d all piled off.

He threw their backpacks to the side, then had taken a few minutes to scout around until he had enough branches to cover the machine, before leading them deeper into the woods where the hike had begun.

As the day had bled into night, the forest transformed into a realm of eerie shadows and whispered secrets. Clouds had gathered like dark sentinels, obscuring the moon and plunging the woods into a blanket of impenetrable darkness, other than the narrow ray of light that Dom shined in front of them.

Lydia's senses had heightened as she’d trudged along the trail, the weight of exhaustion pulling at her limbs with each step.

Jill's pleas to stop, that she was tired, echoed through the silent woods, her voice tinged with fatigue and desperation. But Dom pushed them forward, his determination unwavering in the face of their exhaustion.

With each passing moment, Lydia's already weak muscles screamed in protest, her mind a whirlwind of fear and uncertainty. Once when she was just about to crumple to the ground, she’d looked up and seen a black bird in the sky, circling above them. She wasn’t sure if it was her blackbird, but it gave her another surge of tenacity to keep going.

As night fell, they’d made camp, and Dom passed around trail mix and granola bars, then water before ordering them to their sleeping bags. There would be no fire, he told them, despite Jill’s protests that she was scared.

“If you wander off from here in the dark,” he warned them as he tucked his flashlight into his bag, “a pack of coyotes will smell you from miles away and be on you before daylight.”

Jill pulled her sleeping bag closer to Dom, and he instructed Lydia to lay hers out on the other side of him. She obeyed quickly.

“G’night, Dad. G’night, Linda,” Jill called out.

Soon both Dom and Jill were sleeping.

Lydia had found herself wide awake, her senses alert to the slightest sound or movement. She’d laid in her sleeping bag quietly, her heart pounding in her chest as she listened to the symphony of the night: the rustle of leaves in the breeze, the distant hoot of an owl, the soft padding of unseen creatures moving through the underbrush.

When the clouds finally broke up, she stared up at the canopy of stars overhead, their twinkling lights a stark contrast to the oppressive darkness that surrounded them. It was a magnificent sight she hadn't seen in far too long, a reminder of the world beyond the confines of her captivity, a world she’d thought she might never see again.

But even as she marveled at the beauty of the night sky, a sense of foreboding settled over her like a heavy cloak. The feeling of helplessness seemed to press in on her from all sides, suffocating her with its weight. She knew that, in this wilderness, anything could be lurking in the shadows, waiting to pounce.

Or Dom could be leading her to her grave.

Her mind raced with thoughts of escape, her body tensed and ready to spring into action at the slightest opportunity. But as the hours had dragged on, she’d realized that it was still far too risky.

Though asleep, Dom had dozed lightly, his senses attuned to the slightest disturbance, and Lydia knew she was no match to outrun him in her weakened state.

Then she’d heard the coyotes baying in the not-so-far distance.

And so, with a heavy heart and weary limbs, Lydia had succumbed to exhaustion, her eyes closing against the relentless darkness. She’d dropped into a fitful sleep, her dreams haunted by the specter of captivity and the desperate longing for freedom.

Morning came far too soon, and Lydia had jumped when Dom leaned over her and ordered her to get up. She hadn’t known where she was for a split second. Far too soon, she’d remembered that she was still captive.

He’d gone back to tending to a tiny propane stove he’d set up.

“It’s ready,” he said now, taking the pot off the small fire, then pouring water from it into a pouch. He shook it and set it down. “Jill, wait about ten minutes and then eat this.”

“What about Linda?” she asked. “She’s weak and needs to eat, too.”

A flicker of anger crossed his face before he hid it.

“I’ll save her some of mine,” he said, pouring water into another pouch.

“No,” Jill said. “If Linda can’t have her own, I’ll share mine.”

Dom cursed under his breath, but, after he zipped the pouch, he handed it to Lydia then pulled another from his bag for himself.

Lydia’s mouth was watering. Even if it was one of those ready-made meals they use in the military, it already smelled better than anything she’d been eating lately. The fruit he’d given her was long gone from her system and she was shaking with hunger. Their hike had burned precious calories that she hadn’t had to give.

She shook the pouch gently, then opened it and peeked in.

Dom threw a plastic spoon at her. “Don’t lose it. I won’t give you another.”

With her first bite, Lydia nearly closed her eyes in ecstasy. It was so good.

Jill picked her pouch up and read the label. “This has bell pepper and onions in it, Dad. I won’t like it.”

It felt surreal to hear a child call him Dad. And Jill was awkward with Dom. It didn’t appear as though they spent much time together.

“Eat the potatoes in it,” Dom said. “And the sausage and eggs. We don’t waste food out here, and you’re going to need your strength to reach the next camp site.”

She gingerly took a bite and instantly looked disgusted.

“I don’t want to hear another word about it,” Dom said. “Don’t be expecting all that garbage like McDonald’s and crap that you probably get.”

“Mama doesn’t let me eat fast food.”

“Shut up and eat.”

He was no longer coddling his daughter.

That made Lydia fear for the girl’s safety.

They all ate in silence, a pout already forming on Jill’s face alongside the grimace of disgust with each bite. Dom didn’t appear to have much practice in how to get what he wanted from his child. He obviously didn’t know the meaning of negotiating.

When they were done, Dom gathered up their open pouches and put them in his backpack. He looked around the area they’d camped, nodding in satisfaction that nothing was left behind.

“Let’s go,” he said, pointing the way in front of him. “Keep north. Just like last night, I’ll bring up the rear. Get ready to move fast. I’ll drag you two if I must, so keep up.”

CHAPTER 5

The morning sun filtered through the dense canopy above, casting dappled shadows across the forest floor. The air was cool and crisp, making Lydia thankful for the long-sleeved shirt that Dom had provided for her over her T-shirt.

Behind her, Jill moved with the energy of youth, her footsteps crunching lightly on the forest trail as she followed Lydia's lead. The earth beneath their feet was soft and springy, padded with layers of fallen leaves and moss that released a fresh, earthy aroma with each step.

“Are we going to make real camp tonight?” Jill asked Dom.

“You have to wait and see,” he said, his tone a bit lighter now.

Lydia felt fear sneak up her spine and she pushed it back. Though the rough texture of the trail grounded her beneath her boots, the uneven terrain challenged her balance as they made their way deeper into the woods.

As they walked, the sounds of the forest enveloped them in a symphony of life. Birds chirped and trilled in the treetops, their melodies echoing through the canopy like a chorus of tiny voices. The gentle rustle of leaves overhead whispered secrets of the wind, while the occasional crackle of twigs underfoot and the occasional scampering through the leaves hinted at hidden creatures moving through the underbrush.

But it wasn't just the sounds of the forest that surrounded them. The air itself seemed alive with a symphony of scents, each one a tantalizing invitation to explore further. The sweet fragrance of wildflowers mingled with the pungent aroma of pine sap, while the damp earth exuded a rich, musky smell.

Caleb would’ve loved this hike. If only they could have one more adventure together. Yet, despite her circumstances, Lydia couldn't help but appreciate the beauty of their surroundings. The trees towered overhead, their branches reaching toward the sky like the outstretched arms of ancient sentinels, while delicate ferns and wildflowers carpeted the forest floor in a tapestry of vibrant colors.

But it wasn't just the sights and sounds of the forest that captivated Lydia's senses. The air itself seemed charged with an electric energy, pulsing with the rhythm of life that surrounded them. She could feel the gentle caress of the breeze against her skin, the cool touch of the forest air invigorating her senses with each breath, breathing strength into her body.

She prayed fervently.

God give me everything you can so I can make my escape.

The undercurrent of unease lingered beneath the surface, but Lydia couldn't help but feel a sense of peace and freedom as they walked. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, she was surrounded by beauty and raw life, with nothing but the miracle of nature stretching out before her.

And as they disappeared into the heart of the forest, Lydia also couldn't help but feel grateful for the unexpected companionship of a brave little girl named Jill, whose presence alone brought light into her life amidst the shadows that Dom had built around her.

They continued along a marked trail for at least another hour when Dom heard something and held his hand up for them to stop and, with a finger to his lips, urged them to be quiet.

Someone was whistling as they walked and, by the sounds of it, was coming straight at them. Lydia’s heart pounded, her pulse suddenly racing like a dozen horses at the races. Maybe it was someone searching for her. This could be her chance!

Dom turned to her, locking gazes. His was panicked.

“Get into the brush and don’t make a sound,” he whispered. Then he grabbed her head and pulled it close to his mouth, straining her neck painfully as he hissed into her ear. “Don’t even think about running. I’ll catch you, and it won’t just be you paying for it if you do. Jill will, too.”

Jill looked up at them, her expression questioning.

“It’s okay, Jill. Linda has to go to the bathroom. Don’t you, Linda?” he said.

When he gave her a slight push, she crept off the trail and settled behind a large tree, sinking down to a crouching position.

The heavy footsteps kept coming.

“C’mere, honey,” Dom said to Jill, his words laden with fake sincerity. “Your shoe is untied.”

Lydia peeked around to see him kneeling in front of his daughter. Then she caught sight of a snippet of blue coming from round the bend and she ducked her head back again.

“Hello there,” a deep voice said.

“Oh, hi, yourself,” Dom said, sounding surprised. “Sorry, let us get out of your way.”

“You’re fine,” the man said. “Nice to see another face on the trail. Or two faces, in your case.”

Dom sounded cheerful when he spoke next. “Same. Where’d you come from? I didn’t expect to see anyone out this far.”

Lydia couldn’t resist a peek. This time she looked from the other side of the tree, and she saw the backside of a young man, maybe in his late twenties or early thirties, carrying a large backpack. He wore a red ballcap that matched the chunky red paracord bracelet on his wrist.

Dom stood between the hiker and Jill, who he held back with his arm, partially concealing her from the young man.

“I hiked in from that low spot about five miles south,” the man said, looking around and pointing. “It’s been a great day to be out here.”

Lydia hid herself again.

“Yep, it’s nice,” Dom said. “If you keep going, a few miles that way is a great spot to make camp. Quick access to water and tucked away from the main trail.”

Lydia’s thoughts spun out of control. What should she do? Take this chance to run? Scream that she was abducted?

With all the options, suddenly she was paralyzed with fear.

“Thanks. I’ll do that. This is my first hike here,” the man said. “I usually stick around home, but Georgia has so many beautiful trails to offer. This area has been on my bucket list awhile.”

“Where’s home?” Dom asked.

“North Carolina. Small town called Dillsboro, near Asheville.”

Lydia searched the woods in front of her. There wasn’t a trail, only dense brush. It would be hard to run through it, especially on legs that weren’t yet recovered from her unintentional fasting.

“I know that place,” Dom replied. “On the Tuckasegee River. Old railroad town, right?”

“Yeah, that’s it. Just a tiny spot on the map. Nothing to brag about. What about you?”

“Florida Keys,” Dom said, the lie rolling off his tongue like a professional. “Great to be here in the cool mountains for a bit.”

“I hear that,” the man said. “You all been out here a while?”

If she screamed out, what would Dom do? She swallowed hard, preparing herself. She hadn’t spoken in so long. Could she even make a sound that wouldn’t sound like a bullfrog croak?

Fear paralyzed her.

“Just day two for us,” Dom said. “Going to pack it in soon. My daughter here doesn’t like to camp too long. Two nights is her max. On that note, we need to get going. Got to get our hiking in before she gets her afternoon sleepiness.”

“No, we can’t leave Linda,” Jill said, her voice high with alarm.

The hiker looked around, startled.

Everyone paused, then Dom chuckled. “I—um … she means my wife. Didn’t want to embarrass the missus by saying she stepped off the trail to relieve herself. You know how women are.”

Lydia didn’t dare chance another peek, and it felt like ages before the young man replied.

“Oh. Yeah, I know. Well, y’all be careful and have a good day.” With that, he continued going the direction they’d all come from that morning.

Lydia didn’t move a muscle. She knew from experience that Dom was going to be angry that Jill had spoken out. He didn’t like for things not to go his way, or to spiral out of control. She was worried about how he’d handle the impromptu interruption of their hike by a stranger, and Jill’s outburst.

And had the hiker sensed something wasn’t right? Would he sound the alarm to someone to come check them out further?

Lydia could only hope.

Dom waited at least five more minutes before speaking.

Five agonizing minutes. Her leg muscles felt as though they would burst as she perched behind the tree, awaiting his instructions. She was furious at herself for losing her chance to run, or to say something. Her body had betrayed her, unable to move or make a sound, her fear forcing her to continue to be a captive.

You are such a failure, she told herself.

As she waited, she could hear him talking to Jill about not speaking unless she’s spoken to when others are around.

“Have you ever heard of the three-strike rule?” he asked.

“No,” Jill said, her voice sounding teary.

“You already complained about breakfast. Then you spoke out of turn when a stranger was talking to me. That’s twice now that you’ve been bad. The next time will be your third strike and I’ll have to punish you.”

Lydia’s stomach dropped at his words. What would he do to his own daughter?

“Now,” he continued. “The only response I want to hear from you is yes, sir.”

There was a long pause before, thankfully, Lydia heard Jill’s small voice.

“Yes, sir.”

“Okay, then,” Dom said, sounding triumphant that he’d won. “Linda, time to come out. We have some miles to make up.”

Carefully, so that her legs wouldn’t give way, Lydia used the tree as support to stand. When she stepped out from behind it, Dom was staring at her, an evil grimace plastered on his face.

“Get your ass over here,” he ordered. “I knew I should’ve left you in the basement.”

CHAPTER 6

It took forever for morning to come but, finally, Caleb stood amidst the bustling activity of the basecamp. He hadn’t gone home, choosing to sleep as much as he could in the uncomfortable space of his truck cab. Blair was taking care of keeping the girls on schedule, and Caleb had told her the latest, but he’d ended their last phone conversation a bit abruptly.

Blair’s reaction to the news that they had another lead on Lydia was a bit disgusting.

She’d really gotten under his skin when she’d stated she thought they were on a wild goose chase, and it was time to stop the madness and accept the truth.

How could she not believe him? He’d told her of the drawings. The earring. All of it, but she said it would take a positive DNA match from the house before she’d believe that Lydia had been there.

Hopefully Grace and Ella hadn’t caught wind of the latest. Word was getting out somehow, and many of the townspeople had stopped in, either to be nosy, or to be of actual help.

Throughout the last few hours, more volunteers had arrived, each bringing with them a flicker of hope. Caleb watched as they set up tents and tables, their faces lined with determination, but most of them avoiding him, as though his desperation to find Lydia was too heavy for them to handle in proximity.

There were some, though, who spoke to him. Della Ray and Faire Tinsley came together, and they already had a table lined with wrapped ham biscuits and cups of steaming coffee ready.

Corbin Eastwood had come and offered to bring his tour bus for sleeping and showering, but Caleb declined. It was nice of him, but that was a big ask.

But amidst the flurry of activity of people arriving, Caleb hadn’t seen Taylor. She had promised to return in the morning, yet there was no sign of her. She wasn’t answering his texts either.

When Sheriff Dawkins arrived, Caleb approached him.

“Morning, Sheriff. Any word from Taylor? She said she'd be here and she’s not in communication, either.”

Sheriff Dawkins shook his head solemnly. “I'm afraid she's been called away to assist with an emergency in another town nearby. She won’t be coming.”

“Really? That’s strange,” he said. “I can’t believe she didn’t tell me. I talked to her last night before she left here.”

“Sorry, it’s something confidential. She can’t talk about it,” Sheriff said.

Caleb's heart sank, but he pushed aside his disappointment, knowing that their priority was finding Lydia and, though having Taylor for emotional support would’ve been ideal, they would have to continue without her.

“Okay. Any news on Addler?”

“Not much. Only that he hasn’t returned to work, nor his apartment.”

As the morning progressed, more volunteers arrived, including two search dog teams. The first team, led by a seasoned handler named Jack, consisted of a German Shepherd named Max and a Labrador Retriever named Luna. The second team, led by a woman named Sarah, boasted a Border Collie named Scout and a Bloodhound named Ace.

The dogs were anxious to get started, judging by the excited quivering and panting dance they were performing.

With the search teams assembled, Mira, the Incident Commander, wasted no time in laying out the plan for the day's search. Her voice carried authority as she confidently outlined the strategy, her eyes alight with determination.

“Alright, everyone listen up!” Mira called out, her voice cutting through the morning air. The sheriff stood somberly beside her. “Today the dog teams will go first. Let’s pray they pick up a scent. If not, teams one and two will go in next and head north, while teams three and four will head south. I’ve given everyone their parameters. Let's be sure to move quickly and efficiently. We'll reconvene here at noon for a debriefing.”

Caleb watched as the two dog teams dispersed into the woods, their footsteps muffled by the soft forest floor, their eager barks echoing through the trees as they sniffed for any sign of Lydia's scent.

Waiting was going to be excruciating.

He turned and went to the tent where Mira was bent over the huge map she’d spread out on a table.

“Thanks so much for being here,” Caleb said. “Can I get you some coffee? A biscuit?”

She shook her head. “Weaver is already on that task and here he comes.”

Caleb turned to see Shane swaggering their way, his hands full with cups and biscuits. He looked too neat to be involved in a search, his tight, black slacks and black T-shirt perfectly wrinkle free. But at least he was wearing boots. The only bit of color on him was coming from the shine of his badge on a lanyard around his neck.

Something about him just grated on Caleb’s nerves. Too arrogant, for one thing. And he always seemed to be holding a secret, in his efforts to come off as mysterious.

Caleb wished again that Taylor was there. She made a good buffer between him and the others and had a way of keeping Caleb from escalating into desperation.

“Morning, Grimes,” Shane called out. “Good news. I’ve secured a high-powered drone and pilot for this afternoon. A professional. He’ll be able to get lower than a helicopter and weave in and out of trees to look for any sign of them.”

“Thanks, man,” Caleb said. “I appreciate you.”

Shane handed off one cup and a biscuit to Mira then tried to give Caleb the others.

“No, I’ll go get my own,” Caleb said. “I’m going to need more than that small cup of coffee after the night I had last night. I have a mug in my truck. I’ll be back shortly.”

He wandered off from them, not missing the raised eyebrows that Shane shot Mira over his head. Shane would never be heavy on empathy.

Caleb had barely slept, thinking that Lydia might be close enough to even hear him. He’d wanted to rush into the dark line of forest, and keep searching until he found her, but he also knew that he’d trample any evidence that could help them.

He opened the door to his truck and climbed into the seat, leaning over the steering wheel, grasping it tight to his chest as he gazed out, thinking of her.

“Damn it, Lydia,” he whispered. “Just give me something. We need to know if we’re on the right track here. Send me a sign, baby.”

Nothing came to him.

The sound of a vehicle pulling up beside him pulled him from his concentration. He looked and saw Sam wave at him.

Caleb grabbed his mug and got out of the truck, slamming the door behind him as he approached Sam’s truck.

Sam stepped out. “Hi, Caleb.

“Sam, what’s going on?”

Sam smiled sympathetically. “Taylor can’t be here so I’m filling in.”

CHAPTER 7

At five-thirty the morning of Taylor’s second day in jail, the guard came around and pecked on their window for headcount and she sat up in her bunk. She’d slept fitfully, her mind still reeling from the events of her first day behind bars and thoughts about what was to come.

She’d dreamed of Sam.

They’d been in a long, dark tunnel, and she was trying to catch up to him as he ran, ignoring her cries. Along the tunnel were rats scurrying around, and terrifying shadows behind her, getting closer with each second.

She didn’t need a therapist to analyze that one. Because of the dream, the lack of sleep, and her sore body, she felt grouchier than she’d ever been in her life, or at least for as long as she could remember. The last time she’d been awake all night was back in her high school days, when Lucy was giving her trouble sneaking out, and not coming home until the wee hours. Her back was killing her from the thin piece of mattress that basically after a few hours felt like she was stretched out on the metal beneath instead of the cover.

No pillow, and her neck ached.

She was a trainwreck.

“Breakfast in five,” Trina said as she stood up and stretched, then rubbed at her eyes.

Taylor slid off her bunk. She was dressed since she’d had to wear her clothes to bed. No one had come with her supplies, so, along with being exhausted and sore, she felt dirty.

“Hey, I’ll take you up on that toothbrush and paste,” she said to Trina.

Trina handed her a pink brush and her tube of paste. The brush was no more than two inches, with a rounded end for safety. It was a necessary design. Inmates would use anything they could get their hands on to make a shank.

Taylor took the brush and paste and, when the buzzer sounded unlocking their door, she went downstairs to the dayroom bathroom, skipping the tray line. She still hadn’t even peed in front of her bunkies, and it was going to take her a little more time to get that cozy.

There were a few others in the bathroom, but she didn’t make eye contact. She did her business, washed her hands, then brushed her teeth. Using water, she smoothed her hair down as much as she could, then went out to the dayroom and sat at a table.

Pod B had turned out to be a circus after their evening lockdown. Laughing, screaming, dancing in their cells—even a short fight had broken out over a toothbrush, of all things. Taylor could smell something burning at one point, and the smoke stung her throat and solidified Sheriff Comer’s suspicion that there were drugs in the pod.

The night shift CO had only checked on the pod once, about three o’clock, and, after a quick scolding, was gone, not to be seen again for the rest of the night. The partiers immediately picked up where they had left off.

Lyric somehow slept through it all.

Trina had stayed in her bunk, talking Taylor through the logistics of what was going on. According to her, a big girl named April was the unofficial pod boss, she said, and her cell was the loudest.

More inmates started filing into the dayroom now, but they mostly got in line at the door for breakfast.

When Trina and Lyric came down, Trina tapped her on the back. “If you’re hungry, you’d better queue up,” she said. “You gonna stay hungry if you don’t.”

Taylor joined them. After skipping lunch and dinner the day before, she was starving.

When it was finally their turn at the trolley, she was handed a brown tray.

“Come on,” Trina said. “You can sit with us today.”

Taylor followed her to a table.

The breakfast looked less than appetizing. A piece of burnt toast, a hard-boiled egg, and watery grits.

“This is it?” she asked, poking at the egg.

“Sometimes we have oatmeal and a biscuit with jelly,” Trina said. “Just depends on the day.”

Lyric still hadn’t spoken. In a way, she pulled at Taylor’s heart. Lyric ate her food with her dark hair hanging around her face like a curtain, shielding her eyes from having to look at anyone. She wasn’t a big person, but she looked tough enough that she could hold her own in a fight. It was obvious that, other than Trina, she was a loner.

Trina was the talker. As they ate, she fed Taylor bits of gossip about the women milling about. Who was dating who, which of them were there on violent crimes, and who to avoid.

She very discreetly pointed out the so-called pod boss, April, a woman who strode around the room like she owned it. She was a big woman and looked Puerto Rican or possibly Dominican, but when Taylor spotted the big tattoo of a coqui tree frog on her arm, she had her answer. The coqui was Puerto Rico’s national animal.

“She used to be a professional boxer and mixed martial champion,” Trina said. “She has a girlfriend in here named Crystal and you don’t want to get talking to her or even looking at her. I don’t see her right now but she’s a tiny, dark-haired girl with a dragonfly tattoo on her neck.”

It was information overload and Taylor did her best to try to catalog the details in her mind but was probably going to lose most of it.

Lyric finished her meal and stood, took her tray and dumped it off, then went back up the stairs, having yet to say a word to anyone.

“What’s up with her?” Taylor asked.

“Trays up,” the CO shouted, and everyone stood and left to go, dropping their trays as they went.

Trina shrugged as she got up from the table. “She’s harmless. She puts on a tough front because she don’t want no one messing with her.”

“What’s her charges?”

Trina lowered her head and whispered. “Domestic assault, assault of an officer, resisting arrest, and I think a parole violation. A few more but I can’t remember.”

“Damn,” Taylor said. “That’s not harmless, Trina.”

Trina giggled. “I guess not. But she don’t give me no trouble. If I give her space and don’t try to talk to her too much, I mean.”

Now Taylor could understand why Trina had talked most of the night. She had a lot of conversation pent up by having an introvert for a cellie.

“What’re you here for, Wilkins?” Trina asked when Taylor joined her in the line to drop off the trays.

Taylor had practiced her cover story over and over but still felt nervous. She wasn’t good at lying. “Possession with the intent to deliver on count I, possession of a firearm in furtherance of a drug trafficking offense on count II.”

Trina looked astonished. “No shit? You don’t look like a drug dealer.”

“What is a drug dealer supposed to look like? Anyway, I’m not your average street thug. I’m in the upper league, girl. This is my first arrest, too. I’d still be out there if not for a snitch trying to reduce his prison time.”

“Did you bring anything in?” Trina asked.

“Nope. Like I said, I’m in the upper league. I’m not stupid enough to cop a charge on bringing a few balloons into jail. What’s your charge?”

Trina looked uncomfortable and fidgeted in her seat, glancing around.

“Come on,” Taylor said. “I told you mine.”

She sighed. “Okay. Please don’t laugh. An undercover officer offered me ten bucks to use my phone. She called a drug dealer. Soon as I took the money, they flocked around and arrested me for conspiracy because I accepted money to set up a drug transaction.”

“Wow. That’s screwed up,” Taylor said. “Why would I laugh?”

Trina looked around again. “You’re new. You’re a fish. But for me, if they knew what I was here for, they’d call me a guppy. We got some serious bitches up in here.”

Taylor had lucked out. Trina was going to be great to help her catch up on intel quickly, so that the real work could begin.

It was afternoon, between the lunch and dinner hour, when Taylor sat among her fellow inmates in the common area, her heart pounding with anticipation as Sheriff Comer and his captain entered the pod.

A CO had opened their doors and ordered them all downstairs, and the presence of higher-ups brought a hush over the room, the air thick with tension.

“We're thinking about trying a new experiment in this jail,” the sheriff announced, his voice carrying authority and a hint of skepticism. “An experiment that will result in more freedom for each of you, starting in this pod. And I can tell you now, the vote among my supervisors is that, if we proceed with it, you will fail.”

A murmur of groans and mutters rippled through the inmates, their expressions ranging from anger to curiosity.

Taylor scanned the faces around her, realizing that they had no idea what they were about to be presented with, or what they were about to become a part of.

It was going to blow their minds.

Comer continued, his gaze sweeping over the assembled inmates. “Most of you are here waiting to go to trial. We've got inmates in here for robberies, battery, and even homicide.”

Taylor's nerves jangled at the mention of homicide, a reminder of how fast she might come to harm if found out.

“Some of you have been to trial and you've been sentenced. You’re just waiting for transfers to happen,” the sheriff went on, his tone measured. “Your time here does not have to be so miserable.”

A scoff erupted from one of the inmates, but the sheriff ignored it, pressing on with his message. “We’ve come to determine that excessive lockdown results in negative behavior,” he explained. “Tension builds up being locked in your cell for so long, and then, when you walk out, you're full of that bad energy and conflict is immediate.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” someone from the back called out.

The inmates nodded in agreement, some calling out examples of the tensions that had boiled over in the past. Taylor listened intently, her mind racing.

The Captain called them down, his tone angry as he held his hands up for them to be quiet.

The sheriff continued. “This week, I plan to unlock all the doors and give you a chance to act as a community,” the sheriff announced. “All COs will be removed. None inside the pod for the program duration trial period of six weeks.”

His words were met with a mixture of cheers and disbelief from the inmates. One woman slammed her chair up and down, her excitement palpable.

But the captain held his hands in the air, his grim expression calming them again. He warned them to sit down and shut up.

“I’ll be honest,” Sheriff Comer said when they’d quieted again, “Captain here is totally against this program.”

More groans.

“But I think that this unique experience just might be what we need here. But it’ll require you all to act like people, and not criminals. You’ll have to find a way to come together like a community. To help each other, to help yourselves. The program will last six weeks and, honestly, I believe in you.”

Taylor jumped when girls from the younger group against the wall exploded with cheers. Contrarily, she saw some of the older ladies shaking their heads, as though in warning.

“And if you do well in the first week, you’ll earn additional privileges,” he said.

“Like what?” Garcia asked.

“You’ll just have to wait and see. Now, the captain will take the floor with your next instructions.”

The Captain stepped forward and the atmosphere went from celebratory to dismal. Taylor could see that the inmates weren’t fond of the sheriff’s right-hand man.

“Go to your cells and stand outside the doors,” Captain yelled. “Hands in pockets, nose to the wall. No talking.”

Shakedown …

The word moved through the women, and the atmosphere changed to one filled with panic. As the inmates grudgingly obeyed, lining up against their cell doors with their hands in their pockets, tension hung heavy in the air. And then, with startling suddenness, the doors burst open, sounding like a bomb, and the riot team stormed in, single file, fully geared, and ready for action. They held their shields out as though fighting off a pack of lions.

Fear erupted among the inmates lined up outside their cell doors, heads pressed against the cold concrete as first they were given body searches, then their rooms torn apart.

Taylor was quiet as she held her hands against the wall and watched everything unfold.

Before they reached her cell, one of her bunkies dashed inside and flushed something down the toilet, a move that escaped the notice of the observing officers.

When the riot team finally reached their cell, a male CO pushed on her roughly, using his feet to kick her feet further apart. She turned slightly to see his nametag.

Freeman.

“Spread ‘em, Fish,” he said, his sour breath hot on the back of her neck.

His creepy factor was at the top of the gauge and, beneath his armor, the smell of rancid body odor escaped in bursts as he moved around. He was overly touchy-feely as he searched her for contraband, his hand lingering too high and too long between her thighs. It took everything in her not to grab his arm, jerk him around and throw him to the floor, a chokehold around his fat neck as she instantly took away the small bit of power he was so enthralled with.

As he invaded her personal space with glee, Taylor breathed deep and took her thoughts to Sam, and his gentleness. God, how she missed the feeling of safety that came with him whenever they were together.

Then she thought of Alice, and again hoped they wouldn’t stay mad at her for long.

Diesel came to mind. The guard would lose a few fingers if her dog was there, Taylor knew. Her good boy was loyal. Protective.

Perfect.

Despite the inner chaos rolling within her, she remained composed, knowing this was just part of her undercover work and that the shakedown was necessary to minimize the risks before the start of the program.

“Maybe you and I need to get to know each other better,” he hissed into her ear, and she couldn’t help it this time; she visibly recoiled, making him chuckle.

He finally left her alone and she watched as the riot team uncovered dice, homemade board games, and hooch hidden among the inmates' belongings. They tossed it all out into the hall that ran in front of the cells.

Gambling wasn’t allowed, and there were going to be a lot of bored women when the shakedown was done.

But it was the discovery of a shank in a cell on the top floor that sent a cheer through the riot team, then a buzz through the inmates. One of the inmates outside the cell was handcuffed and guided down the stairs and out of the pod.

The team got more aggressive with their searches, tossing mattresses, food, magazines, and just about everything into the middle of the cells or out the doors on the gangway.

Curses flew under the inmates’ breath as they watched their belongings being rifled through, their sense of autonomy shattered as some of their things were ripped apart or damaged.

As the shakedown wound down and the members of the riot team returned to stand in a line downstairs, Taylor's eyes met the sheriff's disappointed gaze and he looked away quickly.

A warning?

He held the shank in his hand, shaking his head. Then he looked over the other contraband items, including a small trash bag full of liquid, a homemade liquor the inmates called hooch.

“Not sure if I picked the right pod now. Maybe I was wrong about you all,” the sheriff finally said, his voice tinged with regret as he looked around at all of them. “I'll have to think about this a few more days.” His words hung heavy in the air, casting a shadow over the inmates' hopes for a better future.

With that, he turned and left, leaving the inmates to stew in their disappointment and uncertainty. And Taylor couldn't help but wonder if he really was having second thoughts and how much longer she’d be there after all.

CHAPTER 8

The sun was just beginning to set, and it was getting chilly as they continued to hike through the dense undergrowth. Lydia's heart hammered in her chest with each step, the weight of the backpack heavy on her shoulders. She couldn't shake the lingering fear that clung to her like a shadow, the gut feeling that something terrible was coming.

Was she hiking to her death spot?

Dom led the way, his confident stride cutting through the foliage as he guided them deeper into the heart of the forest. He wore a headlamp now, and Lydia kept her eyes on him, not wanting to get left behind.

“Pop quiz, ladies. Who can tell me why the Blue Ridge Mountains are blue?”

When no one replied, he turned to Jill, keeping his stride.

“You should know this already. The blue color is produced by the emission of isoprene. Now who knows where isoprene comes from?”

“I don’t know,” Jill said. She struggled to keep up, a tight grip on Lydia's hand and her eyes wide with fear and uncertainty. After their encounter with the hiker, Dom had continued to be angry, no longer pretending to be a caring father as he ordered them to move faster and faster. He was miffed when Jill had to stop to use the bathroom and during any other complaint she had.

His exasperated sigh seemed to echo around them.

“It’s a chemical called a hydrocarbon that the oak and poplar trees produce to protect themselves from the stress of high temperatures,” he said, taking them around a bend and leading them off one trail and onto another. “That’s why, in the summer, the blue is more vivid from afar. It’s not really the mountains that are blue, though. Isoprene reacts with other molecules in the atmosphere and creates a distinctive cobalt haze over the mountains, making them appear to be blue from a distance.”

He hiked like a professional, a total contradiction to the lawyer-like behavior she’d known from him, always clean and spiffy except during the times that he assaulted her. Here, in the outdoors, he seemed at home, even calling out the time based on the position of the sun every few hours.

Jill had cried earlier, and Dom shut her down quickly, telling her that only sissies cried, and she was going to have to learn to be a woodland warrior.

He talked as they walked, outlining how he was going to teach Jill how to hunt deer and fish for their food.

“I’m not killing anything,” she mumbled.

He ignored her, rambling on with stories of his prior kills, the size of the animals he’d trapped, and how much meat he’d preserved. He talked of gardening and Jill and “Linda” learning to can the food in the coming months, then described their camp and how he’d turned a shipping container into a safe lodging.

It sounded eerily like a dungeon, and Lydia could feel her body tensing the further they went, dread filling every fiber of her being as he made it clear that they’d be going underground. Again, she considered slipping away into the dark behind Dom.

But what would she do about Jill?

If Lydia ran, the girl would call out for her and alert her father. Would Lydia have time enough to hide? And could she really leave Jill, knowing that Dom was a madman and might never return her to her mother?

What kind of human would she be to do that to a child in need?

She wondered about Jill’s mom, who must be going out of her mind with fear.

No. Lydia would have to wait. If it was her child in peril, she would hope that someone would look out for them, too. Protect them as well as possible.

Grace and Ella’s faces popped into her mind, then Zoey’s.

Lydia had to be strong. For Jill, but also for her own children.

Finally, they reached the edge of a steep slope barely visible through the dense brush and trees, and Dom motioned for them to follow him further down.

Lydia's heart raced as she gazed into the darkness below, her mind swirling with images of the horrors that could await them in the depths. The hill was steep, and she held onto Jill’s hand tightly.

A dog barked, but Dom ignored it as he led them, his words dripping with pride as he explained how he and his father had built the underground shelter.

“We dug the hole first,” Dom explained, his voice echoing in the stillness of the forest. “Then we dropped in the container. We coated the bottom of it with tar roof sealer to prevent rust. Once that dried, we turned the unit upright and sealed the sides and top before putting it back in position.”

The dog was close, his bark now frantic. Dom didn’t seem concerned.

They came to a door in the side of the hill, and next to it was a dog chained to a pole. It barked once more but, when Dom stepped close to it, he immediately shut up and cowered, and slipped into the doghouse next to the door.

“Yes, you’d better shut up when you know it’s me,” Dom said to it, giving the small wooden enclosure a kick.

“A dog!” Jill exclaimed happily. “Is she nice?”

“Unfortunately, yes. And it’s a he. But hopefully soon he’ll be trained up,” Dom said. “His name is Diablo and he’ll learn his job well, or he’ll be gone. I’ll introduce you later, after we get settled in for the night. If you behave, I might bring him in.”

Lydia listened intently as they talked of the dog, her stomach churning with unease. The thought of descending into the darkness of the hidden bunker filled her with an overwhelming sense of dread.

Dom took keys from his pack and opened the several deadbolts on the door. The dog peeked out of his house once, whined, then retreated again.

Dom swung the door open and stepped inside. He turned on a lantern that hung on the wall, then gave Lydia a small shove forward, urging her to descend the stairs first.

She hesitated, her fear threatening to overwhelm her. Tears rushed to her eyes, and she wanted to plead to him not to make her go down. But when she saw the look of terror in Jill's eyes shining under Dom’s headlamp, something inside her shifted.

Whether the girl wanted to or not, Dom was going to make them go in there.

It was up to Lydia to ease Jill’s fear as much as she possibly could.

Summoning every ounce of courage, she held her tears back and took the first step down, determined to be a source of comfort and strength for the frightened girl. Despite her own apprehension, she squeezed Jill's hand tightly, a silent promise to protect her no matter what lay ahead.

“I’m scared,” Jill said quietly.

A wave of musty air enveloped them, tinged with the scent of earth and dampness. The space was dimly lit, illuminated only by a faint glow filtering in from the entrance.

Lydia pulled Jill a few more steps, before she glanced around, taking in the metal walls and makeshift furnishings with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension.

Dom followed closely behind her, his voice echoing in the confined space as he pointed out various features of the shelter. “We built bunk beds along each side,” he explained, gesturing toward the sturdy set of four wooden frames lining the walls, making room for eight to sleep. “Plenty of room for all of us and supplies, too. We’re fully stocked down here with enough to last at least six months.”

Who was all of us? Was he planning on abducting someone else?

Lydia didn’t want to anger him, so she only nodded, her gaze lingering on the beds with their green army blankets folded in a neat square at each foot, a thin pillow at the head. Between the racks of bunks, a wooden table with six chairs around it was positioned, and a tiny area that held a worn couch and recliner, an oval, braided rug their centerpiece.

In the very back of the container were several rows of shelving, full of canned goods and what looked like baskets of MREs. Bags of rice and dry beans were also visible. Huge barrels and smaller buckets were stacked against the wall; Lydia assumed they were full of water.

A long line of gallon bleach bottles was stacked under the bunks on one wall.

“And over here,” Dom continued, leading them toward a small alcove in the corner, “we've got a ventilation system to keep the air circulating.” He pointed to a metal pipe protruding from the ceiling, its opening covered by a makeshift cap fashioned from scrap metal. Dom pointed out various other features of the bunker, describing how they had built each one and what purpose it served. He pointed to a big iron stove that also had a pipe going from it, up through the ceiling. “That old cookstove has been in my family for six generations and it was quite a chore getting it down here. It’ll do a fine job keeping us warm, if you girls do a fine job feeding it fuel.”

He pointed at the wood stacked at the back of the container, going all the way from the floor to the ceiling. There was also a makeshift kitchen with a sink, and a wooden tabletop that held a small, propane camp stove.

Lydia listened attentively, her mind racing with questions and concerns.

“Dad, why do we have to camp down here?” Jill asked, her voice even smaller underground. “I don’t like it.”

“Because I said so,” he replied tightly. “You’d better start liking it, Jill. We’re going to be our own little family down here, and no one can take you from me again.”

Lydia could tell that he was on edge, fighting to remain patient with his daughter.

“I want to see my mom,” Jill whined.

Dom twirled around quickly and grabbed Jill’s chin tightly, forcing her to look up at him.

“That’s the last time I want to hear anything about your mother. Do you understand me?” he bit out, the venom-laced words sounding like gunshots in the room.

Jill nodded slowly, her eyes round with fear. Dom let go of her face.

“Now that’s a good girl,” he said, his tone now sugarcoated. “Later I’ll get out the trunk I packed for you. It’s got dolls, toys, books, and all sorts of things to keep you busy for a long time. You’re going to like it here.”

Lydia could feel a trembling start in Jill.

She squeezed the girl’s hand tightly again, silently promising to be her anchor in the darkness. Together, they would navigate the uncertainties of their new reality, drawing strength from each other as they faced whatever challenges lay ahead, as she waited for another chance to make a break for freedom.

CHAPTER 9

Taylor stirred to the sound of dinner chow call echoing through the pod; hunger gnawed at her stomach. She sat up on her bunk, throwing her legs over the side as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes.

The harsh fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting a cold glow over the cramped confines of her cell. Once again, she hadn’t slept well, mostly due to the CO coming around every thirty minutes to shine a light through their door window. Her behavior had bordered on sadistic, clanging her handcuffs against the concrete walls as she walked the gangway, banging her flashlight on the glass, long after the party girls settled down, even after four in the morning. Clang, clang, clang …

Trina called her Pikachu, cussing her under her breath at every round. Obviously, Pikachu didn’t have children in her life, or she’d realize that well-rested inmates were much less antagonistic than tired ones. In her urge to strut her little bit of power, she was shooting the morning COs in the foot.

They had a new cellmate and Trina wasn’t happy that she’d had to move her store items to a storage container under the bed. The new fish was named Quig, and she had a major attitude. Taylor had seen her kind before, those who felt life had dealt them a bad hand and that it was everyone else’s fault but their own. They never took accountability for their bad decisions and were pissed off at the world.

With now four inmates, the room felt even smaller. She wished that Quig had gone on by their cell and found somewhere else to room.

Sheriff Comer hadn’t returned yet to give his decision about the project, and each hour felt like three. The women all talked about it, most saying he’d never do it and probably wouldn’t even come back to let them know.

As one day turned into two, three, and now four, Taylor was beginning to regret coming. Thankfully, Trina had lent her a book—a thick novel called Night Watch, that told the story of a mother and daughter, and the brutality they endured during the Civil War. It was not something she’d usually pick to read, but it was interesting and helped her pass the time.

In the few days since arriving, she’d seen quite a parade of inmates coming and going in the 30-minute rushes of chow times, doing trades, or piling up a bill with Trina for different items. It appeared that coffee, hair conditioner, and honey buns were the most-requested items.

Trina poured single servings of hair conditioner into the hands of the girls if they didn’t bring something to contain it in, and swiftly bartered what she expected back. A dollar sometimes. Or a pack of instant noodles they called a soup, which as an outright sale was two soups for a dollar. Instant-made coffee went for fifty cents a cup.

For other items it was a one-for-two deal. They took one item and, when they got their own commissary again, they paid back two.

Trina was quite the businesswoman, it seemed. Luckily for her, she had family on the outside who put the maximum money on her books, letting her order items twice a week from the kiosk to keep her inventory up. Most of her customers were those who didn’t have a lot of support on the outside and had to go without or make their supplies last longer.

Many ran out of what they needed before their money came through again. Or other customers were those barred from getting commissary due to disciplinary sanctions they’d received in the jail. Others couldn’t stomach the jail food and lived off commissary items like candy bars, chips, noodles, and tortillas.

Trina even had spam in a pouch.

Having her own store also gave Trina respect, and a kind of protective barrier around her. No one wanted to be on her bad side, in case they needed something they didn’t have the money for. Jail credit was everything.

Taylor climbed off her bunk at the same time that Quig jumped off, landing noiselessly and gracefully, like some kind of ninja.

Ghost ninja.

She was pale white but wore her blonde hair in tight cornrows. A tattoo over one eyebrow read Fate, and she was sporting a teardrop tattoo below her eye.

They nearly collided and would’ve if Taylor’s reflexes weren’t so fast, making her step back a foot or so. “Watch it,” she warned, her voice sharp with authority.

It was time to be assertive.

“Or what?” she challenged, her eyes blazing with defiance. “I’ll get off my rack however I want to. You gonna do something about it?”

In some places, the teardrop around the eye could mean the person had to serve or had served a lengthy prison sentence, and in others could signify that the person wearing it had committed murder. Quig’s teardrop was only outlined, and that could mean attempted murder. There were other meanings as well, but the girl looked mean enough for any of them to apply.

For that reason, Taylor knew she had to stand her ground in this moment. The other inmates were watching, judging her reaction. If she backed down now, she would lose whatever semblance of respect she was hoping to earn.

She didn’t move, locking eyes with the girl, her expression unreadable.

“I’m not looking to catch another charge by fighting you,” Taylor replied evenly, her voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through her veins. “But I will if I have to. Don’t put your feet in my face again.”

The tension between them crackled in the air, thick with the promise of violence. Trina stepped between them, wary as she sought to neutralize the situation.

“Stop it, Quig. You’re going to get us put on lockdown and I’ve got phone privileges today. Back off,” she said.

Quig shot Taylor a venomous glare before turning away.

With the immediate threat diffused, Taylor took a deep breath, her heart still pounding in her chest. She knew this was just the beginning, that she would have to navigate countless more confrontations in the days to come. But she refused to let fear dictate her actions. She was a deputy, trained in law enforcement to handle high-pressure situations with calm and poise.

She would not let anyone intimidate her.

“We might as well all get along,” Trina said. “Unless someone is going to move house and I know I’m not going anywhere.”

The door unlocked, the loud sound of the mechanism breaking the tense moment.

“C’mon, y’all. Chow time,” Quig said, heading for the door as though she’d appointed herself as leader of the room, after just a few hours of being there.

Taylor was the last one out of the cell. Descending the stairs to the common area, she joined the line to receive her tray of food. A trustee was stationed at the front, doling out portions with practiced efficiency. She accepted her tray with a murmured thanks before turning around to decide where to sit.

Trina’s table was full of inmates Taylor hadn’t met yet.

Lyric was already with another group, too. Quig had made herself comfortable on the other side of the room.

So much for cellies eating together.

Taylor made her way to an empty table and sat down. As she began to eat the meager breakfast of a biscuit and watery grits, with lukewarm coffee, three other women approached, their eyes assessing her with thinly veiled hostility.

“You’re at our table,” one of them—the most masculine of the three with her shaved head and her sleeves rolled up over her huge biceps —declared, her tone challenging.

Taylor met her gaze evenly, refusing to back down. “Then sit down and eat,” she replied calmly. “There’s room for all of you. But I'm not going anywhere.”

“You hear that, Jane? She’s a spicy one,” one of the women said to the obvious leader.

Jane—someone who stood out with her shaved head—nodded, a smile creeping up on her face. “Yeah, I did. I think I like it, too.” She sat and the others followed, their eyes boring a hole through Taylor’s forehead. The three of them chatted back and forth.

From what Taylor could gather, one of the women had just returned from two days in solitary after getting a disciplinary ticket for “reckless eyeballing” after she’d made a face at Pikachu through the door window.

Solitary for a look sounded extreme and Taylor wondered what the whole story was. As she finished her meal, one of them gestured toward her barely-touched cup of coffee.

“You gonna drink that?” she asked, a hint of hope in her voice.

Taylor barely looked up as she nodded. “Damn straight I am.”

As they finished their breakfast in relative peace, Taylor looked around, studying the bleakness of her surroundings, taking in everything she could.

She needed to start making some friends. And not just any friends.

Hopefully ones with some street cred.

When the CO called out that they had two minutes left, Taylor drained her coffee, then stood, tray and mug in hand to take to the drop off. She was barely up and turned around when someone shoved her forward.

The cup flew out of her hand and popped one of her tablemates in the forehead. Taylor used her hands against the table to keep from falling onto it completely.

“What the h—” Taylor mumbled, turning to try to see who had shoved her.

Whomever it was had cowardly slipped back into the group of women lining up to drop off their trays, and all she saw was several of them trying not to laugh while others looked away.

In the vicinity, doing their best to look innocent, from within an arm’s reach was April and her girlfriend, smiling slyly at her.

That was just great, Taylor thought. In only a handful of days, she already had two enemies. This wasn’t going to be an easy six weeks, that was for sure.

CHAPTER 10

Another morning passed for Caleb in a blur of tension and anticipation. As noon approached, his hope waned. Several search teams had returned with no leads, their weary faces reflecting the exhausting effort of combing through the dense woods.

The only media help they’d been able to get was a short blip on the evening news that ‘a small search party was looking for the remains of Lydia Grimes again.’ That was far from the truth, and the need for more searchers wasn’t expressed, so he counted it as useless.

As he leaned on his truck to rest, a handler and his dog came out, the handler shaking his head. Caleb wanted to tell him to stop that, and to be positive. To believe he would find her and then maybe he would.

He needed to meet with Mira and as he stepped that way, he was met with Grace and Ella heading straight for him, their expressions angry.

“Oh shit,” he muttered under his breath. That was a storm and a half twirling his way fast. They looked even more like their mother when they were angry, and Caleb hoped they didn’t carry just as much fire power.

“Dad, why didn’t you tell us?” Grace demanded as she approached, Ella following close behind. She was dressed in hiking clothes, with the boots that Lydia had bought her a few years ago stomping with a vengeance. She’d tied a bandana around her head.

Ella had done the same.

“How did you get here?” Caleb asked, trying to buy time. “And how did you find out?”

“The whole damn town knows, Dad,” Grace snapped. “Everyone but us.”

“Grace, watch your mouth,” Caleb warned automatically, though his heart wasn’t in it.

Ella was visibly upset, tears shimmering in her eyes. “Do you think she’s really out there? My history teacher said she’s dead and you need to let her rest in peace. She said you need help.”

The words cut deep, a sharp reminder of the doubts and criticisms that weighed on Caleb’s mind. Was he truly disturbing Lydia’s spirit? Was he clinging to false hope?

Had he lost his mind?

He didn’t want to go over everything that they’d found that had led to another search, but he gathered Ella into his arms, feeling her small frame shake with emotion. “We don’t know that, Ellie. Maybe she is gone, but I just feel like I need something more. Some piece of evidence that lets me know we can stop. That I can stop.”

Grace pulled a map from her backpack and laid it out on the ground, her movements jerking with frustration. “A friend at school helped me with this,” she said, her voice wavering. “He knows this place like the back of his hand. He said that lost people tend to follow straight things like streams or trails. He’s outlined all the water ways and trails from this point to at least thirty miles out.”

Caleb knelt beside her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “Honey, we have professionals here. Mira’s guiding all of us in stuff like that. You want to go meet her? She’s right over there.” He pointed toward Mira’s tent. “She has a huge map already set up.”

Grace didn’t respond immediately, her face hidden behind falling hair as tears streamed down her cheeks. When he peeked, he saw the hurt and frustration etched into her features, and it broke his heart.

“Oh, Gracie, come here,” he said softly, pulling her into his arms.

“No!” Grace wrenched away from him, her anger profound. “You just want to get rid of me. I’m tired of you trying to shield us from the truth, Dad. She’s our mom. You have to stop thinking you’re the only one missing her! The only one who needs her! I need her. And so do Ella and Zoey.”

Ella stepped in, wrapping an arm around Grace in a gesture of sisterly support. Her voice was softer, but no less filled with hurt. “I don’t think that’s what he’s trying to do, Grace. Dad’s hurting, too. We all are.”

Caleb felt the weight of their words settle heavily on his shoulders. “Girls, I— I just don’t want you to go through the same hell that I’m going through.”

That made Grace even angrier, and he wished he could push the words back into his mouth.

Her eyes widened with fury. “Dad, if you’d open your eyes and stop wallowing in self-pity, you’d see that we’re already going through hell just watching you,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “Now I’m going over to talk to your so-called professional, and, if she doesn’t put me out there with a search crew, I’ll find a way myself because I’m tired of you pushing me to the outside of everything.”

With that, Grace turned and strode purposefully toward Mira’s tent. Caleb and Ella watched her go.

“Well, you screwed that one up, Dad,” Ella said quietly, her voice tinged with disappointment, and a little sympathy.

Caleb sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair. He knew his daughters were hurting, and he was failing them in ways he couldn’t fully grasp. But he couldn’t let go of the hope that Lydia was out there, waiting to be found. He’d wanted to protect them. Not hurt them further.

Maybe he should just give up.

But as he watched Grace disappear under Mira’s tent, a flicker of determination sparked within him. He couldn’t afford to lose faith now, not when his daughters had gotten involved. Whatever happened next, that would be the end of it, and he had to stop trying to keep his fragile hope alive.

“Come on, Ellie Bear. Let’s go see if we can calm your sister down.”

Ella took his hand, squeezing it, a reminder that, even when angry at him, they still loved him, and they just wanted to be informed.

They were right and he was wrong. They deserved more than he’d given them.

Yes, Caleb decided right there, under the soft touch of his daughter’s support. If and when Mira officially called the search off, he’d give in and let Lydia rest. For the sake of her daughters.

CHAPTER 11

The morning light filtered weakly through the small ventilation opening, stirring Lydia awake in the cramped confines of the narrow bunk bed. She shifted, giving Jill more room. The girl had crawled in with her only a few hours after Dom declared lights out. Lydia had immediately moved over, welcoming Jill as she put her arms around her to give comfort and keep her warm. The fire in the cookstove had gone out sometime in the middle of the night.

Jill had gone to bed crying because Dom wouldn’t let the dog come in.

Now Lydia sat up slowly, her body stiff from the uncomfortable night's rest, but her mind was alert with the realization that Dom was nowhere to be seen.

She glanced around the dimly lit bunker, her heart pounding in her chest, ideas filling her head. He’d started another fire in the old stove before he’d left, and she’d spotted a large pile of firewood toward the back of the room, so at least they wouldn’t freeze. Slipping out from under the thin blanket, she approached the door cautiously, her fingers trembling as she tried the handle. With a sinking feeling, she realized that it was locked from the outside, leaving them trapped inside with no means of escape.

Frustration gnawed at Lydia's insides as she began to search the cramped container for any sign of a way out. She checked every corner and crevice, her heart sinking with each futile attempt to find a hidden exit.

She happened upon a chest of drawers and, when she pulled out the top drawer, she saw it was full of clothing in her size. The next drawer held things that would fit Jill: pants, shirts, socks and underwear. The next three held Dom’s size.

He had taken it upon himself to gather a wardrobe of attire for all of them.

Toward the back, where the food storage was, Lydia moved jars of dehydrated food from one shelf, hoping for a hidden door. The jars had labels: eggs that were a dark yellow powder, cubed dehydrated potatoes. Dried fruits. And even a jar with brown powder that was labeled beef stew.

At least they wouldn’t have to survive on the instant pouches.

However, no secret door was found behind the makeshift pantry.

After what felt like an eternity of fruitless searching, Lydia finally slumped down onto one of the bunk beds, her mind racing with fear and uncertainty. She was going to need another plan if she was ever going to see her family again.

Beside her, Jill stirred awake, her eyes puffy from crying. “What's wrong?” she asked, seeing Lydia looking solemn as she stared at the locked door.

Lydia forced a reassuring smile, trying to hide her own apprehension. “Nothing,” she eked out with a scratchy voice. “Was just about to find us something to eat. Your dad has gone out.”

“You can speak!” Jill said, her eyes wide with surprise.

Damn, she forgot.

“Yes, I speak. Just not in front of your father. It’s our secret, okay?”

“But why can’t you speak in front of him?”

Lydia sighed. The girl deserved the truth, especially if they were going to be allies.

She went to the bunk and sat down on the edge.

“Jill, your father took me, just like he took you. It’s a long story, but I’m with him against my will and he won’t let me leave. But you and I are going to find a way to get home, okay? I want you to trust me on that.”

“But why did he take you?”

She looked terrified and confused.

“Because he’s not a good person,” Lydia said. “That’s probably why your mom left him, and she hasn’t had contact with him.”

“I don’t know why my mom wouldn’t tell me that,” she said, looking down at where her feet poked out of the blanket. “She always said that he moved overseas when they divorced.”

“Well, sometimes moms don’t tell their children everything,” Lydia said, rubbing Jill’s back. “We try to protect your sense of well-being. Minimize your fears. As you get older and we think you can handle more, then we tell more. She just wasn’t ready to tell you yet, but I’m sure she planned to soon.”

Jill looked suddenly angry. “She should’ve, though. Then I wouldn’t have always been praying he’d come back into my life. I wouldn’t have gone with him willingly when he said we were going camping. I could’ve protected myself.”

She was right. Lydia knew she was, but being a parent was like walking a tightrope between building trust with truth, and letting your kids be children. If Jill knew her father was a psychopath, that could’ve affected her childhood more than if it had remained a secret.

But it was time that Jill got familiar with just what they were facing.

“It’s too late to worry about that now, Jill. Your mom did what she thought best and now I’m sure she’s going crazy trying to find you. It’s going to be our job to stay safe. And I don’t think you should bring up your mom anymore in front of your dad. We need to pretend as though we like it here, that it’s a grand adventure. We can’t take the chance of making him angry.”

“But I hate it. I want to go home.” Jill's tears began to flow, and Lydia felt a surge of frustration and helplessness wash over her. She couldn't bear to see the young girl suffering, trapped in this nightmarish situation.

“Hey,” Lydia said softly, reaching out to wipe away Jill's tears. “I know you do. I do, too. But it's going to be okay. We just need to stay strong and stick together and, I promise, I’ll find a way to get you back to your mom. Can you be brave for me?”

Jill sniffled, her lower lip trembling as she looked up at Lydia with wide eyes and nodded slowly. “I can, but why is he like this? I always thought when my dad came back for me, it would be wonderful. I don’t like him, Linda. He said we were going camping and now he has me in this terrible place.”

Lydia's heart ached at the sound of Jill's words, knowing all too well the longing for freedom and safety. But she also knew that they couldn't risk angering Dom or jeopardizing their chances of escape.

“I know, Jill,” Lydia said gently, wrapping her arms around the trembling girl. “This is not fun. But we have to be patient. We must be smart and play our cards right. My mother always told me to believe in something bigger than myself. So far, it’s kept me alive, so I need you to believe that, too.”

Jill sniffled, her tears slowly subsiding as she nestled closer to Lydia's side. “Okay,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

“Now, listen. Have you ever been in a school play?”

Jill nodded. “I got to be Dorothy in Wizard of Oz last summer in drama camp.”

“Great. Then that means you know how to act! You and I are going to put on our best performances and act like we love it here. We’ll pretend that this is the greatest adventure ever. Then when your dad starts trusting us, then we’ll find a way to leave and go home. Sit down while I find us something to eat, and I’ll tell you exactly what we need to do.”

“I can’t believe this is happening,” Jill said. “My best friend is never going to believe this.”

Lydia smiled slightly, glad that she was thinking like a little girl again. This ordeal was going to be a hard balance for her.

Lydia chatted with Jill while she tried to figure out how to use the small propane stovetop, but she decided she’d need to see Dom do it first. It wouldn’t do to set them on fire when they had no means of escape.

The apples would work. Some water, too, if she could remember how Dom had used the setup he’d shown them the night before. She took down a jar and was struggling to get the lid off when they heard a commotion outside the door and the dog barked.

She turned to Jill.

“Okay, this is it. No more talking from me, and I want to see you put a big smile on your face when your dad comes in. Got it?”

Jill nodded, but it didn’t look too convincing.

A minute and a lot of locks opening later, Dom walked into the bunker.

“Good morning, ladies!” he exclaimed. “It’s a wonderful day, isn’t it?”

Lydia tried to smile, but that was an impossible feat when she noticed that Dom was wearing a familiar red cap and sporting a red paracord bracelet on his wrist.

Forcing herself not to think of the hiker and what Dom might’ve done to him, and how devastating she felt that their only chance had probably been extinguished, Lydia forced a tight-lipped smile and nodded. She glanced at Jill, who was doing her best to mimic her father's enthusiasm, though her eyes still held traces of fear and uncertainty.

“Yeah, it's great, Dad,” Jill chimed in, her voice wavering slightly. “What do you have planned for today?”

Dom's grin widened as he began detailing his plans for the day. “Well, first off, I’m going to show you how to use the water system. You can only survive about a week without water, and I want to make sure you’re okay if I can’t make it back here during one of my outings.”

“Okay,” Jill said. “But can’t I go outside sometimes, too?”

“Of course you can,” he said, laughing as though it was a ridiculous question. “Starting today, as a matter of fact. Later, we're going to do a little target practice. Jill, it's important for you to know how to handle a firearm, just in case. After that, we'll work on some basic survival skills like fire starting and shelter building just in case we must evacuate the shelter and run deeper into the woods. And then, if we have time, maybe we'll go on a little hike around the perimeter of the bunker. Sound like fun?”

It sounded like a great idea to Lydia, because it upped the chances she might be able to get her hands on a gun. Wouldn’t be such a fun day for him, though, if she did.

Jill nodded eagerly, her eyes darting to Lydia for reassurance. “Sounds great, Dad,” she said, her voice more confident now. “I can't wait to learn all these new skills.”

Lydia nodded at her encouragingly. She was acting superbly.

“Atta’ girl, Jill. I’m so glad you are ready to seize the day. That’s what I like to see.” He turned to Lydia expectantly. “What do you think, Linda? Ready for some adventure, too?”

Lydia nodded, her expression neutral as she forced herself to maintain the facade of compliance.

“Great!” Dom exclaimed, clapping his hands together. “Let's get started then. First let me give you a more informative tour around inside.”

Lydia followed Dom's lead as he began the tour of the bunker, starting with the basics of water storage. He led them to a corner of the bunker to a makeshift kitchen of sorts. Next to the sink, several large, blue plastic barrels were stacked.

“Alright, ladies, first things first,” Dom began, pointing to the barrels. “As you know, water is our most precious resource, so we need to make sure we have enough of it, and we must never waste it. These barrels are our water supply, but it's not enough to just store them. In our case, I made sure to do it right.”

He rattled on, emphasizing the importance of keeping the barrels off concrete and on a level surface to prevent contamination and ensure stability. Lydia hoped the tour would include the whereabouts of his weapons cache, because she’d bet a dollar that he had loads of them.

Dom went to the corner where there were barrels stacked on concrete blocks, black trash bags over the top of them. A bucket sat in the floor next to them. He pulled the trash bag off one with a dramatic flourish, like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat.

“We keep stored water out of temperature extremes and away from sunlight,” he continued, his voice carrying a sense of urgency. “We don't want algae growing in our water supply, now do we, Jill?”

She shook her head warily.

He continued. “We keep the barrels off the ground—and covered—so that nothing leeches through and contaminates it. And to make sure we can access the water easily, we use a siphon shaker hose.”

There was a long coil of hose on the shelf above the bucket and Dom uncoiled it, and, after taking the cap off the barrel lid, stuffed the metal end of the hose down inside. With the other end down into the bucket, he shook the hose until water began coming up out of the barrel, and out the end of the hose into the bucket.

“See there? Fresh water,” he said.

“It looks gross,” Jill said.

“Won’t look gross if you’re thirsty enough, dear. That’ll be used tonight at dinner.” He put the hose away, then covered everything back up the way it was. “We drain all the water once a year and exchange it for fresh.”

Lydia wondered again who he meant by we, but he didn’t elaborate.

He continued, pointing out various pieces of equipment and explaining their purposes with an unsettling urgency in his voice.

“And next on the life-saving list of must-haves, more supplies,” he said, gesturing toward a container of potassium iodide tablets. “These tablets are crucial in case of a nuclear event. They'll help saturate your thyroid with nonradioactive iodine, minimizing the risk of absorbing harmful Iodine-131. You need to take these if we're ever exposed to fallout.”

Lydia forced a nod, though internally she couldn't help but think Dom was going off the deep end. The end of the world? It seemed ludicrous, and his fervor was only scaring Jill more.

“What’s a nuclear event and fallout?” Jill asked.

“A nuclear event is like a big explosion caused by a special kind of bomb called a nuclear bomb. When this bomb explodes, it can cause a lot of damage and make everything around it very dangerous. Fallout is like tiny bits of stuff that get spread around after the explosion. These tiny bits can make the air, water, and even the ground not safe to touch or breathe. So, we have to be careful and stay inside or find a safe place to go if there's ever a nuclear event.”

He didn’t seem to notice that Jill looked terrified at his explanation.

Lydia wished suddenly that she hadn’t taken a vow of silence around Dom, but she put her arm around Jill, giving her an encouraging squeeze.

“Next up, respiratory protection,” Dom continued, motioning toward a box of dust masks and respirators. “These will help filter out airborne particulates, especially important since fallout particles can linger in the air for days. We need to minimize our exposure to these particles as much as possible to avoid internal contamination.”

As Dom moved on to explain the survey meter, Lydia's worry grew. She couldn't shake the feeling that he was letting his paranoia run wild, and his doomsday scenario was bordering on delusional.

“We have to wear a mask to go outside?” Jill asked.

“Not currently, but someday you might.”

Lydia hoped they’d be long gone before “someday” became a today.

Dom went to a set of bunks and pulled a large tote from under them, then took off the lid.

“This is your box, Jill,” he said.

Jill approached, looking down at the collection of art supplies and books. Then she pulled out a slim box from under them and held it up.

“I don’t play Barbies anymore,” she said.

He shrugged. “I guess you’ll be doing a lot of arts and crafts along with your studying, then.”

Lydia could see a lot of books, some of them with complicated names. One was titled, The Math Myth and other STEM Delusions. Another was marked as Elements of Advanced Mathematics.

“Back there is a chest of drawers, and I’ve picked appropriate clothing for both of you. Winter stuff for now, until spring rolls in, and then I’ll replenish it with lighter things.”

Lydia could just imagine what he’d picked out for them. He dressed like a model from L.L. Bean, but she doubted he’d have the same high standard for them.

Not that she cared.

“And, finally, the most important knowledge available to us,” Dom concluded, his tone suddenly grave. Pushing the tote back under the bed, he went to a shelf against the wall and lifted a thick three-ring binder, waving it in the air. “Having access to information is our best defense. We need to know how to use all this equipment and how to protect ourselves effectively. That's why I've put together a guide with all the necessary information. It's our lifeline in a crisis, and I expect you both to study it. When I’m away, it’s your time to learn and memorize it. Questions?”

Dom looked at them expectantly, awaiting questions.

Lydia remained silent, her mind still reeling from the surreal situation. Jill stared at him, a confused and worried expression on her face.

He rubbed his hands together. “Well, then. If no questions, we’ll go outside and talk about that target shooting. But first I’ll show you both the garden area, and it won’t be long before we have to start prepping it for the spring’s seedlings.”

With that, Dom led them out of the bunker, as Lydia and Jill followed closely behind, each with their own thoughts of survival and escape swirling in their minds.

CHAPTER 12

Lydia's mind buzzed with anticipation as she followed Dom and Jill outside, leaving the musty bunker behind them. The crisp air of the forest offered a slight comfort from the suffocating weight of their situation. She cast a wary glance at Jill, whose trembling hands betrayed her earlier facade of courage.

Dom let the dog loose, then, after they passed a large plot of land that was cleared and he called out as their upcoming garden, he led them down a narrow trail lined with towering trees.

Diablo followed, his tail wagging at his delight to be off the chain.

I know exactly how you feel, boy.

Flashbacks of nearly dying in the basement, chained to the pole flooded over her and she pushed them away. God had granted her another chance to live, and she wasn’t going to waste it by going back in her mind to those brutal days.

Sunlight filtered through the canopy above, bathing the surroundings in a soft, ethereal glow. After a short walk, they arrived at a clearing nestled within the heart of the woods about three hundred yards from the bunker. Targets made of recycled cans and bottles were arranged in a neat row, perched atop a makeshift table fashioned from old wooden crates.

Dom gestured toward the setup, a smug grin playing at the corners of his lips.

“Behold, our little shooting range,” he proclaimed, his voice tinged with arrogance as he retrieved a pistol from his waistband. “Time for a little target practice, eh?”

Lydia acted fast and slapped her hands over Jill’s ears just as Dom took aim, firing off a round that struck the center of a stack of aluminum cans with pinpoint accuracy.

Jill still flinched at the sound of the gunshot, her eyes wide with fear as she stared at the weapon in her father's hands. The dog yelped and, with tail tucked deeply between his legs, galloped off back toward the bunker.

“Damn coward,” Dom said disgustedly. “That dog isn’t worth the money I paid for him. Should’ve bought from a better breed line.”

He turned to Jill. “Your turn,” he said, thrusting the pistol toward her with a forceful insistence. “Go on, give it a try. Stand here.”

He roughly guided her into the spot he’d held a moment before, then stood behind her with the gun held out in front of them both.

“I’ll show you how to stand with the right form,” he said, his arms around her. “Take it.”

Jill's hands shook violently, her voice trembling with uncertainty. “I-I don't know if I can ...”

Lydia wanted to comfort her, but she kept her place. She prayed silently.

Please take the gun, Jill. Then throw it to me. Please, Jill.

Dom's patience wore thin when Jill dropped her hands to her side without grabbing the gun. His features contorted with frustration. “Pathetic,” he muttered under his breath, his disappointment palpable as he turned his attention toward Lydia.

Jill met Lydia’s eyes, then lowered them shamefully.

“You,” Dom growled, fixing her with a steely gaze. “You think you can handle it? Someone other than me needs to know how to shoot a weapon.”

Lydia's heart pounded in her chest as she met Dom's gaze head-on, her mind racing with a thousand unspoken words. She longed to wrench the gun from his grasp, to turn the tables on him and seize control of her own destiny. But she remained rooted to the spot, her silence a side effect of the suffocating weight of her fear.

Once again, she couldn’t make herself move. Anger flooded through her at herself.

Get the gun, Lydia. Shoot him where he stands.

HIs eyes bore into hers with a predatory intensity as he gauged her from head to toe, his lips curled into a malicious sneer.

It took every ounce of courage she could muster to keep her hand from shaking, but she broke out of her paralysis when she nodded and held her hand out for him to pass her the gun.

He pulled it back a bit, just out of her reach.

After a tense moment of deliberation, he tucked the pistol back into his waistband with a dismissive grunt.

“Not today,” he muttered, his voice dripping with disdain.

With that, he led them deeper into the woods, his pace quickening as they navigated a labyrinth of winding trails and tangled undergrowth.

“These are exit trails,” he began, pointing out one and then another. “Once you learn them, I’ll take the markers down.”

Once he told them where to look, Lydia could see ribbons made in brightly colored ribbons fluttering in the breeze, indicating where each trail began.

Dom pointed. “This one I call Clearwater Trail. It leads to a creek and, if you follow it east long enough, you’ll find the spring where we gather the water,” he explained, gesturing toward a trail veering off to the left. “And this one to a more hidden hiding place that has a treehouse high up above trespassers’ heads. Then we have Highway Trail, and if we follow it—well, that’s all you need to know for now. I’ve got a plan written up for each scenario, just in case.”

Lydia listened intently, her mind racing with the possibilities as she tried to memorize each trail and its intended destination. If she and Jill were able to find a way out of the bunker when Dom was gone, or even a way to incapacitate him while they were outside, to give them a chance to run, she needed to be able to know which way to go.

She’d already gotten confused on which direction the ATV was parked.

He turned to Lydia.

“You. Back into the bunker. I’m taking Jill with me for some one-on-one time.”

Lydia froze. The thought of him taking Jill away from her sight sent a chill up her spine. What was he going to do with her? Or to her? What if he didn’t bring her back?

When she didn’t make a move, Dom came to her and jerked her arm, leading her down the path and to the open door. Jill trailed behind them, not making a sound. When they arrived back at the bunker, Diablo’s tail was visible, protruding from the doghouse where he huddled inside, quivering.

“I ought to put you in the doghouse with the dog,” he said, turning his head back to glare at Jill. “Both of you are cowards, but—I’ll tell you one thing right now—you’re going to learn a skill.”

Lydia shot Jill an encouraging look, then grudgingly went down the steps and into her new prison. She was barely in when Dom slammed the door behind her and the loud clicks of the locks turning rang in her ears.

She didn’t make it to the table or the bed. She sank to the floor right where she was standing, the façade of strength she wore for Jill crumbling like a house of cards.

Dear God, please let him bring her back.

CHAPTER 13

The hours passed slowly in the dimly lit bunker, the walls closing in on Lydia as she waited for Dom and Jill's return. At first, she was paralyzed, worried that he wouldn’t bring Jill back. Then afraid that he might take her out for some alone time. They hadn’t had a session since before he’d left her to nearly die in the basement.

Would he try it with Jill around? Surely not. He wanted to pretend as though he was such a wonderful father. What kind of man would terrorize a woman in front of a child?

Or maybe that’s why he took Jill off on her own. He was going to secure her somewhere else so that he could come back and abuse her. When she realized she was trembling so hard that her teeth were chattering, she shook it off.

Do not go there, Lydia. Don’t borrow trouble.

To keep her mind from concocting scary scenarios, she busied herself with routine tasks, boiling water over the portable stove for rice and heating a can of black beans. The rhythmic clatter of pots and pans provided a feeble distraction from the gnawing anxiety that gripped her.

Finally, the lock on the bunker door clicked open, startling Lydia from her thoughts. She turned quickly and saw Dom enter with Jill trailing behind him, her shoulders slumped, and her face drawn with exhaustion.

Relief flooded Lydia as she rushed to Jill, enveloping her in a tight embrace. Jill clung to her, hiding her face in Lydia’s shoulder.

Dom’s voice broke through the moment, his tone surprisingly mild.

“Well, well, look who’s been busy,” Dom remarked, nodding toward the makeshift dinner Lydia had prepared. “I’m starving. Set the table for two.”

Lydia nodded silently, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly. Her eyes flickered with concern as she studied Jill’s weary expression.

Dom ignored her, turning his attention to Jill. “You, on the other hand,” he began, his voice taking on a passive-aggressive edge, “will not be joining us for dinner tonight. You failed to set up the rabbit trap properly, despite multiple lessons.”

Jill’s gaze dropped to the floor, her hands fidgeting nervously. “I'm sorry,” she whispered, barely audible.

Dom waved a dismissive hand. “Change into your bedclothes and get into your bunk,” he ordered tersely. “We’ll try again tomorrow.”

Jill nodded silently, shuffling off to her corner of the bunker without another word.

Lydia watched her go, her heart aching with empathy for the young girl caught in the crosshairs of her father’s impossible demands. But she was relieved that he’d at least brought her back. Lydia knew it was selfish, but she didn’t think she would have the will to keep going without the child around her.

Turning back to Dom, Lydia forced herself to sit at the table with him, picking at her food to avoid his scrutiny. Dom ate heartily, commenting between bites. “You know, Linda,” he began, his voice carrying a note of false camaraderie, “I was thinking of teaching you how to make a rabbit pound tomorrow. It’s simple, really—just arrange some fallen trees into a box shape, set out a birch bud buffet and set a snare inside.”

From her bunk, Jill’s quiet voice cut in, trembling but resolute. “I don’t want to kill rabbits.”

Dom’s face hardened briefly, but he pretended not to hear his daughter, continuing his monologue about the importance of survival skills and the necessity of being prepared for any eventuality. He went on about the possibility of having to flee the shelter, of running out of ammunition, and being self-reliant with what nature provided.

Lydia remained silent throughout his spiel, her mind racing with thoughts of escape and survival. Every word Dom spoke reinforced her resolve to find a way out, for herself and for Jill. But for now, she knew, she had to bide her time, navigating the treacherous waters of his unpredictable moods with caution and silence.

When Dom caught her trying to steal a glance at Jill, his face darkened.

“Do not coddle her. Leave her be,” he said, then finished the food on his plate.

“Can Diablo have my share?” Jill asked, her tone now conciliatory.

“Absolutely not. I’ve already set out his kibble. You begin feeding an animal something other than their own food, and they’ll be spoiled. Diablo is a dog. Dogs eat dog food.”

Jill sniffled, the beginnings of finally having enough.

“If you cry, I’ll give you something to cry about,” Dom said, and Jill went silent.

He continued eating until his plate was empty. Somehow, Lydia dug deep and ate all of hers, too. She didn’t want to anger him.

When he gave the signal, she stood and picked up their plates, and took them to be rinsed off. She put the makeshift kitchen back the way it was, everything neat and tidy, then sat at the table.

Dom lit a lantern and brought a notebook over and sat back in his chair.

“Tomorrow I will be leaving for a few days,” he said. “I expect you to take good care of Jill while I’m away.”

Her pulse raced. A few days was a long time.

She could do more brainstorming. More searching inside the bunker.

But what if he was just testing her? Maybe he would be just outside, staying in a tent close by to see what she’d do in his absence.

Her excitement shriveled up inside her.

With her hands folded in front of her, she watched him go through the pages of the notebook and she pretended to listen to his lectures on the subjects he studied. The red paracord bracelet around his wrist teased at her, reminding her of the hiker.

He had looked so kind. So young and full of life.

Do not think about him, she reminded herself. She knew she must protect her mental health, as much as she had control over. One of the things she hadn’t allowed since that night at Walmart, when she was pushed into a car and separated from her life, was thinking back to the few days with the two men who took her. Or the day she’d been left to die in the woods, tied to the tree and strangled until she’d lost consciousness.

The hours stranded there, terrified and thirsty, before Dom came for her and pretended to be her rescuer.

The moments when she realized that wasn’t true.

Going back to all that in her mind set her back mentally. Every time. So, she knew that agonizing over whether the hiker was still alive, or, if not, if he had suffered, would not help her situation. She had more than herself to worry about now.

Jill was an innocent pawn in Dom’s clutches.

Lydia forced herself to pray silently. First for Grace and Ella. Then Zoey. Jill. And finally for Caleb. It took her some effort to bring each face back up in her mind, and, when she got them, she held onto them for a minute or two before moving on to the next. When she was through with her immediate family, she moved on to praying for her parents and her sister. She hoped that they had found some semblance of peace with her disappearance after so long.

Her mind wandered back to Caleb, and she thought of his arms.

A strange thing to focus on but she always loved the look of his hairy, strong arms. And his hands, so big for a man who wasn’t super tall or thick. Those hands that had held each of their children when they were newborns, taking his turn with them through the night so that Lydia could sleep more than a few hours at a time.

His hands that held hers when they’d walked down the aisle, finally as husband and wife, huge smiles plastered on their faces that they couldn’t erase. Hands that had taken care of her when she’d come down with pneumonia several years back, and when she’d broken her ankle on a skiing trip to Vermont. He could lay his big hand on wherever her body hurt and, instantly, comfort would flood over her.

What she wouldn’t give to have those hands on her now, bringing her consolation, healing her bruised and broken body. Holding her together while she felt like she was being pulled apart, one cell and molecule at a time.

But not to ever touch her with a lover’s hand again.

Revulsion rose in her throat.

Would she ever be able to make love again?

She truly believed that part of her was dead. Dom had killed it with the abuse he’d heaped on her in that dank basement. Now she wondered if it would even be fair to Caleb to stay in a marriage in which she would not be able to fulfill her bedroom duties.

She had a paralyzing thought.

What if she couldn’t even bear his wonderful hands touching her in any way whatsoever?

He would stop loving her. It would only make sense and she couldn’t fault him for that. Suddenly, her vision swam with tears.

Just over Dom’s head, she saw when Jill’s eyes finally closed, and her face relaxed into oblivious sleep.

Lydia choked back the lump in her throat, waiting to be dismissed. Thankfully, he didn’t see her tears and she was able to blink them back to where they came from, avoiding spillage to her cheeks.

As the night wore on and Dom eventually settled into his bunk and ordered her to her own, Lydia lay awake in the darkness, her thoughts consumed by plans and prayers for their safety. The bunker felt smaller than ever, but she clung to the fragile hope that one day, somehow, it would not be her final resting place.

CHAPTER 14

The midday sun beat down relentlessly on Caleb’s back as he trudged through the dense woods, the cacophony of birdsong and rustling in the trees the only noise to accompany the turmoil in his mind. The search for Lydia had hit yet another dead end. In the last few days, the dog teams had scoured the area without picking up any scent trails, and the volunteers were beginning to lose hope. Many hadn’t returned after they’d stopped yesterday for the night.

He was no longer working with anyone else. Now he was going wherever his gut led him, but the problem was that he didn’t feel her there.

Quickly, he pushed through a tangle of underbrush, his boots crunching on dry leaves and snapping twigs underfoot. He looked closer, searching for anything out of the ordinary hidden beneath the quagmire of branches.

Nothing.

He cursed under his breath, and he turned away and kept going.

Every step felt heavier than the last, weighed down by the relentless uncertainty and fear gnawing at his heart. He had seen it all before in one form or another, but this was different. This was Lydia.

He came upon a larger pile of brush than usual, a potential hiding spot that had been overlooked.

Instinctively, he approached. As he leaned in and pushed aside some dead branches, a searing pain shot through his hand and arm. Yellow jackets swarmed out angrily, their stings feeling like hot needles piercing his skin.

“Holy shit!” He stumbled back, retreating quickly as he swatted at the relentless insects. It took him pushing ahead at least fifty more feet before they left him and returned to their sentry.

Caleb stopped, pouring water over the arm that got it the worst. At least six angry welts were already there, burning like fire. He didn’t have any first aid with him, either.

Kneeling to the ground, he used his hand to push aside leaves and scraped until he reached the dirt. He poured water over it and made up a mud mixture, then worked the mud over the welts.

His mind instantly raced back to a simpler time, mowing the lawn while Lydia and the kids were inside the house. He had ridden over a ground nest that time. He remembered running inside and how Lydia had gently washed the stings, carefully pulling out each stinger and soothing his pain with her gentle touch.

She had the prettiest, most petite hands he’d ever seen. Her nails were naturally long but she kept them shorter, and always painted with a simple, light color. She wasn’t one to visit the professional nail salons. Claimed she was too busy for that, but, still, her hands always looked well-kept and, more than that, were full of love and healing.

He missed her more than he could express, her absence a gaping hole in his life.

Tears stung his eyes as he retreated even further from the swarm, the physical pain of the stings only amplifying the emotional turmoil within him.

Why me? His thoughts echoed loudly in the silence of the woods. I'm a good man. I follow the law. I take care of my family. Why did this happen to me? To us?

He kicked at the ground in frustration, the scattered limbs and underbrush bearing the brunt of his anger. He had no one to talk to, either.

Taylor's absence gnawed at him; he wished she were here, her steady presence usually a welcome balm in the storm that raged within him. But she had her own duties, her own responsibilities, and he couldn't fault her for that.

This was his nightmare. Not Taylor’s.

His thoughts drifted to Grace, his eldest daughter. That morning’s phone call had been tense. Since their encounter in the woods, she was still so very furious that he hadn't shared all the details with her about the new evidence concerning her mother’s disappearance, especially since, as she said, everyone else in town, including her fellow classmates, seemed to know all about it.

Caleb tried to reassure her, to keep her safe at home where she belonged, away from the harsh realities of the search. But Grace was determined, stubborn like her mother, and wanted to be involved. He couldn't fault her for her determination, but he couldn't bear to see her hopes dashed if they were chasing another cold lead.

As he walked, he wiped away tears mingled with sweat and realized he had strayed perhaps too far from the others. Mira would be angry at him.

Again.

The forest whispered around him, its secrets hidden in the dappling sunlight and deep shadows. He felt utterly alone, the weight of Lydia’s absence pressing down on him with unbearable force.

Maybe they’d all packed up and left?

He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. It wasn't over yet. He had to keep going, had to believe that, somewhere in these woods, Lydia was waiting to be found.

With renewed determination, he turned back toward the basecamp, his steps heavy but purposeful. He would find her. He had to.

But as he walked, the ache in his chest grew heavier. Each step felt like an eternity, each breath a struggle against despair. He thought of Lydia's laughter, her gentle touch, the way she would tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear when she was busy. Memories flooded his mind, moments frozen in time that now seemed impossibly distant.

He stumbled upon a fallen log and sank down heavily, his back against the rough bark. Tears streamed down his face unchecked now, mingling with sweat and dirt. “Damn it, Lydia,” he whispered hoarsely to the silent forest. “Where are you?”

He had never felt so helpless, so utterly lost. The weight of responsibility bore down on him like a vice, squeezing the air from his lungs. “I need you,” he choked out, his voice breaking.

The forest offered no answers, only the echo of his own pain. He wiped at his eyes roughly, trying to regain composure.

With a weary sigh, Caleb pushed himself to his feet. He had to keep moving, had to find a way forward. For Lydia. For Grace, Zoey, and Ella.

As he trudged back toward the basecamp, determination mingled with exhaustion. He would have to face Mira, and her impatience with him. He’d have to take a map from her, his path designated and marked.

Mira didn’t like vigilante behavior. She wanted to always know their exact location at all times. He’d stormed off on his own like an idiot, and, whatever flack she threw at him, it was deserved.

He pressed on, his heart heavy but his spirit unyielding.

CHAPTER 15

From her bunk, Taylor watched Quig as she used a piece of string to shape Trina’s eyebrows. She’d never known that boredom had so many levels. She was already doing her fifth day in jail, and she was spitting mad. Only that morning had they finally brought her fish kit, and now she owed Trina for soap and shampoo, as well as the toothbrush and paste, which was exactly why she didn’t like to borrow things. She’d handed it over and now she’d have to wait until her money on her books came through. Whomever oversaw it was taking their own sweet time in setting it up.

Jane’s comrade had been waiting with her hand out when Taylor got her bag. For the mug hitting her in the head—that wasn’t Taylor’s fault—she had to pay her with the shampoo.

To add to her misery, Comer hadn’t returned.

Was he going to do his experiment or not?

If not, she wanted to go on home. He had no business keeping her there if he wasn’t going to use her as planned. Overnight, a major headache had creeped up on her, and it wasn’t showing any signs of going away.

So far, she’d stuck to her guns that she wasn’t going to call home. She’d left a note for Sam the morning she’d left, telling him she wouldn’t call because their conversations could put the project in jeopardy, but she wanted to hear his voice so badly that she was close to breaking their deal. It was just that right now, as she was doing intel on inmates and staying mostly out of the thick of anything, she had too much time on her hands. Time to obsess over how things were going at the farm. Over what Sam and Alice were up to or thinking about her.

Were they taking good care of Diesel?

Well, to be honest, she didn’t have to worry about Diesel. Sam treated him like a child, just like she did. Oh, but how she’d love to bury her face in his fur right now and feel his silent comfort.

It was a good thing she didn’t need the phones. During their one hour of free time in the dayroom, everyone raced for the few that worked. Others lined up and squabbles erupted, urging each other to hurry up and some getting downright nasty about it. Others begged for pin codes from their friends so they could call their own people, despite not having any money on their books. More deals were made. Feelings were hurt. So much drama.

Taylor didn’t want any part of it.

When the sound of all the doors unlocking at once rang through the room, everyone went silent for a minute, then Trina pushed open the door and looked out.

“He’s done it,” she said excitedly. “Everyone’s out!”

Taylor got up and walked out to the gangway, looking out and around the dayroom. Inmates were coming out of their rooms, some looking shocked and others celebrating with high fives and hugs. Others were busy doing quick trades before they got locked back in. Snacks, notes, and all sorts of things were changing hands like a blur.

Below, on the first floor, a CO was cleaning up around the booth, covering the control panels and locking everything up.

“What’s going on?” April asked her.

“Sheriff’s lost his ever-loving mind,” the CO muttered. “Y’all are unlocked. We were told to vacate and not come in again, other than for meds and trays.”

“Are you telling me that he’s really not going to put an officer in here with us?” April asked incredulously. “We get to govern ourselves?”

“Affirmative. Prepare for a gigantic shit show,” the CO said, then gathered up a few notebooks and her lunch bag, unlocked the door to the outside hall, slipped out and slammed it shut behind her.

Taylor watched as April turned around and crossed her arms over her chest, nodding and smiling like the cat that ate the canary.

“Who’s the boss now, bitches?” she hollered.

Taylor watched as April took charge, her voice cutting through the chaotic chatter.

"Alright, listen up," she announced, her tone carrying the weight of newfound power. "From now on, I run things in here. If you got issues, bring 'em to me. We’ll settle things before they get out of hand and not have to wait on a CO to do it."

Taylor frowned, sensing trouble brewing in April's bold proclamation. She knew all too well how power could corrupt even the most well-intentioned.

Sure enough, a few minutes later, an agitated inmate approached April, complaining about her cellmate’s transgression.

“She’s a thief. Stole my Milky Way,” the woman said. “I know she did because no one else was in there but her and, when I got back from breakfast, it was gone.”

“I swear, I didn’t,” the other girl said, joining them to defend herself.

“Then why was the wrapper stuffed under your clothes?” the accuser asked.

The girl’s face turned scarlet.

April didn’t miss a beat, declaring, "Court in five. My room."

Court?

Taylor hesitated, torn between staying out of trouble and curiosity at what was happening. She decided to get closer and, when April’s cronies went in and one blocked the door, Taylor lingered outside with at least a dozen more, straining to hear the muffled voices within.

Inside, the accused pleaded her case, recounting her side of the story which was that the accuser ate the candy bar late the night before and did it while so sleepy that she doesn’t remember it.

“And stuffed the wrapper under your clothes why?” April asked.

“To make me buy her another one!”

April, now judge and jury in her kangaroo court, delivered her verdict swiftly.

"You messed up with the evidence, girl," she declared, her voice carrying through the thin walls. "For the next five days, you're giving up your dinner tray to us. That's your punishment."

The girls around her silently celebrated, high-fiving and laughing.

“And you’d better be glad I’m in a good mood. Next time you steal, you’ll get five licks. And not on a candy bar. On your ass from my posse when they lace up on you.”

“Facts,” one of her cronies contributed.

Taylor felt a simmering anger. Yeah, no one liked a thief, but she bristled at the thought of April and her followers’ deciding fates and doling out punishments like prison royalty. There wasn’t much she could do about it without jeopardizing her assignment, so she retreated to her bunk, seething with frustration and disillusionment.

Inside her own cell, Taylor’s thoughts raced with conflicting thoughts. She knew she should stay out of the fray, keep her head down and avoid drawing attention. But as she listened to more of April's self-assured declarations coming from the dayroom where she now had control of the remote control and was deciding what they’d be watching on television for the rest of the night, a fierce determination began to build within her.

This wasn't what Comer had hoped for and it was only going to lead to tyranny masked as empowerment. Taylor knew that, sooner or later, she would have to decide where she stood in this dangerous game when it came to how far she let things go in the name of justice.

Dinnertime was turning out to be interesting. On one hand, they no longer had a time limit to eat, but, on the flip side of that, there wasn’t an officer to help the trustee hand out trays. Usually, a tall, skinny Hispanic woman they called Flaca, who was trustee, would have the inmates come down in sections, starting from the top level.

That way allowed for them to keep track and make sure that everyone was fed. Without the doors locked to keep everyone from coming at the same time, the trustee was struggling to keep some of the inmates from taking two trays, and they ended up short with four inmates not getting dinner.

Of course, that caused some clashing and the trustee banged on the door until she got the CO’s attention, told her and was quickly shot down in the request for four more trays. The COs seemed to be hoping the experiment would fail, and this was one more snafu they were glad to see happen.

Taylor was pretty sure it was April’s cronies who took the extra trays but since they, along with a lot of others, took their dinner to their rooms to eat, the trustee didn’t see it.

Now there was four women who were hungry, angry, and looking for something to vent it on. They sat at a table, glaring around them until a few other inmates started donating pieces off their tray.

A carton of milk.

Bread.

A few half sandwiches shared. Unwanted oranges.

The new routine also brought to light a discovery. Taylor watched as the trustee frantically reached under the trays, scanning them with her hand before they were grabbed up.

Contraband.

It had to be coming in on the bottom of trays. Probably a connection the trustee had made in the kitchen. Someone with access to receive orders from the outside could have their own connection. And that’s how it went. From one to the other, until it landed behind the bars and into the bodies of women who would pay anything to keep their high.

Comer would be thrilled at her discovery.

The evening wasn’t totally lost to bad news.

At least there were those who didn’t want others to go hungry. Many of the women in the pod obviously didn’t want to have constant turmoil. They were looking for a way to do their time in peace. But it was always one bad apple—or a few—who spoiled the whole barrel.

Taylor had a feeling she knew exactly who the baddest apple would be.

After dinner, she stayed in the dayroom for a while, playing checkers with a few girls. It was time she got to know more of the inmates, and her spot at the back table was a good one for being able to watch things going on around the pod.

When it was time for Housewives to come on, there was an argument because it was showing at the same time as a football game that another pocket of women wanted to see. April decided it, and the sound of the sportscaster calling the game filled the room.

When a touchdown was made, those watching went berserk.

“I’m going up,” Taylor said. It was too noisy for her.

Lyric was on her bunk, reading. Trina looked like she was writing a letter.

Quig was nowhere to be seen, and the room was nice and quiet without her, so Taylor planned to take advantage of the moment with a short nap. When she woke, she’d slept longer than she meant to. It was after midnight and the noise throughout the pod had ratcheted up to a high decimal, much worse than it was before the doors were opened.

It sounded more like a mental hospital than a county jail.

Taylor lay awake on her bunk, frustration gnawing at her as the sounds of raucous rapping and bickering over the last drops of flavored drink echoed through the pod. She was coming down with something, and an aching pain spread through her body. She’d have to ask for medical to send her some ibuprofen in the morning.

She glanced over at Trina, who lay still on her bunk, her expression weary, muttering under her breath, "Just stay put, stay outta trouble."

Lyric, quiet as usual, radiated a simmering rage that filled the small space around her. The quiet ones were who you had to worry about, and Taylor hoped she wasn’t about to lose it.

Suddenly, Quig, who had been tossing and turning on the top bunk, couldn't take it anymore. With a frustrated groan, she jumped down and stormed out of the cell.

"Quig, wait!" Trina yelled out, scrambling out of her bunk. Taylor followed, their bare feet padding softly on the cold floor as they hurried after Quig.

They chased her to where she stopped outside April's where a group inside were amid a spirited rap session, their voices booming through the thin walls of the cell along with banging something against the wall to the beat.

"Shut the hell up!" Quig yelled, her voice cutting through the music.

Everyone went silent.

They all turned to glare at Quig, their faces hardened with defiance. "Who the hell do you think you are?" April snapped, her tone challenging.

Trina stepped forward, trying to defuse the tension. "Come on, Quig. Let's go back to our cell. It's not worth it," she pleaded, reaching out to pull Quig away.

Taylor stood beside Trina, torn between supporting her cellmates and avoiding getting caught in the middle of a brewing conflict. She knew the importance of keeping a low profile, but Quig's outburst had escalated the situation beyond repair.

"Y'all think you can just come up in my house and tell me what to do?" April taunted, her voice dripping with disdain as she approached, nose to nose with Quig. “I run this place.”

Quig, with her small but athletic frame, was still no match for April but she obviously thought different. Her fists clenched at her sides, her chest heaving with anger. "You don't run anything. This is still jail, not your playground," she shot back defiantly.

Taylor stepped forward, placing herself between Quig and April, hoping to defuse the tension before it erupted into violence. "Come on, Quig. Let's go," she urged, her voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through her veins.

Trina nodded in agreement, gently pulling Quig out of the cell. "She's right. It's not worth it," she repeated, her voice tinged with concern. “You’ll end up in Seg.”

“Yeah, you’d better get your girl under control,” April hissed. “Or I will.”

Quig obviously wasn’t a fan of solitary confinement because, reluctantly, she allowed herself to be led away, shooting one last glare toward April.

In the rest of the pod, others had gathered, watching to see what would brew up when someone dared to confront the pod boss. Many of them nodded their way, giving respect for Quig’s bravery before Trina guided her back into the relative quiet of their own cell.

The rap party started back up, even louder now.

As they settled back into their bunks, Taylor couldn't shake the unease settling in her stomach. The balance of power in the pod was fragile, and April's unchecked authority threatened to tip it into chaos. She knew she couldn't afford to get dragged into any more confrontations, but the growing discontent among the inmates hinted at trouble on the horizon.

She lay awake, listening to the murmurs and restless movements of her cellmates, her mind racing. In the stillness of the night, she knew that navigating this volatile environment would require more than just keeping her head down—it would demand a careful strategy.

But as exhaustion finally pulled her into an uneasy sleep, Taylor knew that the next day in the pod would bring new challenges, and she would need to be prepared for whatever came next.

CHAPTER 16

Lydia and Jill had been confined in the bunker for what felt like an eternity. With Dom absent for several days now, the walls seemed to close in on them more than ever. They had exhausted every possible distraction: reading from a worn-out children’s book, playing simple games with pebbles, and attempting to sketch pictures on scraps of paper.

Jill was a child. Lydia knew Dom was cruel, but how could he do this to his own daughter? She needed fresh air. Sunlight.

Her mother.

But now, as they lay side by side on a bunk, boredom and restlessness hung heavily in the stale air.

“Do you think he left food and water for Diablo,” Jill asked, breaking the uneasy silence.

Lydia turned to her, her own worry mirrored in Jill's eyes. She’d have to lie. “I'm sure he's okay. Your dad wouldn't forget to take care of his dog.”

“But what if he did?” Jill fretted. “Diablo might die”

“I heard him out there just a half hour ago, so he’s okay for now,” Lydia replied, trying to sound reassuring despite her own doubts.

Jill rolled onto her side, facing Lydia. “Linda, I hate my dad,” she suddenly blurted out, her frustration evident. “I wish he'd just disappear.”

Lydia's heart sank at Jill's words, knowing the weight of his daughter's feelings. “Jill,” she began gently, “I understand you're upset, but we can't wish for that. He is the only one who knows where we are so, if he doesn’t come back, we’d be stuck.”

“But he's so mean,” Jill protested, tears welling up in her eyes. “He doesn't care about us.”

Lydia reached out, pulling Jill into a comforting embrace. “I know this is hard,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “But we have each other. We'll figure this out together. Why don’t you tell me about school. Who is your favorite teacher? The one you can’t wait to get back to?”

Jill hesitated. “Mister Crawford. He’s patient and, when I do something right, he’s so excited. Like he really cares.”

“And what does he teach?”

“Clarinet. Private lessons. I wanted to learn to play the drums, but Mom said that I needed something smaller. We made a deal that, if I get good at the clarinet this year, she might consider me learning something else next year.”

“Are you good yet?”

Jill giggled. “Not really.”

“Wait a minute,” Lydia said, then hopped off the bed. She went to the table and picked up the pencil Dom had left there and brought it back to the bunk.

She handed it to Jill. Hopefully it would help get her mind off the hard things.

“What?”

“Sit up. I want you to pretend that’s the clarinet and play me a song.”

“But how can I play you a song with a pencil?” Jill looked doubtfully at the pencil.

“Use your fingers on it while you hum. Or sing. Just close your eyes and imagine yourself at school, with Mister Crawford as your audience. Play that pencil!”

Jill smiled and sat up, then closed her eyes and held the pencil to her mouth, eraser first. After another hesitation, she began to hum to the tune of Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star while her fingers played along the spine of the pencil.

When she finished, Lydia clapped her hands.

“That was great! What else do you know?”

Jill closed her eyes again and launched into Jingle Bells, this time really getting into it with moving her body and she bounced on the bed. It was great to see her being animated as she put herself back into her old life through her imagination. Possibly even remembering a joyous Christmas from home.

Their concert was abruptly interrupted by first a frantic barking outside from Diablo, then the sound of the bunker door unlocking.

Both Lydia and Jill jumped, their hearts racing with a mixture of hope and fear.

Jill scrambled to her feet and rushed toward the door, calling out anxiously, “Dad? Is that you?”

The door swung open, revealing an elderly woman standing in the dim light of the corridor. She was tall and wiry, her face weathered and blemished from years of sun exposure. Strands of gray hair were pulled back into a loose ponytail, giving her an air of stern resolve. She wore a plaid, flannel shirt over worn jeans and boots.

Lydia couldn't contain her excitement. “Oh my God, we're saved!” she exclaimed, relief flooding through her.

But the woman didn't speak. Nor did she move to let them out. Instead, she leaned against the door frame, studying them with a mix of scrutiny and curiosity.

Lydia's elation faltered, replaced by caution and confusion, then suspicion.

“Who are you?” she asked cautiously, her voice trembling slightly. “Are you here to help us? To let us out? Please, do you have a phone?”

The woman's gaze softened as it settled on Jill, who stood frozen in place, eyes wide with uncertainty. After a moment's hesitation, the woman spoke, her voice surprisingly gentle yet tinged with an underlying edge.

“I'm Jill’s grandmother,” she finally introduced herself, her tone carrying a hint of something more.

Lydia felt a jolt of surprise and confusion. Jill's grandmother?

Jill took a tentative step forward. “My grandma?” she echoed, disbelief coloring her voice. “I didn’t know I had another one.”

The woman nodded slowly, her expression grave. “You won’t remember me,” she explained quietly. “I haven’t seen you since you were a baby, thanks to the selfishness of your mother.”

Lydia exchanged a bewildered glance with Jill, unsure of what to make of this unexpected revelation. Relief washed over her at the thought of rescue, but questions swirled in her mind.

“Are you going to help us escape?” Jill asked hesitantly, her voice filled with cautious hope. “I want to see my mom.”

“Sorry, but no,” she replied curtly. “I'm not here to rescue you.”

Jill's hopeful expression faltered, confusion and disappointment flickering across her features. Lydia's heart sank as the woman continued speaking, her voice taking on a somber tone.

“I'm here because your dad asked me to watch over you,” she explained, her words hanging heavily in the air.

Lydia's breath caught in her throat, a cold chill running down her spine. “What do you mean?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “Please, move out of our way. We want out of here.”

Lydia moved a foot or so closer to the door.

The woman’s gaze turned steely. She pulled a knife from her pocket as she looked at Lydia. “You’re not going anywhere. My son has other plans,” she said firmly. “Plans that involve keeping you both here. It’s for your own good. I promise.”

Lydia's mind raced as she backed up. She had hoped for rescue, for freedom from this underground prison. Now, faced with the woman’s cold revelation, her fragile hope shattered like glass.

Jill stood frozen in place, a look of unbelief on her face.

“What are you going to do to us?” Lydia demanded, her voice tinged with anger and fear. “Why would you help him? This is your own blood. Your granddaughter. This isn’t right to do this, can’t you see?”

Her gaze softened slightly, sympathy flickering in her eyes. “I’m not going to say what’s right or what’s wrong. My son and I may not see eye to eye,” she admitted, “but he's my son and his father’s child. And they’ve made it clear what will happen if I don't cooperate.”

Tears welled up in Jill's eyes as she turned to Lydia, her voice choked with emotion.

“Linda,” she whispered, “what are we going to do?”

Lydia took a deep breath, her mind racing with thoughts of escape.

But a glint of sunlight hit the blade of the knife, reminding her that the priority was keeping Jill safe.

“We stay calm,” Lydia said firmly, her voice steadying despite her inner turmoil. “We will find a way out of here, Jill. Maybe not today but we will, no matter what.”

The woman watched them both with a mixture of resignation and regret. Yet she didn’t show any indication that she’d change her mind.

As the reality of their situation sank in, Lydia felt a surge of determination. They might be trapped, but she refused to give up hope. Perhaps this woman could be manipulated. Or convinced to let them go.

She just had to think.

“Well, he was right about one thing,” the woman said, looking thoughtfully at her granddaughter. “You are indeed the spitting image of your Uncle Kenny, bless his soul.”

Then she stood back and closed the door.

The locks engaging from the outside sounded like gunshots to Lydia.

Jill clung to her, her eyes brimming with tears. “I'm scared,” she admitted softly.

Lydia held Jill close, her own heart breaking with the weight of their predicament. “I know,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “We'll figure this out, Jill. I promise.”

“No, Linda. I feel like I can’t breathe.”

She was wheezing and Lydia hadn’t noticed. “Sit down, Jill.”

She guided her to a chair at the table.

“I need my inhaler,” Jill said between gasps of breath.

“Inhaler?” Lydia asked, alarmed. “Do you have asthma?”

Jill nodded, her eyes wide. She pointed at her backpack hanging on a hook at the wall.

Lydia ran to it and dug around until her fingers felt an oblong item. She pulled it out and then ran it to Jill, who immediately used it, closing her eyes as she leaned forward.

“Calm down,” Lydia said softly, rubbing Jill’s shoulders. “Breathe slow. Easy.”

Lydia shook her head in frustration. As if she didn’t have enough to worry about, now she had a kid with a breathing issue that flared when she was at her most panicked. That was going to make their escape attempt much more difficult. Hopefully when and if the woman returned, this time they would have a plan.

CHAPTER 17

Caleb stood amidst the somber atmosphere at Ground Zero of the search area around Cohutta Wilderness, the sun casting long shadows over the rugged landscape. Their group was now down to just a dozen people, most of them looking listless and defeated, a sad effect of not finding a single scrap of evidence to prove Lydia had been in the woods there. Thankfully, the girls had gone back to school and stopped insisting they needed to be there, but had made him promise to text them if anything at all was found.

Shane arrived, pulling his car into the parking area too fast. He quickly climbed out and approached, his expression serious.

“Caleb,” Shane greeted him, his voice steady. “I just got a call from Norman's boss in Alpharetta. He showed up for work yesterday. The boss called the local PD, and they took him into custody. FBI is on their way to question him about his daughter’s disappearance again. I’m headed up there now before they cut him loose.”

Caleb's heart skipped a beat at the unexpected news. “I need to go with you,” he insisted firmly, already moving toward Shane's unmarked police vehicle.

Shane nodded. “Hop in, but, when we get there, I’ll ask the questions. You only observe,” he said tersely, starting the engine as they began their journey toward Alpharetta. The tension in the car was palpable, each mile passing in uneasy silence broken only by the hum of the engine and occasional instructions from Shane.

“You know Norman's a lawyer,” Shane remarked as they neared their destination. “He's going to be cautious. We need to tread carefully, or he’ll clam up.”

Caleb nodded grimly, his mind racing with thoughts of the implications of Norman's sudden reappearance.

Arriving at the Alpharetta Police Department around an hour later, they were led to a nondescript interview room where Norman Addler sat waiting, dressed impeccably in a navy-blue suit that looked like it cost at least ten Benjamins. His shoes were so shiny they sparkled and not a hair was out of place. His demeanor was cool and composed, a stark contrast to Caleb's internal turmoil.

A police officer sat at the table with Addler, looking at his fingernails with a bored expression, obviously there as a guard of some sort.

The police chief had advised them that the FBI had grilled him for a few hours before once again clearing him, and it was Weaver’s short window to ask him about Lydia.

“Detective Weaver, Mr. Grimes,” Addler greeted them with a polite nod, his voice measured and familiar, as though he knew them. “I was told you were on your way. How can I be of help?”

“We appreciate your cooperation, Mr. Addler,” Shane replied evenly, his gaze unwavering. “We're here to ask a few questions regarding the disappearance of Lydia Grimes.”

“Yes, that’s what I heard.” Addler leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs with casual confidence as he responded smoothly. “But let's be clear—I'm here voluntarily, out of respect for the situation. I have no knowledge of Lydia's disappearance, nor do I have any information on my daughter's case. Her mother should be charged with child endangerment for allowing our daughter to disappear. Probably some damn wacko on the internet got to her.”

“Happens every day,” the officer said, relaxing against the wall and crossing his arms.

“It wouldn’t have happened on my watch,” Addler said tersely. “Anyway, I’ve heard that somehow my name was entangled in a case involving a missing woman. I have no idea how that came to be, and I'll entertain a few questions, but my time is limited. And valuable, you might say. Though we can work out a fee if you’d like.”

Shane ignored his passive-aggressive comment and began methodically, asking him where he was the week Lydia was left in Amicalola by the first men who’d abducted her.

“Let me see,” Norman said, picking up his phone and scrolling through his calendar. “Oh, I took some personal time. Spent a week in Tampa at an Airbnb, went on a fishing trip.”

“Alone?” Caleb interjected; his voice tinged with suspicion.

Norman's gaze didn't falter as he replied, “Only me in the rental, obviously. And just the fishing guide on the water. It was a private charter. I needed some quiet.”

“I’d like to see the receipts from the rental and the charter,” Shane said.

“Any photographs from your trip?” Caleb added, scrutinizing Norman's composed demeanor.

“No photos,” Norman replied calmly as he picked up his phone and logged into his bank account. “We didn't catch anything worth documenting.”

Shane pressed further, “Do you have the receipts?”

Norman turned his phone around, then scrolled through, methodically pointing out transactions for an Airbnb rental and a fishing charter, along with charges for gas, groceries, and fast food stops during his travels.

“I can email you copies of it all if needed,” Addler said.

Caleb felt a sinking feeling in his chest. Norman's alibi seemed meticulous and well-documented. When he looked up from the phone screen, he caught Norman watching him with a sardonic smile—a silent challenge, a game of cat and mouse where Norman believed himself to be in control.

He thinks he’s smarter than everyone, Caleb thought bitterly, his resolve hardening.

“Do you have more than one residence?” Shane asked Addler.

“Nope. Why do you ask?”

“We went to your condo. Doesn’t look like you spend much time there.”

Addler shrugged. “I work a lot. I go out a lot. I’m a bachelor, what can I say?”

“Do you visit a home in Ellijay on Double Knob Mountain?” Shane asked.

Addler didn’t look surprised at the question. “My brother—excuse me, my late brother’s property? Yes, I go there occasionally when I need some alone time. Great place to unwind. Why do you ask?” he answered smoothly.

“When was the last time you were there?” Shane asked.

Addler raised his eyes toward the ceiling, as though thinking hard to recall.

“Not sure. It’s been a while. Where is this going?”

“What’s the setup in the basement for?” Caleb blurted out. “Who did the drawings?”

“I believe that my brother had something set up down there in case of a bad storm, and I’m not sure what drawings you mean. Maybe his kids did them.”

“You’re a damn liar,” Caleb blurted out, then dove across the table.

Shane grabbed him before he could get his hands on Addler. “Grimes! Sit yourself back in your seat and calm down,” he shouted.

The officer had come to stand behind Addler in a protective mode.

Addler calmly pretended to wipe dust from his shoulders, then he stood. “Well, that was an unfortunate turn of events. I can’t imagine what I’ve done to insult you, Deputy Grimes. I've answered your questions,” he stated firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. “At least all that I’m going to allow you. I'll be leaving now.”

Shane shot an angry glance at Caleb, silently acknowledging the limitations of their current position. Norman had played his cards well, leaving them with no legal grounds to detain him further. Not only that, but now he knew they were onto him, and he’d protect himself all the harder.

Caleb clenched his jaw, watching Norman walk confidently out of the room, the officer behind him. Despite the setback, he refused to give up hope.

When the door closed and they were alone, Shane turned to Caleb.

“You blew it. When I tell the sheriff about this, he’s going to make you take some time off.”

“Then don’t tell him.” Caleb wasn’t about to apologize. He wished he’d been a second or two faster than Shane, so he could’ve choked the truth out of Addler.

“I don’t keep secrets from my boss,” Shane said. He gathered up his notebook and pen. “We might as well finish out the day, though. Let’s see if we can follow him.”

Caleb knew better than to even ask about the option of getting a search warrant for Addler’s car or putting a tracker on it. Despite the earring and the drawings in the basement, until the DNA results came back, they had nothing.

No judge in his right mind would grant another search warrant or a tag.

CHAPTER 18

Taylor slapped her cards down and called Spades. She was thankful to have something to use up part of the day, and the deck they played with was homemade and surprisingly well done.

Lyric had created them from notebook paper, adding the numbers and other art elements in painstakingly meticulous details. She was hiding a fantastic artistic ability under her quiet persona.

Taylor couldn't help but feel a pang of homesickness. Playing cards reminded her of game nights back home with Sam and Alice—pizza, laughter, and the simple joy of being together. She wondered if they were carrying on without her, missing her as much as she missed them.

But right now, her focus was on the precarious situation in the pod. Visitation for the week had been canceled, due to some unforeseen situation with staffing, was all that they were told. Downstairs, among other squabbles, the women had been fighting over the phones all day. Only three of the four worked, and some women stayed on them too long. The ones waiting were furious. Some inmates couldn’t make any calls, because they didn’t have money on their books. Those were the sad cases, because they wanted to talk to someone on the outside just as much as anyone did.

There’d also nearly been a fight over the dayroom television earlier. Now that the guards weren’t controlling what they watched, everyone had an opinion and a different choice.

Things weren’t going well in the experiment, but they still had a chance to make things right, to steer it away from chaos and toward a semblance of order.

"You know, Trina," Taylor began quietly, breaking the tense silence, "we need to start setting some parameters in here. This free-for-all isn't working. I grew up with several sisters, and, trust me, chaos without boundaries just breeds more chaos."

Trina glanced up from her cards, her brow furrowed in consideration. "Yeah, I see what you mean. But how do we even begin to rein things in? April has everyone convinced she's in charge and all she cares about is she and her crew getting their way."

Taylor leaned forward, her voice low but determined. "I have an idea. You should talk to Jane. She's got a lot of respect around here, but she doesn't flaunt it like April. Being older, she might have more sway with the younger ones. She can talk them into some semblance of order before Sheriff Comer shuts this experiment down."

Trina nodded slowly, absorbing Taylor's words. "You're right. Jane could help. They think of her as an OG. And, yeah, we need some kind of system for getting trays, handling issues—anything to knock April off her throne before things get worse."

Quig, perched on her bunk above them watching them play cards, chuckled cynically. "You guys are crazy if you think that'll work. They should've never unlocked these doors. Now the patients are running the asylum. I’ve seen two new tattoos just today. They think they can do anything they want now."

Taylor shot Quig a pointed look but turned back to Trina, ignoring the skepticism. "We have to try. The last thing we need is the sheriff clamping down on us again."

"Why don't you talk to Jane yourself?" Trina suggested, her tone curious.

Taylor hesitated, choosing her words carefully. "There was an incident at breakfast a few days ago. One of her pals got popped in the head with my coffee mug.”

Trina’s eyes widened. “No shit? You hit her?”

“No, it was an accident, but I'm not sure Jane would be receptive to my advice right now."

Taylor also didn’t want to take any type of leadership role. It was best for her to keep a low profile until her time was up. Some of the inmates were so seasoned they could smell a cop from a mile away. Taylor wasn’t going to give them the chance.

Trina nodded understandingly. "Ah, I get it, Wilkins. You think you’re on her bad side."

Taylor shrugged, a flicker of concern crossing her face. "I don’t know, but it would be better coming from you. Everyone likes you."

Trina beamed, but it was true. She had a way of being friends with all sides—every color and personality seemed to just accept her. She was as vanilla as it gets, other than her tattoos, and Taylor supposed she felt like an innocent little sister to everyone.

Taylor sighed, pushing the cards aside. "On that note, I'm done. I need to lie down."

Trina nodded in sympathy, her gaze flickering with concern as Taylor settled back on her bunk. "You still feeling rough? Maybe you should ask for some more ibuprofen."

“It only made my stomach hurt,” Taylor said, climbing onto her bunk and laying back. The headache she’d been nursing was worse and now radiated down her neck. She closed her eyes, trying to rest despite the clamor around them that leaked in around the cracks of their closed door.

Then everything stopped.

“What’s going on?” Taylor said, sitting up.

Quig looked out the door window.

“It’s Captain Henderson.”

“Oh, hell no,” Trina said. “We might be too late to salvage the program. Sheriff sent in his right-hand man to break the news.”

They went out and leaned over the railing as the captain waited for everyone to gather before he began.

“Get on with it,” a woman called out, earning herself a glare. “New Jersey Housewives is coming on in ten minutes. Showdown between Teresa and Melissa is about to go down.”

“Hell, we got Rango County Housewives up in here with all the drama you could want,” someone else added.

The others laughed.

"Ladies," the captain finally began, his voice carrying a weighty solemnity, "I regret to inform you that Sheriff Comer and Chief Deputy Miller have been in a car accident. They'll be okay, but both are recovering in the hospital."

A murmur of concern rippled through the pod. Not for the men, but most likely for what that meant to the pod.

Taylor's heart sank. They were the only ones who knew she was there undercover. What would this mean for her?

"In their absence," the captain said, "I'm in charge. Let me be clear: I'm not making any changes right now. But one wrong move and I'll have no choice but to shut this so-called experiment down. We'll go back to 23 and 1, and that'll be that. I heard about the chow kerfuffle and, if you want to keep these doors open, you girls better get your shit straight. That being said, I do plan to follow the plan and the next step was a reward. Sheriff is making phones free for all.”

It took a moment to sink in but, when it did, it was total mayhem. The women were ecstatic, especially those who were always short of money and couldn’t call their families.

“They’ve already been switched over,” Henderson said. “Don’t make me regret it.”

With that, he left, letting the big door slam behind him. Immediately there was a rush for the phones, with a bit of shoving and cursing involved.

Taylor exchanged a worried glance with Trina. They needed to act fast.

"Now's the time, Trina," Taylor urged quietly, her voice urgent yet determined. "Talk to Jane. Get something organized before it's too late."

Trina nodded firmly, determination glinting in her eyes. "I’ll go now.”

“Wilkins, wake up!”

Taylor stirred, her consciousness reluctantly surfacing from a deep slumber. The voice calling her sounded distant at first, as if echoing through a fog. She blinked, trying to focus. Trina was standing by her bunk, concern etched on her face.

"What time is it?" Taylor mumbled, rubbing her eyes. She felt disoriented, unsure if it was still daytime or if she had missed dinner.

"A half an hour later than the last time I saw you, dummy. What’s wrong with you?" Trina's voice was laced with worry.

“I must’ve fallen asleep,” she said. It was a good nap, too. Taylor felt like she’d been drugged, she’d gone so deep. She wished that Trina would’ve waited an hour or so but, now that she was awake, it would be useless to try to go back to sleep. Her head felt like a bomb ticking, and any minute it would blow.

“Well, sorry, but I’m excited. I talked to Jane and she’s on board. She’s about to call a grassroots meeting in a few minutes. She told me to make some bullet points,” Trina says. “Can you help me?”

“Yeah, I can help. All of us can.” Slowly, she climbed down and joined the other three on the bottom bunks. Every muscle in her body ached.

Trina already had her pencil and paper ready.

“I suggest a sign-up sheet for the phones,” Taylor said, holding her head. “Fifteen-minutes at a pop with the next person on deck waiting. Then everyone doesn’t have to fight over them.”

“We need to address chow time,” Quig said. “What do we do about that?”

Taylor hesitated. Her brain was slowly coming back awake. “I think the only way is for each section to be called down to get their tray, like they were before, but with no time limit to eat and bring it back. That way we can make sure they’re only getting one tray each so that everybody eats.”

“And we need a new team to do clean up. Flaca said she’s done because no one appreciates her,” Trina added. “Her girls quit, too.”

“So, we do incentive,” Taylor said. “The team who does cleanup gets to take turns deciding what’s on the TV. That’s only fair they get something. Maybe Flaca will reconsider since she already knows the drill.”

“I’ll help out with it,” Quig said. “I don’t need no incentive. So damn boring around here, I’ll do it for free.”

“So that’s a few ways to get order back in,” Trina said. “What else?”

Lyric looked up from under the curtain of her bangs. “They need something to occupy their minds.”

They were all a little shocked that she’d contributed, and it took Taylor a second to respond. “Lyric, you’re right. What about one of our bullet points is to schedule some activities during the day? Maybe it’ll wear them out and they’ll go to sleep earlier. You know what, you could have a drawing class.”

Lyric shrank back. “I don’t know …”

“Okay, well we can see if there are any other artists here and maybe you could help. I’d just like to see the women learning something while they’re here in limbo.”

“What about exercise?” Quig asked. “Yoga, or aerobics or something.”

Trina fell back laughing. “I can just see them doing aerobics. Yeah, right.”

“What’s wrong with that? I’ve done a lot of yoga.” Quig demanded.

“Nothing’s wrong with it, Quig. Great idea,” Taylor said, defusing the situation. “Would you be interested in holding classes and teaching them some moves?”

“It’s poses, not moves,” Quig said. “And yeah—I guess. I mean, if they take it seriously. I’m not dealing with anyone laughing at it.”

She glared at Trina.

“Sorry,” Trina said. “I just wasn’t expecting that.”

“What else?” Taylor asked.

“Book club?” Trina said, then frowned. “Well, we can’t get enough of one specific book to do that.”

“Someone could read out of one book every day and then at the end of that chapter, discuss it,” Taylor said.

“Probably best, since half these broads can’t read,” Quig said, grinning.

“Pod meeting,” Jane shouted from the dayroom, her voice carrying easily to their cell. “Come on down, ladies.”

Trina smiled at Taylor and was the first out the door with her list. The rest of them followed and took a seat at one of the tables.

It was the first time since she’d been there that anyone had tried to call a meeting, other than the uniforms, and Taylor was surprised to see that most everyone gathered, curious to see what was going on.

Trina went and handed Jane the list, and she scanned it quickly before nodding approvingly.

Trina ran over and joined their table.

Jane stood at the front, facing the assembled inmates with a mix of authority and weariness etched on her face. "Alright, listen up, ladies," she began, her voice firm. "We're at a crossroads here. The sheriff's given us a chance with these unlocked doors, but we've got to get our act together. Otherwise, it's back to lockdown, and none of us want that."

A murmur went through the women. A fist went into the air.

“I ain’t trying to get locked behind that door for twenty-three hours a day again,” someone called out.

“I’ll lose my mind,” another woman added.

“Right,” Jane said. “That’s why we gotta do something different because this ain’t working. The Captain is itching to lock these doors, and y’all know it.”

A ripple of agreement passed through the group, punctuated by skeptical glances from April and her crew, who lounged at a table in the back with arms crossed and smirks on their faces.

Jane continued, unfazed by the opposition. "First up, we've got to sort out the phone situation. Free phones are great but not if it’s not shared. Right now, it’s just the cause of more division between us. Let’s implement a sign-up sheet for fifteen-minute slots, so everyone gets a fair chance."

A murmur of approval followed this suggestion, though April rolled her eyes theatrically. She was one of those who had spent at least an hour on one phone after the Captain left. No one had called her out for it, either, but it had brought about some underlying tension.

Next on the list, Jane addressed the issue of chow time. "We'll stagger mealtimes by section, just like before. No more rushing or fighting over trays. Your section only comes down when called, get your tray, then go eat. You can take as long as you want, then come stack the empties on the wagon."

Quig raised her hand tentatively. "What about cleanup? Cleaning tables and sweeping? Trash? Flaca and her crew have quit."

Jane nodded thoughtfully. "We'll establish a new cleanup team. Incentive-based—maybe they get to choose what's on TV each night."

“If that’s the case, and they can respect what we do, I’ll do it,” Flaca piped up. “Me and my team, that is.”

Jane continued to the next items on the list, tentatively suggesting they schedule some activities. Unexpectedly, a lot of the women were on board for aerobics, stating they wanted to lose some weight while they were inside. Jokes flew around the room with talk of getting lean and mean for their men.

The meeting progressed with more ideas and discussions, Taylor felt a glimmer of hope as she saw some of the hardened expressions soften, replaced by cautious interest.

But April remained a thorn in their side, her skepticism palpable. "So now we’re at a women’s retreat, are we?" she taunted, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “What’s next? Massages under the stars?”

Jane met her gaze evenly. "At least I'm trying to do something positive, April."

Taylor admired Jane's fearlessness. She didn’t let April intimidate her one bit. Taylor just hoped it didn’t turn into some kind of turf war.

Jane pressed on, addressing each bullet point with clarity and determination. Some inmates shook their heads dismissively, but others leaned forward with interest, adding ideas and input. Jane was diplomatic about everyone’s suggestions, and Taylor knew she’d chosen the right one to take the floor. She also knew that everyone, deep down, needed boundaries and guidelines, whether they wanted to admit it or not. The proof was right in front of her. They weren’t dismissing Jane’s suggestions; they were embracing them.

Well, at least most of them were. The ones who weren’t were just going to have to find a way to get over themselves or stay out of the way.

Especially April.

Jane adjourned the meeting, and Taylor took the opportunity to go put in a slip to see medical. She was feeling worse, and it was time to get some real meds. Since they couldn’t use the kite box now for requests, she slipped it under the main door.

Back in their cell after the meeting, Trina and Taylor exchanged exhausted smiles. "I think it went well," Trina ventured cautiously.

Taylor nodded, sinking onto her bunk with a weary sigh. "Yeah, I think so, too. Still, it’s not going to be easy because we have a lot of alpha personalities in here.”

“Too many chiefs, not enough Indians,” Quig murmured from her bunk.

“I agree,” Taylor said. “So, let's hope everyone follows through. Now I’m done for a while. Don’t wake me for dinner. I’m going back to sleep."

As she closed her eyes, the weight of the day settled on her shoulders. Taylor knew this was just the beginning. They had planted the seeds of change, but whether those seeds would take root and flourish remained to be seen.

CHAPTER 19

Lydia awoke the next day with a knot of tension in her stomach, her mind churning with thoughts of their unexpected visitor. She’d been awake most of the night before falling into a fitful sleep of exhaustion just before morning. She’d expected Dom to return during the night, but he hadn’t, putting her on edge with fear that he’d leave them for too long.

She glanced over at Jill, still sleeping peacefully, her inhaler nestled by her side on the bed. The events of yesterday replayed in her mind like a haunting melody, each note of uncertainty and fear lingering in the air of their confined space.

The asthma attack was a shocker.

Thank God that Jill had an inhaler. Lydia was surprised she hadn’t needed it during all the hiking in the woods, but it seemed that fear about the woman triggered the attack.

Lydia found herself pacing the small bunker, restless and anxious for any sign of their mysterious caretaker.

They’d wasted that opportunity. Lydia should’ve rushed at the woman, took her down.

She wanted another chance.

Just as despair threatened to settle in, the sound of the bunker door unlocking echoed through the chamber. Lydia's heart leaped with a mix of hope and apprehension.

The door swung open slowly, revealing the woman standing in the corridor, a basket in one hand filled with fresh vegetables and a bottle of homemade dressing. Her expression was inscrutable, a blend of guarded reservation and something else that Lydia couldn't quite decipher.

Without a word, the woman entered, placing the basket on the table with a clatter that broke the silence before she backed away and returned to the door.

Her eyes settled on Jill, who watched her cautiously from the bunk. “She needs fresh foods,” the woman stated brusquely, gesturing toward the vegetables.

Lydia nodded, accepting the basket with a tentative smile. “Thank you,” she murmured, her mouth already watering over the thought of a nice salad.

The woman remained standing near the doorway, arms crossed defensively, her gaze fixed on Lydia as she began washing the vegetables in the sink. The tension in the air was palpable, and Lydia knew she had to tread carefully if she wanted to make any headway with this woman.

As she chopped the vegetables, Lydia stole glances at the woman, searching for any opening. “You can come in and sit with Jill if you'd like,” she offered tentatively. “Get to know your granddaughter.”

The woman's expression softened imperceptibly at the mention of Jill, but she didn't move. Lydia pressed on, determined to find a connection. “You mentioned yesterday that Jill looks like Kenny,” she ventured. “Was he a lot like Jill’s father?”

The woman scoffed softly, shaking her head. “Nothing like Norman. Kenny was a good man,” she replied gruffly, her voice tinged with sadness. “Now I’m not even allowed to see his children.”

Lydia picked up the name quickly.

Norman.

It fit.

But she’d still call him Dom in her head.

She also noticed that the woman said Kenny was a good man. Past tense?

Curiosity sparked in Jill's eyes as she piped up from her bunk. “What is Uncle Kenny like, Grandma?”

For a moment, the woman seemed lost in thought, her gaze distant as memories washed over her. “He played the drums,” she began slowly, a hint of nostalgia softening her features. “He was a good reader, very smart in school. Kind. Didn't have any enemies.”

Jill smiled warmly.

Lydia seized the moment. “Would you like to join us for lunch?” she asked gently, hoping to bridge the gap between them.

Fear flickered briefly in the woman's eyes as she glanced around the bunker, then she stepped back, her posture stiffening. “No,” she replied curtly, her voice betraying a mix of reluctance and something akin to fear.

With that, she turned on her heel and swiftly backed out of the bunker, slamming and locking the door behind her.

Lydia sighed heavily, disappointment mingling with determination in her heart. She knew breaking through to this woman would take time and patience, but she refused to give up. Jill needed them both to survive this ordeal, and, somehow, they would find a way to reach her.

As she finished preparing the salad, Lydia glanced at Jill, who was now sitting at the table, her gaze thoughtful. She took the bowl and two forks over. Together, they ate in silence, the weight of their confinement pressing down on them.

Minutes passed with only the dull hum of the bunker's ventilation system breaking the silence. Lydia cleaned up after their meal, storing the remaining vegetables in a cool corner of the bunker. She kept thinking about the woman—Jill's grandmother—who seemed both protective and distant, torn between duty and some hidden turmoil.

Just as Lydia settled beside Jill, who had started doodling on a scrap of paper, the locks sounded, and the bunker door clanked open once more.

The woman carried a thermos and a fluffy duvet this time. Her knife hung on a sheath on her belt. Diablo was off his chain and ran in, going straight to the bunk Jill lay on and licking her on the arm that hung over the side.

“Hey, boy,” Jill said, instantly awake and alert. She leaned over and pet the dog as she talked to him.

“I brought the girl something better to sleep with,” the woman announced gruffly, placing the duvet on the floor in front of her. “I know it gets cold down here at night.”

Lydia nodded gratefully, noticing the slight softening in the woman's demeanor. “Thank you,” she said sincerely, her voice warm with appreciation. “That's thoughtful of you.”

The woman nodded curtly, her eyes flickering toward Jill. “And hot cocoa,” she added, setting the thermos down on the table. “For the child. Warm her up. It’s a chilly day.”

Jill looked up, surprised and touched by the gesture. “Thank you, Grandma,” she said softly, a shy smile tugging at her lips.

Good job, Jill. Keep calling her Grandma.

The woman's gaze softened briefly, a flicker of emotion crossing her weathered features before they turned to stone again. “It’s nothing,” she replied gruffly, averting her eyes. “Now, drink up. It'll help.”

Lydia picked up the thermos, looking at it suspiciously.

“Nothing in it but cocoa,” the woman said, looking offended. “I ain’t gonna hurt a child.”

Lydia took the thermos to Jill, then opened it and poured her a bit in the cap cover, handing it to her.

As Jill sipped the cocoa, Lydia watched the woman closely, sensing an opportunity. “Why don't you stay a while?” she suggested gently, gesturing toward the chair opposite her at the table. “Join us.”

The woman hesitated, uncertainty clouding her expression. “I ... I shouldn't,” she murmured, glancing toward the door as if expecting someone or something.

Lydia pressed on, her voice earnest. “You said Jill reminds you of Kenny,” she continued, choosing her words carefully. “Tell us more about him. We'd like to know.”

For a long moment, the woman stood motionless, torn between her instincts to retreat and a burgeoning curiosity.

Finally, with a sigh, she relented, but she didn’t leave the door. She reached for a chair and Lydia pushed it closer. The woman set it in the doorway and sat down.

“Kenny,” she began slowly, her voice tinged with bittersweet nostalgia, “was a good boy. He loved music—taught himself guitar. Then he played the drums like nobody's business until his father got tired of the noise and burnt them up.”

Sounded like Dom took after his father. Controlling. Cruel. What makes a parent destroy a child’s most-loved item?

The woman continued. “Kenny was smart. He knew how to keep his father calm most of the time. When he wasn’t intent on pleasing him, he always had his nose in a book.”

Jill's eyes lit up with fascination as she listened intently, her cocoa forgotten for the moment as she learned about a new relative. She kept her foot on Diablo’s back, doing gentle circles.

As they talked, Lydia noticed the woman gradually relaxing, her guard easing just a bit as she shared a few stories of Kenny's antics and kindness.

The tension that had hung in the air seemed to dissipate, replaced by a tentative sense of possible camaraderie.

Jill kept the woman talking, asking her questions.

Eventually, as the conversation lulled, Lydia poured them each a cup of coffee, silently grateful for the semblance of normalcy their unexpected guest had brought. The woman sipped her mug in silence, lost in her memories, her gaze distant yet less guarded than before.

“Thank you for staying,” Jill said softly, breaking the quiet moment. “It's nice to hear about Uncle Kenny.”

The woman nodded, a flicker of emotion crossing her features. “He would have liked you,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

“We are so grateful for your visit today,” Lydia said. “What should I call you?”

The woman stood abruptly, her demeanor shifting back to guarded reserve. “It wasn’t a visit. I was supposed to just check on you ... I have to go now,” she said hesitantly, glancing toward the door. “Diablo, come.”

Lydia nodded, sensing the woman's need to retreat, yet grateful for the glimpse of humanity she had shown. “Thank you,” she said sincerely, her voice carrying their unspoken hope for tomorrow.

The dog jumped at the command and joined the woman at the door. Without another word, she turned and left, the dog behind her before they heard the loud clicks of the multiple locks.

Lydia listened intently, a mix of emotions swirling within her—gratitude, curiosity, and a newfound hope.

As the bunker fell quiet once more, she turned to Jill, who sat with a thoughtful expression. “Well,” Lydia said softly, a smile playing on her lips, “it seems like we're making progress. You did a great job, Jill.”

Jill nodded eagerly, her eyes shining with renewed hope. “I think so too, Linda,” she replied, her voice filled with optimism. “Maybe ... maybe she'll help us after all. I don’t think she’s as mean as she tries to be.”

Lydia squeezed Jill's hand reassuringly, her heart lighter despite their uncertain future.

CHAPTER 20

Two days had passed since their tense encounter with Norman Addler. The search for Lydia had yielded no new leads, and Caleb’s frustration simmered beneath the surface like a dormant volcano waiting to erupt. He stood amidst the bustling activity of the search site, his eyes scanning the faces of volunteers and officers, searching for any sign of hope.

The morning sun hung high overhead, warming the searchers as they gathered. A sense of urgency permeated the air as teams prepared to head out once more into the dense forest. Caleb watched them, each volunteer hoping to find any clue that could lead them to Lydia.

Shane Weaver’s arrival so soon was unexpected. As he approached Caleb, his expression was grim, betraying the weight of the information he carried. The two men stood a few feet apart, surrounded by the quiet intensity of their shared mission.

“Back already?” Caleb said.

“Didn’t take long,” Shane greeted him, his voice subdued but purposeful. Shane had gone to Tampa to check out Addler’s alibi.

“What did you find out?”

Shane sighed heavily, his gaze momentarily flickering toward the vast expanse of trees that stretched out before them. “Not really what I wanted to hear.”

“And?” Caleb pressed, his voice tight with frustration.

Shane hesitated for a moment, as if steeling himself for Caleb’s reaction. “The footage from the Airbnb’s ring camera only showed Addler coming and going. Nothing suspicious. Same at the fast-food places he stopped. But when I talked to the captain of Oceanside Charters …”

Caleb’s heart raced with anticipation, his mind already racing ahead to the possibilities.

“The captain confirmed he took Addler out fishing,” Shane continued, his tone serious. “Said Addler didn’t even fish. Just sat there, enjoying the peace and quiet. He called him a weird guy and was glad to drop him off.”

Caleb’s fists clenched at his sides, frustration boiling over. “Damn it, Shane! We know he’s hiding something. We just can’t prove it!”

“I know,” Shane said, his voice sympathetic. “But without concrete evidence …”

“We can’t touch him, I know,” Caleb finished bitterly, his shoulders slumping in defeat.

The weight of their failure pressed down on him, crushing his hopes with each passing moment. He had been so sure Addler was involved somehow, that he knew more than he was letting on. But now, faced with the reality of their situation, Caleb felt powerless.

“Sorry to say, but he looks clean,” Shane said, his voice firm with resolve. “Maybe we’re barking up the wrong tree.”

Caleb nodded, his jaw clenched tight. “No. We’re not. I just … I can’t shake this feeling, Shane. That he’s involved somehow.”

“I understand. So, for now, let’s keep searching, keep following any leads we have.”

Caleb took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. “You’re right. Let’s get back to it.” Much as he hated to admit it, Weaver was stepping up—in Taylor’s absence—and taking this seriously, acting professionally. And, despite the outcome of his last investigation, he was grateful.

As they turned back toward the search site, his mind raced with thoughts of Lydia. Despite the setbacks, despite the lack of evidence, he wasn’t done yet. They would find Lydia, no matter what it took. And when they did, Caleb swore, Addler would pay for what he had done.

But for now, all they could do was search. And hope.

The search teams were organizing into parties of three or more, as usual, each with a designated leader and a specific area to examine. Mira moved among them with purpose, her voice carrying instructions and encouragement.

Caleb watched as volunteers strapped on their gear, checked their equipment, and prepared to head out into the wilderness once more.

He scanned their faces, noting the mix of determination and weariness. Some had been here since the beginning, tirelessly dedicating themselves to the search for Lydia. Others were newcomers, drawn by a sense of community and a desire to help. He watched them disappear into the forest, their footsteps fading into the quiet morning.

Hours passed in a blur of activity. The search teams spread out in a coordinated effort, calling out Lydia’s name and scanning the terrain for any sign of her. Caleb moved among them, offering words of encouragement and support where needed.

As the sun reached its zenith, Caleb retreated to a shaded spot near the edge of the clearing. He sank down onto the forest floor, exhaustion weighing heavily on his shoulders. The events of the past days had taken their toll, both physically and emotionally.

He closed his eyes briefly, allowing himself a moment of respite. He was so tired. Not only physically, but mentally. Just tired down to his bones.

Images of Lydia flashed through his mind: her laughter, her bright eyes, her unwavering spirit. He clung to those memories, drawing strength from them as he stood and continued his hike.

CHAPTER 21

Taylor lay on the bottom bunk, her head throbbing relentlessly. She was so angry at herself. She wasn’t supposed to be laying around when she had a job to do. But the pain had crept down from her head, now radiating into her neck and right shoulder.

Three days had passed since she had submitted a medical visit request, yet no one had come. When the trays were delivered the day before, Taylor has asked the CO and was told, “You’re walking and talking, so I think you’re just fine. It’s probably a tension headache. Relax and it’ll go away.”

This morning Trina had traded bunks with her after witnessing Taylor sink into the floor when she was too weak to climb back up after she’d used the toilet the night before. She’d laid her head on the cold concrete, not caring what kind of germs she picked up, until Trina had helped her up, boosting Taylor with her shoulder to get her on the bunk.

The possibility of nasty germs hadn’t even fazed her.

Nothing could be worse than whatever was already invading her body. She’d thought seriously about tapping out and calling Sheriff Dawkins to get her out of there, but she didn’t want to be a quitter. She’d never hear the end of it if Sheriff Comer got out of the hospital and she was no longer undercover in his experiment.

It would get around the department somehow. Shane would tell her she blew her chance. He’d make fun of her, and the rest of the guys would think she’d tapped out because she was a woman—that, as they thought, she was weaker than them.

I can get through this, she told herself in a mantra throughout the night.

She knew it must be the flu. Or maybe even COVID, though no one else in the pod was sick. She hoped she hadn’t picked it up from outside and brought it in with her. She tried to think if she knew anyone in her town who was sick, but she couldn’t remember.

Quig sat beside her, worry etched in the lines of her face. She gently brushed Taylor's sweaty hair back from her forehead. "Wilkins, can you hear me?"

Taylor managed a faint nod, her voice barely above a whisper. "Yeah, Quig, I'm here."

“Trina’s worried about you.”

She sounded worried herself, the usual bravado in her voice subdued.

“Yeah, I’ll be okay,” Taylor whispered. “Thanks for checking on me.”

“We’re taking turns,” Quig said. “No one’s going to leave you alone.”

“Thanks.” She didn’t want to talk. Talking hurt her head more.

“I’m sorry I was a jerk to you that first day,” Quig said. “I’ve got issues.”

Taylor managed a soft chuckle. “Don’t we all?” she murmured, opening her eyes to look at the girl.

Quig hesitated, "Mine are deep. I've never told anyone in here this, but ..." She touched the small tear drop tattoo beneath her eye. "This is for my twins. Lost 'em when I was six months along."

Taylor's eyes widened in surprise and empathy. Quig didn’t look old enough to have three children. "I’m so sorry."

"Yeah," Quig continued quietly. "I got three other kids out there, too. All with different dads and living in separate homes. I’ve been a mess, but I wasn't always like this. Or, at least, not this bad. I used to be a good mom, when they were all little. We didn’t have much, but I took care of my kids. After I lost the twins, I just ... fell apart. Started with painkillers, then worse stuff. Now I don’t deserve to be their mom."

Taylor squeezed Quig's hand gently. "Just that you acknowledge that is huge. That means you can make a plan to do better when you get out."

Quig sniffed, blinking back tears. "Thanks. Means a lot to hear you say that. I’m gonna really try to get myself together. I want to get an apartment so my kids can come stay with me. I’m gonna do it this time. Soon as I get out of this place. Believe it or not, I come from a good family. My mama tried and tried to keep me straight. I want to prove to her that I can do it this time. She deserves that for never cutting all ties with me like the rest of them did."

Taylor nodded and closed her eyes. When she opened them again, it only felt like seconds, but now Quig was gone and Lyric was beside her, holding a small package of crackers from Trina's food store. "Hey, sleepyhead. You missed breakfast and lunch. You gotta eat something. Here, have a few crackers."

Taylor managed a weak smile of gratitude as she nibbled on the crackers. Her stomach churned uneasily, but she knew she needed to keep up her strength.

"Thanks, Lyric," Taylor murmured, her throat dry. She took the plastic cup of watered-down Kool-Aid from Lyric's outstretched hand and sipped it slowly, grateful for the cool relief it brought.

Lyric sat down next to her, gently coaxing Taylor to drink more. "Come on. You need to keep hydrated."

Taylor complied, sipping the sugary drink slowly. She appreciated Lyric's caring gesture, knowing how difficult it was for her to show vulnerability. The girl was a mystery, and Taylor was curious. Now might be the only time to get her to open up.

"Lyric," she began softly, "why did you end up here?"

Lyric's expression clouded momentarily before she spoke. "Pure ignorance. This will blow your mind, but I had a scholarship to an art school in Chicago. Last part of senior year, I met a guy ... he got me into trouble. Had me selling for him within two months. My family turned their backs on me. I lost my scholarship. Ended up here. Can’t blame anyone but myself, really. Even my so-called soulmate bailed on me. He got out with the help of his family’s fancy lawyer, but mine can’t afford that. Instead, I got a public pretender."

Public defenders got a worse rap than Taylor thought they deserved, but now was not the time to stand up for them. Lyric barely ever talked. She needed to listen.

She nodded, absorbing Lyric's story. "You shouldn't give up on your dream, Lyric. Do you know if you’re facing big time?"

“Definitely 2-3 years, maybe 18 months with good behavior. Unless my guy pulls off a miracle and I get probation as a first-time offender.”

Lyric shrugged ruefully, pulling out a few handmade cards from her pocket. "I make these with whatever I can get from commissary, but ... I got no one to send 'em to."

Taylor looked at the cards, impressed by the intricate designs of dragonflies and daisies. "You could make more. Trade them with others here, send them to their families."

Lyric's eyes brightened with a hint of hope. "Yeah ... that’s a good idea. Maybe I could."

Before they could say more, Trina burst into the cell, her face flushed with frustration. "They still haven't come for you, Wilkins! I banged on the door, demanded they do something, but the CO just told me to stop making a fuss or he was going to put me in the hole!"

Taylor reached out to Trina, trying to soothe her agitation. "It's okay, Trina. I don’t want you to get in trouble. I'll be okay."

“There’s someone else on the lower floor who has been asking for medical since she got in here a day ago. She said she has neurogenic bladder and is supposed to catheterize herself several times a day. They won’t even give her the supplies! Her bladder is about to explode!”

Just like my head.

Taylor wished that Trina would turn down the volume.

“That ain’t right,” Quig said from her bunk. “It’s inhumane.”

Trina sighed heavily, sinking down onto her bunk. "I can't stand this. Wilkins, you need help, and they're just ignoring it."

“Tomorrow I’ll be better,” Taylor said. “Tell me how it’s going with the new rules.”

As Trina settled in beside her, describing how things were going better now that there were some guidelines in place, and how they had six women doing yoga and eight for aerobics, Taylor felt a deep gratitude for her friends.

Despite their tough exteriors and the harsh realities of their lives, they were caring underneath it all. She could relate to them easily, for, if not for Sheriff Dawkins taking a keen interest in her when she was a teen, she might be in some of the same situations.

Just like the ones Lucy had always found to put herself in hot water. From hanging with criminals, to drugs, to shoplifting, Lucy had done it all. When she’d disappear for months on end, Taylor would just about lose her mind worrying, knowing she was living on the streets. Thankfully now she had matured and was over her rebellious years. In her case, having a child had saved her, and been the push to straighten up and make a good life for her son.

Taylor could use one of sweet little Johnnie’s hugs right now. Somehow, he could always turn a bad day upright with just his smile and embrace. As the baby of the family, he wasn’t selfish with his affections, either.

She could just imagine him asking to go see Aunt Tay Tay, and being disappointed when Lucy told him she still wasn’t home. All the kids liked to visit her, and of course Levi and Teague always wanted to hear stories of her catching the bad guys.

Trina brought another cool rag and put it on Taylor’s head. She continued talking about the pod gossip—something about April and her girlfriend being mad at each other, and more mundane drama—but Taylor barely heard anything more. She closed her eyes and thought of her sisters now, and how many times she’d been their only caretaker when they were kids. Cold rags on their heads. Popsicles if she could scrape up the money. A cheap bottle of aspirin—crushing the pills and hiding them in whatever she could find.

Anna had helped her when it was Jo or Lucy sick. But when Anna was sick, those were the times that Taylor thought the most about their mother, wishing she was there, wondering why the universe had left them with only an alcoholic and mostly useless father. Rarely did they ever go to the doctor. Taylor didn’t trust her dad to stay sober enough to drive them.

She wished Anna were with her now. Her sister had turned into quite the maternal figure, and soon would have that nursing degree she’d always dreamed of. Cate—that’s where Anna got her compassion from, it was plain to see. Cate would mow that door down to the corridor and carry Taylor to the medical unit if she had to. Cate was the one who had the most empathy for all living things.

“Wilkins, on your feet!”

Her eyes suddenly open wide, she saw the CO—Pikachu—standing beside the bunk.

Quig was instantly beside Taylor and helped her sit upright.

“I said, feet on the floor, inmate,” Pikachu said. “Get your shoes on.”

“She can’t even stand up,” Trina said, her tone angry and accusatory.

“Then I can’t get her seen. Looks like this was a wasted trip.”

“No, I can get up,” Taylor said, struggling to move her legs off the bed and onto the floor. With Quig on one side and Trina on the other, they slipped her feet into her shoes and got her up, guiding her along to follow the CO out of the cell.

Going down the stairs was a blur and then, at the main door, Pikachu brushed off the others and took Taylor’s arm, supporting her out and down the hall.

Taylor blacked out for some of it, but she did remember Pikachu putting her arm around her waist to support her to a room, and sobbing in relief that she was going to be seen.

The next thing she knew, she was lying on a cot and a nurse was slipping a blood pressure cuff off her arm.

“Thank you,” Taylor whispered through her chapped lips.

“It’s low, but not drastic,” the nurse said, sticking a thermometer into Taylor’s mouth and under her tongue. When she pulled it out, her eyebrows raised high into a peak. “You do have a temp. Where does it hurt?”

Taylor reached up and grabbed her head with both hands. It hurt so bad. Worse than any headache she’d ever had.

“My head and, well, everywhere,” she said. “My neck hurts to move.”

The nurse did a quick exam, touching her around the back of the head and neck. “I think you have a sinus infection,” the nurse said. “But you’re dehydrated so I’ll juice you up, give you some antibiotics, and send you back. You’ll feel better in a day or two.”

Taylor felt a sob rise in her throat. She didn’t want to go back. It just hurt too much.

“Can I talk to the sheriff?” she asked.

The nurse squinted her eyes. “Why? Has someone hurt you?”

“No, but I—I—” Taylor couldn’t tell her about the program.

“You aren’t seeing anyone in authority just because you’re sick,” the nurse said, looking aggravated at the request. It took her three tries to get a vein, and it hurt, but Taylor was thankful for the IV fluids, and she didn’t say anything.

“This’ll take a while. Get comfortable,” the nurse said.

When she felt a warm blanket being put over her, Taylor let herself drift away again. As she fell into sleep, she saw Cate leaning over her, and it was her mother’s gentle smile that stayed with her and lulled her back into oblivion.

CHAPTER 22

It was early the next morning when the heavy clang of the bunker door unlocking startled Lydia awake. She sat up quickly, heart racing with a mixture of apprehension and fleeting hope. Jill stirred beside her, blinking sleepily as they both looked toward the doorway.

Standing there was Dom’s mother, her weathered face set in a determined expression. In her hands were a couple of garden tools. She wore knee pads over her faded jeans, and had her gray hair tied back in a red bandana scarf. On her feet were worn mud boots.

"Time to get up," she announced briskly, her voice cutting through the stillness of the bunker. "Jill needs some fresh air and sunshine. Get dressed and follow me."

Lydia exchanged a glance with Jill, who seemed equally uncertain but willing to follow along. Could this be an opportunity to escape, or was it another ploy to keep them under control?

They dressed quickly, throwing on what they’d worn the day before, plus an extra sweater.

Outside the bunker, the morning air was cool and crisp, with a slight wind blowing—a stark contrast to the stale atmosphere they had grown accustomed to. The woman wasted no time, handing each of them a hoe and instructing them with a no-nonsense tone, “Follow me.”

She led them not far from the bunker, pointing out edible plants and mushrooms along the way, through a patch of woods that opened to a clearing with enough sunlight filtering through the trees to cast dappled patterns on the ground.

"You look as pale as a ghost," the woman remarked, her gaze sharp as she pointed at Lydia. "But I think you both could use some vitamin D. We're going to prepare this plot of land for a garden. It's good for you to use your bodies, and it might please Norman when he returns to see you've done something productive."

Lydia nodded silently, feeling the weight of the woman’s gaze on her. She watched as Jill struggled with the hoe, her hands unaccustomed to the physical labor.

The ground was impossibly hard to make much of a dent with the hoes, but they did their best. An hour stretched into two while she and Jill toiled with the hoes, and the woman pulled weeds.

Jill stopped and dropped her hoe. “Linda, my hands hurt,” she said, showing them to Lydia, who gently inspected the wounds.

“Yikes. Those look angry. We need to wash them out.” She was shocked that it had taken the girl this long to complain. She was quite the trooper.

“What is it?” The grandmother asked, coming over to look. When she saw the blisters, she frowned. "That’s enough for now. Let's get those hands treated,” she said abruptly. Turning to Lydia, she instructed, "Go fetch the first aid kit from the bunker," her gaze steady and oddly knowing.

Lydia hesitated for a moment, sensing that the woman somehow understood her reluctance to leave Jill alone, knowing that she wouldn’t try to escape without her.

Without a word, she hurried back inside, finding the first aid kit where Norman’s mother had indicated it would be. When she turned to leave with it, Jill was already back with her grandmother.

They stepped down into the bunker.

"Now, Jill, you go and study for a bit," her grandmother suggested—after treating Jill’s blisters—surprising Lydia with her unexpected consideration. "We women will prepare some food."

“I—I don’t know what to call you,” Lydia said in an attempt to bring a personal flavor into their interaction.

The woman glared at her.

“I just don’t want it to sound awkward, but I can say ‘Hey, you,’ if you prefer. Or would Grandmother work?” Lydia added.

“Martha,” she replied, then turned away.

“Okay. Martha, it is. You can call me Linda.” It wouldn’t make sense to tell her that her name was Lydia, because she may then call her Lydia in Jill’s presence, and Jill may then call her Lydia when Dom was present. Then Dom would wonder how his daughter knew that, and Lydia didn’t want him knowing she’d spoken in his absence.

Martha would probably tell him anyway that she’d spoken, but she’d cross that bridge later.

As Jill went to retrieve a book from her trunk, Lydia and Martha set about preparing a simple meal with the dried provisions they plucked from the shelves.

"We'll start with this," Martha said, gesturing toward a stack of sealed containers containing dried vegetables and beans. "Norman stocked these up a while back. Not gourmet, but it'll keep us going. You need to learn how to make do with what you can find."

Lydia nodded, grateful for Martha's practical approach. Together, they sorted through the provisions, selecting a mix of dried peas, carrots, and lentils. Martha filled a pot with water from a large jug and set it over the portable gas stove. She added the dried vegetables and beans, explaining as she worked.

"Normally, you'd soak these overnight, but we don't have that luxury," Martha remarked, stirring the mixture gently. "Boiling them for an hour should do the trick, though. It'll soften them up enough to eat."

Lydia watched with interest, noting the way Martha's hands moved with practiced ease despite the limited kitchen space. There was a sense of proficiency in her actions, as if she had cooked countless meals under less-than-ideal circumstances.

Throughout their makeshift cooking session, Lydia couldn't shake the feeling that Martha was lonely. Her abrupt flinches at sudden sounds and her constant vigilance toward the bunker door hinted at a deep-seated anxiety.

As the vegetables and beans simmered, Martha rummaged through a small cupboard, retrieving a handful of spices and herbs in small jars. She added a pinch of dried thyme and a dash of salt, explaining, "It won't taste like home-cooked, but it'll make it more bearable."

Lydia nodded in agreement, appreciating Martha's efforts to make their meal more palatable. The delicious aroma of simmering vegetables filled the air, mingling with the faint scent of earth and dampness that permeated the bunker.

While they waited for the food to cook, Lydia ventured a question. "Martha, is your husband still living?"

Martha’s hands paused mid-stir, a flicker of unease crossing her face. She looked at Lydia with a guarded expression before replying tersely, "I don't want to talk about him."

Lydia sensed she had touched a sore spot, but Martha didn’t elaborate. Instead, she continued to stir the pot with renewed intensity, her jaw set in a firm line.

As the hour passed, Martha tested the vegetables with a fork, satisfied that they were sufficiently rehydrated. She carefully ladled the mixture into bowls and handed one to Lydia. "Here," she said simply, offering a spoon.

Lydia accepted the bowl gratefully, inhaling the warm, earthy aroma. She took a cautious spoonful, surprised by the simple, comforting taste that filled her mouth. As Martha had said, it wasn't gourmet cuisine by any means, but, after days of monotony and uncertainty, the hot meal felt like a small luxury.

Martha served Jill before bringing her own bowl to the table. When Jill took a bite, her eyes widened with surprise and delight.

“It’s so good, Grandma,” she said. “Will you teach me to cook, too?”

“I’ll teach you a lot of things when you’re ready. But, for now, eat before it gets cold.”

As they ate in silence, the only sounds were the clinking of spoons against bowls and the occasional hum of the ventilation system. Despite the tension that lingered between them, Lydia found herself feeling a strange sense of camaraderie with Martha—and reminded herself not to trust her. She couldn't help but wonder what had driven this woman to follow her son's orders so obediently, yet with an air of conflicted reluctance.

When they finished their meal, Martha cleared away the dishes with brisk efficiency, washing and returning them to their designated places in the cupboard. Lydia helped where she could, silently appreciating Martha's unspoken rules and routines that governed their confined space.

Lydia found the broom and swept up the area.

When they were done, Martha glanced toward the bunker door, her expression unreadable. "I ... I have to go," she said hesitantly, again glancing toward the door as if expecting someone or something. "Change Jill’s bandages before bedtime."

Lydia nodded, understanding that Martha's departure was inevitable, yet reluctant to see her leave. "Thank you, Martha," she said sincerely, her voice carrying their unspoken gratitude. "For everything."

With a nod of acknowledgment, Martha turned and left, locking the door behind her. Lydia watched her go, a mix of emotions swirling within her—gratitude for the meal and bitterness at being locked up again—as ideas flooded through her mind. Crazy thoughts of overcoming the old woman, tying her up, and escaping through the woods.

But something told Lydia to wait, to bide her time for the absolute best opportunity to break free, so that it would be a true run to freedom and not a quick detour back to the bunker.

CHAPTER 23

Three days had passed since Martha’s last visit, leaving Lydia and Jill increasingly trapped in a cycle of boredom and uncertainty. Lydia did her best to keep Jill occupied, inventing games with imaginary characters and telling stories from her own childhood. They’d played makeshift Candyland with dried beans and scraps of paper, and then Lydia even taught Jill some basic yoga poses to help them stretch and keep moving in the confined space.

But on this afternoon, Lydia woke from a short nap to find Jill still in bed, turned against the wall. She tapped a finger lightly against the metal sides of the bunker. Lydia noticed that Jill didn’t have a book or anything with her, which was unusual for their quiet time.

“C’mon, Jill,” she said gently. “Let’s get up and do something.”

Jill didn’t respond.

"Jill, honey, it's time to get up," Lydia said gently, sitting down on the edge of the bunk beside her. She brushed a stray lock of hair from Jill's forehead, but there was still no response. Jill's silence and unusual withdrawal sent a pang of worry through Lydia's heart.

"Sweetheart, what's wrong?" Lydia asked softly, her voice tinged with concern. She placed a hand on Jill's shoulder, trying to gently turn her around to face her.

Jill remained silent, stubbornly keeping her face hidden from Lydia's view.

Lydia could understand Jill’s sudden depression. Tears welled up in her eyes as she imagined all the worst-case scenarios. What if something had happened to Dom or Martha? What if they were left here indefinitely, forgotten by the world outside?

The walls of the bunker seemed to close in on her, amplifying her fears.

“Is it your asthma? Do you feel it coming on?”

Jill shook her head.

Lydia felt relief fall over her. The one inhaler wasn’t going to last forever.

She took a deep breath, trying to push aside her own anxieties for Jill's sake. She had to stay strong, to keep Jill from sinking deeper into despair.

"Jill, come on," Lydia urged gently, pulling back the blanket slightly. "How about we draw some pictures? I know—we can play Pictionary. You have to guess what I draw within a minute or less. Or maybe we can make up a new story, just for us?"

There was still no response from Jill.

Lydia's heart sank further, but she refused to give up. She gently rubbed Jill's back, offering words of encouragement.

After what felt like an eternity, Jill finally stirred.

She turned to face Lydia, her eyes red-rimmed and filled with unshed tears. "I miss my mom," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Lydia felt a rush of sadness and helplessness. She pulled Jill into a tight embrace, holding her close. "I know, sweetheart," Lydia murmured, her own voice trembling with emotion. "And I know she misses you. But I feel like your mom would be happy that we have each other until you can get back to her. Don’t you think?”

Jill nodded silently, clinging to Lydia as if afraid to let go. They stayed like that for a while, finding solace in each other's presence amidst the uncertainty that surrounded them.

“She would be really proud of you, Jill. You’ve been so brave,” Lydia said.

Finally, she was able to coax Jill out of bed. They made paper airplanes and had a flying contest across the bunker. Lydia told silly jokes and funny stories, trying to elicit a smile from Jill's lips.

But despite her efforts, Lydia couldn't shake the gnawing feeling of dread in the pit of her stomach. What if they were truly alone, with no one coming to rescue them?

“I know what,” Lydia said, suddenly serious. “How about we start at the door, and each of us take one side. We’ll search the walls inch by inch, and make sure that there isn’t a hole, or any other opening we’ve missed. Remember, a small hole can become a big hole, with some effort.”

Jill looked thoughtful, her finger to her mouth. “Wait—what about the stove pipe? It goes through a hole, right?”

Lydia was dumbstruck.

From the mouth of babes … of course! Why hadn’t she thought of that?

“Jill, you are a genius!” Lydia jumped up and went to the old stove, examining the pipe that came from it and went up through the roof of the bunker.

The pipe was at about seven inches in diameter.

She looked at Jill’s head. They always said if you can get a head through a hole, the body behind it would fit, too.

It looked much bigger than seven inches.

“That’s not going to work,” Jill said.

“No, not unless we try to make it bigger. We’d have to figure out a way to pull the pipe out, first. But then if we have a worse cold snap, we’ll freeze.”

“Let’s see if Martha comes back tomorrow,” Jill said. “We can wait another day, right?”

Lydia sighed heavily. “Yes, we can. We have lots of food and water to hold us over for weeks or more, if need be. Maybe she’ll come. Or your dad might return.”

Jill visibly sunk back into her funk, her face drawn and pinched. She went to her bunk and climbed in, pulling the covers high over her shoulders as she turned back to the wall.

Lydia was worried. It wasn’t like Jill to be so down. Maybe she needed alone time, to sort through her thoughts. Sometimes kids needed space to process things.

As evening approached, Lydia went and tucked Jill in, brushing a kiss against her forehead. "Try to get some sleep, sweetheart," she whispered, her voice filled with tenderness. "Maybe tomorrow will be better."

Jill nodded silently, her eyes already heavy with exhaustion. Lydia lingered beside her for a moment longer, her heart heavy with worry. She cast a glance toward the bunker door, praying silently for a miracle.

“Do you want me to sleep with you?” Lydia asked.

Without a word, Jill opened the covers and Lydia crawled in behind her, spooning against her small body. She hoped that everything would change by morning.

But as the darkness settled in around them, Lydia knew that hope alone wouldn't be enough. They needed a solid plan, a way to escape this suffocating confinement and find their way back to the world outside. Tomorrow, she promised herself … for Jill's sake, and for her own sanity, Lydia would think of something.

CHAPTER 24

It was another excruciatingly long two days before Lydia heard the locks outside the bunker disengage. The door swung open, blinding her and Jill with the sudden light that flooded inside.

Dom's figure filled the space, and he stood there for a minute, surveying them, and then the interior of the bunker. He was dressed in camouflage, his cargo pants pockets bulging with items he’d stuffed inside, his feet encased in military-style black boots and a gun and holster visible on his side.

Finally, he nodded, satisfied that the bunker was clean and organized, just as he’d left it. He entered. "Anyone miss me?" he said jovially.

Lydia wished she could kill him. His voice, filled with false cheerfulness, grated against her nerves like sandpaper on raw skin. She clenched her fists, nails digging into her palms as she fought to contain the storm of emotions swirling inside her.

Jill had sunk deeper into an even deeper contemplative mood and had barely eaten anything in days. His daughter was shaky and weak, and was close to a mental breakdown, and Dom acted as though he was a supporting father who had come home to his family, and that they should be happy for his return.

Jill, curled up on her bunk, remained silent and withdrawn, her eyes fixed on a point in the distance over her father’s head as if willing herself to disappear.

“Jill, come give your dad a hug,” Dom said, holding his arms out.

Lydia's protective instincts surged, a mix of rage and helplessness flooding her veins. She wanted to shield Jill from Dom's evil touch, protect her from the man who had sired her, and who was forcing her to be his captive.

When Jill didn’t respond, Dom's jovial tone fell flat in the stale air of the bunker.

"So, anything exciting happen while I was away?" he asked, his voice laced with expectation. “Everyone doing okay?”

Did he know about Martha and was testing them?

Lydia remained stone-faced, refusing to give him the satisfaction of any response. Inside, her thoughts raced with defiance and anger. How dare he act like nothing's wrong? The bitterness of him leaving them there alone hung heavy in the air, suffocating any hope of normalcy.

When neither Lydia nor Jill answered, Dom's expression hardened imperceptibly. His facade of paternal concern slipped momentarily, replaced by a flicker of annoyance.

“I tried to come back earlier, but I was fascinated by quite a show going on nearby. A whole lot of hoopla around a search for a missing woman.”

Lydia felt a chill throughout her body, but she didn’t show any reaction. She could tell from his tone that it was about her.

“I would’ve given them some help but no one asked me,” he said. “Know what I’d have told them?”

Lydia and Jill remained silent.

“I would’ve said, hey, idiots, you’re searching around the wrong mountain.” He laughed then, as though he’d pulled out the funniest punch line anyone had ever heard. Then he looked around, nodding satisfactorily. “I see you were able to access the water. And obviously you figured out how to feed yourselves. So why do I feel such antagonism in the air?”

Lydia caught the glint in his eye, a warning that they were still under his control, that defiance would only bring more suffering. His tone—as he feigned cheeriness—contradicted what she saw on his face.

He moved further into the bunker, his footsteps echoing ominously against the concrete walls. Lydia's heart hammered in her chest, a mixture of fear and rebelliousness warring within her.

Stay strong but keep your mouth shut, she silently urged herself, for Jill's sake.

Dom's gaze settled on Jill, his lips twisting into a faint smirk. "Come on, Jill," he said, his voice coaxing. "You can't stay in bed forever. I brought you a surprise.”

Jill visibly flinched at his voice, but still she remained silent, her eyes fixed on Lydia.

Dom's presence loomed large in the small space, a constant reminder of their captivity. Lydia braced herself against the wave of emotions threatening to overwhelm her.

Suddenly he lost the jovial act and stomped over to where Jill lay on the bunk, grabbing her by her arm, making her shriek with fear as he jerked her off the bed and onto her feet.

“You will respond when you are spoken to,” he spit out between gritted teeth as he glared down at her.

Lydia raced over, getting between them and standing protectively in front of Jill, who was sobbing now.

Dom let go and crossed his arms, an evil grin sliding onto his face.

“Oh, what do we have here? A mother hen protecting her chick? I see that’s working out as I had planned, isn’t it? Pretty soon we’ll be one big happy family. But today, daughter, you’ve just forfeited your surprise by being an insolent little brat.”

Jill wrapped her arms around Lydia’s back, burying her face as she cried.

Lydia couldn’t believe how rough he’d been with his own child.

“Just one thing, Linda,” he said, sarcasm dripping from his lips. “I will not tolerate disrespect from my child. You’d better help her to remember that.”

He turned away from them then, surveying the pantry shelves.

“Now, let’s see how much you little rats ate while I was gone, shall we? Hopefully you rationed yourselves and didn’t waste anything.”

As Dom began to inspect their meager provisions and supplies, Lydia's mind raced with plans and strategies.

He’s spiraling out of control. We need a way out soon, she thought.

Her eyes flickered toward the open bunker door as she led Jill back to the bunk.

“What’re you thinking, dear?” Dom asked. “Looking for an escape, are we?”

She turned to him, and he raised his eyebrows, as if to challenge her.

When she didn’t reply, he came at her. She pushed Jill onto the bed quickly, just before he clutched her shoulder and spun her around.

He took her jaw forcefully with his hand, squeezing hard. “I can make you talk if I choose,” he hissed quietly.

She looked up at him. His gaze was cold and calculating but Lydia bravely met his eyes with a steely resolve.

I won't let you break us, she vowed silently, her fists clenched at her sides.

The tension in the bunker was palpable, thick with unspoken words and suppressed emotions. Lydia held her breath, waiting for the next move in this twisted game of survival.

Just as quickly, he let go of her and switched back into Mister Nice Guy.

“Guess what, girls? You get to go out because we’re going camping today. Time to teach you some new survival skills.”

He was up to something. Lydia felt it. And camping in the woods with him again was the last thing she wanted to do, but just maybe it would give her an opportunity. This time, if one came, she was taking it.

Lydia's heart pounded as they sat by the campfire, the flickering flames casting eerie shadows on the surrounding trees. The clumsily erected tent loomed nearby, a cramped shelter that would soon enclose them all for the night.

She glanced at Jill, whose tear-streaked face mirrored her own apprehension.

Dom, now busy stirring a pot of chili over the crackling fire, seemed oblivious to their silent distress. He seemed happy and in his element, pretending to be the Great Outdoorsman as he grandstanded and lectured them in the ways of survival.

I would rather die than sleep next to him, Lydia thought bitterly, her gaze flickering toward the tent again. Yet, the alternative of Jill sleeping beside Dom was equally unbearable. Dom had insisted on them setting up the tent and had angrily coached them to get it done.

Lydia's mind raced with conflicting thoughts. Should I risk everything and try to run tonight when he slept? Or wait for a better opportunity?

She stole a glance at Dom, his figure silhouetted against the fire's glow, his features obscured in the shifting shadows. Once they had hiked further into the forest, Dom had made them erect the tent, then gather firewood.

He jovially instructed them how, in his opinion, to find the best place and to lay out the wood, then he’d tried to teach Jill how to start the fire using a flint.

Her failed attempts had only angered him, resulting in harsh words and tears. Jill, once resilient and full of curiosity, was now fragile and easily brought to tears. The weight of responsibility pressed heavily on Lydia’s shoulders as she worried for Jill's mental and emotional well-being.

Suddenly, Dom held up a hand, his head cocked to one side as he listened intently. The forest around them was alive with rustling leaves and distant hoots of owls.

A snap of a twig broke the silence, and Dom's expression hardened.

"Stay here," he whispered tersely, his hand instinctively moving to the gun at his belt. With a quick, calculated movement, he disappeared into the darkness beyond the circle of firelight.

Lydia's heart raced as she considered their options.

Should we make a break for it now? But she knew the forest at night was treacherous, and, without a clear plan or a source of light, they would likely get lost or worse. Was another hiker out there? She prayed not, as Dom had a gun and he’d already shown her he had no qualms about eliminating witnesses.

“I’m scared,” Jill whispered, and Lydia pulled her close.

Minutes stretched into agonizing eternity. Lydia could hear faint murmurs and rustling from Dom's direction. She exchanged a tense look with Jill, silently communicating the urgency of their predicament.

Finally, Dom returned, dragging a reluctant Martha by the arm. The older woman's face was pale, streaked with tears, and fresh bruises marred her neck.

Lydia's stomach churned with a mix of relief and dread.

"We have a stalker, it seems," Dom announced coldly, his grip tightening on Martha's arm. His gaze flickered toward Lydia and Jill, assessing their reactions.

Martha looked visibly afraid, her eyes darting between Dom and the ground. Her face was drawn and pale in the light of the moon.

Lydia studied her carefully, masking any recognition they might have met before. In the flickering firelight, she saw Martha shoot her a worried glance, a silent plea for something. Lydia nodded imperceptibly, a gesture of solidarity in the face of Dom's manipulation.

"I saw smoke and came to investigate," Martha explained nervously, her voice trembling. The tension between mother and son was palpable, an unspoken history of fear and control.

My first hypothesis was correct, Lydia thought grimly. Martha must live nearby. It had to be near Dom’s parents' land.

Dom's demeanor softened slightly as he turned to Jill, his voice falsely reassuring. "This is your grandmother," he stated flatly, as if it were a simple fact they should accept without question. "You'll be seeing more of her. We're all going to be living together soon. Mother, you’ll stay for dinner and then show yourself back to the cabin.”

She nodded blankly.

The night pressed in around them, the woods alive with the sounds of creatures unseen. Probably coyotes, at the very least, and maybe black bears, too. But none of them were as dangerous as the man who commanded their attention as the leader of their pack.

Dom's voice interrupted her thoughts, cutting through the night air with chilling finality. "Let's eat," he commanded, gesturing toward the simmering pot of chili, then passing out small wooden bowls he’d pulled from his backpack. "We have a long night ahead."

As they sat around the fire, Lydia's gaze flickered between Jill, Martha, and Dom. The fire crackled and hissed, casting dancing shadows on the forest floor. In the distance, an owl called mournfully.

As they sat around the fire, tension thickened the air like a storm about to break. Dom ate his bowl of chili with deliberate slowness, his eyes flicking between Martha, Lydia, and Jill. The firelight danced on his features, casting shadows that deepened the lines of his hardened face and made him look like Satan himself.

"You know, Mother," Dom began casually, his voice cutting through the night's stillness, "I was wondering. Does Father know you're out here skulking around?"

Martha's breath caught in her throat, her eyes widening in fear before shaking her head almost imperceptibly.

"No," she whispered, her voice barely heard above the crackling fire. “He’s sleeping.”

Dom's expression darkened, a shadow passing over his face like a storm cloud. "You should be more careful," he warned coldly, his voice laced with menace. "You wouldn’t want to upset him."

Martha lowered her gaze, her hands trembling as she clasped them tightly in her lap. She no longer looked cold and imposing, as she had in her visits to the bunker.

Lydia watched the exchange with growing unease, sensing the underlying power dynamics between mother and son. Dom's control over Martha was palpable, a silent threat that hung heavy in the night air.

Something wasn’t right here, and Lydia could feel the woman’s fear.

Dom's attention turned back to the bowl of chili in his hands, his movements slow and deliberate. "Eat up, ladies," he commanded curtly, his tone brooking no argument. "We have a long night ahead of us."

Lydia glanced at Jill and reached out a comforting hand, squeezing her cold fingers in silent solidarity. They ate in silence, the only sounds the sizzling of the fire and the occasional rustle of leaves in the night breeze.

As they finished their meal, Dom's gaze settled on Martha once more, his eyes cold and calculating. "It’s not safe to leave the girls alone out here this late so I’ve decided that you’ll stay here tonight," he declared, his voice a chilling command. "You’ll sleep with the girls, and I’ll stay in my sleeping bag outside the tent. You can leave at first light."

Martha nodded meekly, her shoulders hunched in resignation.

The night pressed in around them, enveloping them in its dark embrace. When they finished eating, the women climbed into the tent and nestled into the shared sleeping bags.

Lydia held Jill close, her mind whirling with the new discovery that Dom and his mother were at odds. What could it mean? And her gut was telling her that something big and scary was about to happen.

As her eyes drooped with exhaustion, threatening to close for the night, she vowed silently to figure it all out. She had to find a way to protect Jill against the storm that threatened to consume them all.

CHAPTER 25

Martha was gone at first light, and, when Lydia sat up and peeked out the tent, Dom was sitting at the fire alone, staring off into the distance as he shredded a piece of bark, throwing the internal strands into the flames.

He sensed her presence and turned, smiling slowly.

“Good morning,” he said, his tone light as though they were good friends, or worse—a couple.

She nodded, hoping to keep him in a good mood. Jill had tossed and turned all night and cried out in her sleep. Lydia was worried about how she was holding up. What Jill was going through was a lot for a child to handle.

“Looks like we might have some time to ourselves,” Dom whispered, raising his eyebrows. “If Jill keeps sleeping.”

Lydia eased slowly back into the tent, hoping he wouldn’t act on his idea.

Just to be safe, she shook Jill gently.

“C’mon, sleepyhead,” she said softly. “Time to get up.”

Jill’s eyes opened slowly, then she frowned. “I was dreaming that I was with my mom, and we were at the skating rink. She was behind me, her hands on my waist while she guided me around, like she did when I first learned to skate. We were laughing, and I could even smell her, and feel her breath on my ears.”

Lydia’s heart lurched. “Oh, honey. I’m sorry I woke you. But I bet you had that dream because soon, you’ll be back together with your mom. You must believe that. Manifest it, Jill, and don’t think of any other option but that one.”

Jill’s eyes flooded with tears, and she sat up quickly, throwing her arms around Lydia, suddenly sobbing, her body shaking with shudders.

It wasn’t unexpected. Lydia knew it would be coming soon. Jill was at her breaking point. Dom was pushing her too hard, and, in the tent the night before, Martha wouldn’t even speak to them. She’d turned her back to the opposite tent wall, her body rigid and unyielding, even when Jill tried to give her words of comfort.

The child was the total opposite of her father, her empathy and compassion making her an easy target to be hurt deeply by the coldness from her newly discovered grandmother—the woman Jill had hoped might be their savior.

Lydia was relieved that Jill showed no signs of inheriting the psychopathic traits from her father, which tend to show up in early childhood.

She thought of a patient she once had—a woman named Melanie, pregnant with her first child. Melanie was a wonderful human being, but her mother and sister displayed personality disorders throughout the decades that were rife with episodes of manipulation. They’d spent their lives twisting and breaking laws, and starting wars with and between other family members, ensuring that there was never peace within their family unit.

Melanie had been terrified that her unborn child might carry the same psychopathic gene or have a similar personality disorder that would make her life a living nightmare. The mom-to-be was so nervous about it that she was suffering from high blood pressure and insomnia, causing both her mental and physical health to decline.

Melanie’s obstetrician had referred her to Lydia, and the last six months of her pregnancy were difficult, but, thankfully, when the child was born, the mother instinct kicked in and all was well. All Melanie saw was her beautiful child and seemed to have put her fears aside.

The child would be around Jill’s age now and Lydia still wondered to this day if the little girl had turned out to be mentally healthy. Unfortunately, genetic research suggests that there is a modest to high heritability of psychopathic traits and sometimes it skips a generation or two.

But Lydia would bet her license that Jill had not inherited her father’s sickness.

Jill pulled out of Lydia’s embrace and sighed heavily, getting herself under control as she used her shirt to rub the tears from her face.

“What’s he going to make us do today?” she asked.

The sound of Dom whistling carried into the tent.

“I’m not sure, but let’s try hard not to make him angry, okay? He seems to be in a good mood right now. So, let’s roll up these bags and get our hiking clothes on, and act like good little soldiers. Remember, we’re playing a part in a play, and you are the best actress on stage.” She winked at Jill and was rewarded with a small smile.

As they finished cleaning up inside the tent, Lydia and Jill rolled the sleeping bags quickly and efficiently, keeping them neat and tight in case Dom said they had to carry them throughout the day. The morning air was crisp, tinged with the scent of pine and the faint remnants of last night's campfire.

Once dressed in their hiking clothes, they emerged from the tent to find Dom still sitting by the fire, heating up military food pouches.

His demeanor seemed relaxed, almost jovial, as he whistled a tune.

Lydia recognized it immediately.

Three blind mice …

The way it came out from between his lips sounded spooky and threatening.

He glanced up at their approach, an unsettling smile curving his lips.

"Good morning, ladies," he greeted them cheerfully, handing each of them a warmed food pouch. "Time for breakfast before we start today's lessons."

Lydia watched Jill carefully as they sat down beside Dom, their expressions neutral but compliant. Jill opened her food pouch and began to eat quietly, stealing occasional glances at her father as if gauging his mood.

He talked of the weather, and how storms were expected in the late afternoon.

Lydia wondered how he knew that, as she’d never seen him with a cell phone and assumed he didn’t bring one to the bunker or the woods, to keep from being tracked there.

After breakfast, he cleared his throat, his demeanor shifting to one of authority. "Today, we're going to talk about the Survival Rule of 3 and Survival Priorities," he announced, his voice carrying across the clearing. "Remember these well—they could save your life someday."

He proceeded to explain each rule in detail.

"You can survive for 3 hours without shelter in a harsh environment, unless it's icy water. So, finding or making shelter is crucial in extreme conditions."

"Next, you can survive for 3 days without water, as long as you're sheltered from a harsh environment. So, knowing how to find and purify water is essential."

"And finally, you can survive for 3 weeks without food, if you have water and shelter. Food is important for energy, but it's lower on the priority list in survival situations."

Jill listened intently, nodding along as Dom spoke. Lydia observed her with a mix of pride and concern. Despite everything, Jill's resilience and ability to focus on learning under pressure was amazing, and compartmentalizing her trauma was something she was learning to do even without Lydia’s help.

Compartmentalization was the best thing she could do in this situation, and Lydia could almost see the invisible boxes that Jill was piling deep in her subconscious as she tucked away her fear and anxiety, enabling her to function and pretend that everything was okay until it really was.

When they were free, Jill would need to have extensive counseling to unpack those boxes, because keeping her trauma hidden away for too long would eventually make it too much to handle. Lydia had seen many cases of that happening, when suddenly patients were hit like a freight train with everything they’d refused to address for many years, and the results could be suicidal ideations, or drugs and alcohol to numb the pain—leading to addiction—as they tried to put everything back in the boxes. The sooner Jill’s trauma was addressed, the better it would be for her recovery.

"Now, let's practice finding water in the woods," Dom continued, standing up and gesturing for them to follow. "Even if you don't have tools, there are ways to find water sources."

They walked deeper into the forest, Dom pausing occasionally to point out signs of potential water sources—a depression in the ground, animal tracks converging, or clusters of vegetation that indicated water might be nearby.

"Here," he said finally, stopping at a small spring bubbling from the ground. "This is a good find. But, remember, not all water is safe to drink straight from the source."

He demonstrated how to create a makeshift filter using layers of cloth torn from his shirt, then showed them how to pluck grass and use it to strain out debris.

“Then in the best-case scenario, you’d boil the water over a fire to purify it,” he said. “But if you’ve nothing to boil it in, or you can’t start a fire, you’ll have to make a container with what you find out here, then strain it repeatedly before drinking it. And you’ll most likely still get sick, but it might save your life.”

"Now, let's talk about containers," he said, his tone serious yet instructional. He glanced around the wooded area, scanning for suitable materials. "In a pinch, you can use natural resources to make a container to hold water. Jill, why don't you give it a try? What do you see that you can use?”

Jill scanned the surroundings and spotted a fallen tree nearby. "I think I can use that tree bark over there," she said, pointing excitedly. “What if I can pull off some big pieces and bend them to curve like a bowl?”

"Good eye," Dom praised, nodding approvingly. "Birch bark is excellent for this. Let’s go get some."

Jill approached the birch tree carefully, assessing the loose bark that had peeled away from the trunk. She selected a large piece and began shaping it into a shallow bowl in her hand.

“The best survivalists always have a knife on their belt,” Dom said, pulling his free. “Here, let me see your bowl.”

She handed it to him, and he carefully trimmed the edges to make a more defined container shape.

"Remember to overlap the edges slightly," he instructed. "That will help prevent any leaks when you fill it with water. You can also layer it with big leaves if you can find them."

He handed it back. Jill took it, then walked around, finding leaves to line the bottom. Then she used strips of vine she found nearby to tie the edges together securely, ensuring the container would hold water without leaking.

"I think I did it!" Jill exclaimed, holding up her makeshift birch bark bowl with pride.

"You did great," Dom praised, a rare genuine smile touching his lips. "Now, let's test it out."

Lydia felt nausea roll within her. In another time and place, and in different circumstances, she could imagine Jill out camping with her father, eager to learn new things and please him. But this memory would be tainted for her, especially when her tower of boxes finally collapsed and scattered along the floor of her mind.

Lydia followed them as they walked together to a nearby stream that Dom had identified earlier. He showed Jill how to carefully dip the birch bark container into the water, filling it up without spilling. Jill's eyes widened with excitement as she successfully carried water back to their campsite without the container leaking.

"You see, in a survival situation, having a container like this can make all the difference," Dom explained, his demeanor softening slightly as he saw Jill's enthusiasm. "Now, we can use this water for drinking or cooking. But let me show you some other resources that can be used."

As Dom continued teaching Jill under the canopy of trees, Lydia’s mind was racing with thoughts of escape. She had to give him one thing—his lessons were practical, his demeanor alternating between teacher and commander.

It amazed her that he was teaching them things that could help if they were to escape. In the back of her mind, Lydia plotted their next move, searching for any ideas that could lead Jill to safety.

But Dom was too smart. Too knowledgeable about the wilderness, especially compared to Lydia’s limited expertise. Every idea she had was quickly shot down by the fact that he’d catch them faster than they could navigate their way out.

If he caught them, he’d put the blame on Lydia for running, and she couldn’t take the chance that he’d fix that problem forever. She couldn’t let him take her away from Jill. The thought of her living under Dom’s rule without Lydia there to soften the trauma was unthinkable.

They’d have to keep waiting until something changed.

The forest around them buzzed with life—the chirping of birds, the rustle of leaves in the breeze—but, beneath the tranquil facade, danger lurked in every shadow.

As they eventually returned to the campfire, Dom poured a bit of the water from Jill's birch bark container into a metal pot. He used a water purification tablet to demonstrate how to make the water safer for drinking, then set it over the fire to boil.

After their lesson, Dom relaxed slightly, allowing Jill to take a break and explore the immediate area as long as she stayed within his sight. Jill found a butterfly and, when she stood still as a statue, the monarch fluttered around her and settled on the top of her head, making Jill giggle.

“Come back,” Dom ordered, and she returned and sat down on a log by the fire.

Silence fell again, punctuated only by the crackling of the firewood and the occasional rustle of leaves in the breeze. Lydia glanced at Dom, studying his expression carefully. There was a weariness in his eyes that hadn't been there before, a worry that she hadn’t seen.

"What's our next lesson?" Jill asked cautiously.

He glanced at her, a flicker of surprise crossing his features before he composed himself. "We'll continue with shelter-building next," he replied briskly. "It's important to know how to create a safe place to rest, especially in unpredictable weather."

A cloud moved over the sun, temporarily casting their campsite in a shadow of darkness.

“The storm is coming,” Dom said, his mood suddenly as dark as the gathering clouds. “Let’s break camp and get back.”

Lydia could almost see the defeat in Jill as her shoulders slumped and her face went slack with disappointment. The bunker was their prison, the locked door a symbol of the impossibility of escaping. At least in the wilderness, there was the slightest chance of freedom. Lydia could read Jill and agreed with her thoughts—even if they had to weather a storm under the thin canvas of a tent, it would be better than returning to the place they both felt the most hopeless.

CHAPTER 26

Taylor rested on Lyric’s bunk while Quig changed out her moist sheet and blanket for clean ones. She’d sweated until all her bedding smelled musty, and the girls insisted she’d feel better with fresh ones.

It was a sweet gesture, and Taylor felt bad that her cellmates were doing so much for her. Quig had been doing a lot of sleeping, too, but she hadn’t complained when Lyric brought the clean stuff and asked her to do up the bunk while she went back down and showed off more of her greeting cards. She’d sold some already, and the recognition for her talent seemed to have transformed her. She was showing her face now, and not hiding under her hair. And she was going out of the room instead of sulking on her bunk.

She’d even mentioned trying to apply for a grant for school once she was out.

Taylor was embarrassed to be so helpless. The girls had even helped her slip into a clean nightshirt and underwear that morning when her fever broke again. But it was back. She could feel it by the chill that danced over her arms, bringing up goosebumps in the stuffy room.

She didn’t like to rely on anyone, but she couldn’t even get herself down to the showers. It took every bit of strength just to move back and forth to the toilet in their cell.

A week of antibiotics was in her system and, so far, they hadn’t kicked in. To the contrary, it now felt like she couldn’t think straight. Her dreams were too real, too. Last night, she could’ve sworn Alice was sitting right there on the end of her bunk, and she sat up to give her a hug. When she reached for her, Alice was nothing but air.

Then she dreamed of Cate and walls of fire chasing her through a mobile home as Taylor tried to pull her through an open window.

“C’mon, we’re done,” Quig said, helping her up and over to the other bunk.

“Thank you. I appreciate you,” Taylor said and fell onto the bunk, finding the makeshift pillow that Trina had made her from stuffing clean uniforms into a pillowcase.

“I think you need to put in another medical request,” Quig said. “I’ll do it for you.”

Suddenly Jane burst through their cell door with Lyric directly behind her. They didn’t look so happy.

“I got a tip. We’re going back on lockdown and he’s shutting off the phones,” she said to them. “Now what do we do?”

“Why? What happened?” Trina asked.

“One of the kitchen helpers got caught sending fetty into our pod. They’re doing a full investigation.”

“Damn it. I bet April’s behind this,” Lyric said.

Taylor raised up and tried to focus on what Jane was saying, but she had trouble bringing her face into view. She’d been suspicious of the trays, but she didn’t know it was fentanyl. The drug was a synthetic opioid painkiller that began its journey as a prescription drug before finding its way to the black market. It was said to be twice as strong as morphine and it was killing hundreds of thousands of Americans, including innocent kids who happened upon some of the disguised pills—most recently multicolored varieties called rainbows. The Mexican cartel even sent it into the states looking like colored chalk. It was everywhere. Fetty was just another street name for it, a twist from the word confetti.

“How were they getting it in?”

“Chow trays. Stuck in between the bottom sections. Ask your girl there. She knows,” Jane said, pointing at Quig, who was mysteriously quiet. “She and Lundin were working with Emory to pull it.”

No one said anything, then Quig cursed under her breath. “I swear, I’m gonna stop when I get out. It’s just to get me through this.”

Taylor felt sadness envelop her. Did their talk mean anything?

Quig was never going to get her kids back if she couldn’t even stay clean in jail. It was ten times harder to be clean on the streets—she should be using this as her dress rehearsal!

She didn’t have the energy to say anything about it. Quig would either do it on her own or not at all. Or hopefully she’d find her way to rehab. Most of the time it took someone hitting rock bottom before they really wanted help, though losing your kids would seem like the lowest you could go.

“No wonder Flaca wanted her job back,” Trina said, ignoring the elephant in the room.

“Yeah, well she just cost all of us our freedom while we finish out our time here,” Jane said. “And I’m not gonna be able to keep April and her crew from taking their frustrations out on her ass.”

Suddenly they heard someone from the lower-level yell out, griping that none of the phones were working.

A collective groan went through the pod, including their cell.

“Flaca is an idiot,” Jane said.

All Taylor could think of was that she should’ve called Sam while she still could. But now all she could do is try to get herself out of bed, down the stairs, and get the attention of a CO outside the door. She’d have to figure out what to say to get access to the captain, without breaking cover. If she could get him to somewhere private, then beg him to call the sheriff, she might have a chance.

Along with the pain, regret washed over her. She shouldn’t be here.

Caleb was never going to forgive her for not helping him with the latest leads, and she might’ve damaged her and Sam’s relationship forever.

The farm was shorthanded because of her, and, well—she was an idiot. Family and relationships should’ve come first. Deep down, she knew that. Yet her unrelenting need to prove herself had once again clouded her judgment. Sam would never understand that, when you come from nothing, people expect you to become nothing, and someone like her couldn’t help but spend their entire lives trying to outrun that prophecy. Could she ever stop the endless chase? If she was being honest with herself, becoming detective probably wouldn’t be enough either.

Nothing would ever be enough. Why couldn’t she accept the good life she’d made for herself and slow down? Enjoy it before it disappeared? What would it take?

Now she might never have the chance again. Something told her she was truly dying. And no one would listen. It would be up to her, as usual, to save herself.

But how could she do that when she could barely walk from the bunk to the toilet.

“Maybe they’ll kick out those involved and start the program again,” Trina said, bringing Taylor back to the present.

“I doubt that,” Jane said. “We had one chance—and now we’re done.”

Taylor thought about that. One chance, and she’d be done, too. She opened her eyes again, looking at Jane leaning against the door, her biceps bulging under the sleeves of her shirt.

Jane was the strongest woman in the pod. If anyone could help her get downstairs, it would be her.

CHAPTER 27

It had been several days since their return to the bunker, with Dom occasionally leaving for short excursions and returning with miscellaneous supplies. Upon his last return, he opened one box and pulled out six full face respirators and explained to Jill that they’d be vital in case of a nuclear fallout. Another box held heavy-duty, emergency rain ponchos with liners made of Mylar. A part of Lydia wondered if something had happened out in the rest of the world that she should know about, but the biggest part of her said that Dom was just paranoid.

She kept herself composed and nonreactive in his presence, interacting only when necessary to avoid drawing his ire.

He’d finally given Jill her surprise.

A shiny, pink paracord bracelet that made Lydia shudder, remembering the hiker, who had probably met an untimely death at the hands of Dom.

Jill did a good job of doing what her father wanted to when he was there, and keeping up conversation with him, her compliance serving as a way to avoid most of his unpredictable outbursts.

While he was outside, their days were long. Jill had found a book in her trunk that she was reading. Something about an orphaned elephant in a garden. Jill found it interesting because it was inspired by a true story. Dom liked that she was reading it, as it was set in Germany during the war, and he said that Jill “needed to be well-rounded with her knowledge of the world.”

Lydia was glad that Jill had found something that allowed her to escape her surroundings, even if it was a story of loss and loyalty amid tragedy. At least her mind was somewhere other than the bunker when her nose was in the book.

On the fourth day back in the bunker, Dom announced that they would be going for another lesson in the woods. His demeanor was businesslike, and Lydia couldn't shake the knot of apprehension in her stomach as they geared up for the outing, though she was thrilled to get to go outside.

It was a cold day, and, as they walked deeper into the woods, Lydia hoped she’d be around when spring arrived. Not in the bunker with Dom, but just alive, in general.

She wasn’t sure why her thoughts were suddenly morbid, and she tried to shake herself out of it and focus on the blessing of being outside.

Dom's lesson this time was on identifying edible plants and foraging for food in the wilderness. He pointed at a gathering of wild shrubs.

"Look. Here’s a wild rose bush. No blooms but there’s a few rose hips.”

He plucked a small red berry from the bush and held it out for Jill.

“Try it,” he said.

Gingerly, she took it and put it in her mouth, then raised her eyebrows.

“Not bad,” she said.

Dom nodded knowingly. "Those are safe to eat but hard to find, as the birds tend to get to them first. If you’re lucky enough to find them, you can eat them raw or put them in boiled water to make rose tea. They’re a good source of vitamin E and C.”

He walked on, continuing his lecture. "Now, what do you think is useful here?" Dom asked, pointing to a nearby pine tree.

Jill hesitated, unsure of the answer.

Dom didn't wait for her response, stepping in to teach. "This tree can provide tea and an edible inner bark," he explained. "Needles grow in clumps of 2 to 5 needles, and pinecones are found on the more mature trees. Sometimes you can still find nuts in some of the cones."

He went on to describe the process as he shaved off some of the inner layer of bark from next to the wood. It looked rubbery and was a light cream color.

“After we dry these strips, we’ll grind them into flour that we can use as breading for fish we catch,” he continued.

Jill appeared to listen attentively, nodding along as Dom explained various plants they could safely eat in a pinch.

As they continued the hike, Dom pointed out other useful finds: persimmons, wild onions, maple sap, and chickweed. He’d obviously been doing his research.

When they stumbled across a small plant he called mullein, its distinctive fuzzy leaves caught Jill's curiosity. She knelt beside him and ran her fingers over one of the leaves.

"Mullein is good to use as toilet paper," Dom remarked casually, plucking a few leaves and dropping them into his backpack. "Its fuzzy leaves are surprisingly effective."

Jill nodded, absorbing the lesson with the seriousness of a student eager to please her teacher. Lydia watched silently, her eyes roving far beyond their path, looking and hoping for someone to come along.

Someone stronger and more observant than the hiker they’d met before.

Lydia saw movement from her peripheral view and turned to see a shiny blackbird swoop down and land on a branch high over their heads.

She hadn’t thought about her own special friend, Blackbird, in a while. How it was her only friend for the year she’d spent chained to a pole in the basement. She’d wiled away many hours imagining it soaring over beautiful mountains, lakes, and flying swiftly through the sky, the smell of freedom on its wings when it visited, reminding her that just outside that window was a place she needed to hold out for, and not give up.

Dom led them to a creek, and he pulled an empty water bottle and some paracord from his backpack.

“Jill, at times you won’t have much for supplies and possibly have nothing. You’ll need to be resourceful with what you can find. Let’s pretend I just found this water bottle, and that this paracord is made from nettles, both contributing to a process I’m going to teach you. It takes some practice to learn how to do it without getting stung.”

“Have you been stung?” Jill asked.

“I sure have. Just about anything that can happen to you out in the wild has happened to me. Snakes, stings, and I was even chased by a wild boar once. Climbed a tree faster than I thought I could that time.” He chuckled. “But that’s how you learn. Cordage will be our next lesson and, even though you have some on that bracelet you’re wearing, you’ll need more. There’s a lot of materials out here that you can use to make it. It’s important to always have some type of cordage on you because it’s helpful for all sorts of things, from fishing and hunting, to helping make your shelter more secure. We may not always have the bunker, you know.”

Lydia doubted that Jill cared about that at all.

He held up the paracord and the bottle. “Anyway, this is how we’re going to catch our dinner for tonight. I need you to find a worm for bait. Look under rocks or dig deep under a gathering of bushes.”

Lydia helped Jill look and, after they’d pushed over a few rocks, they found two long earthworms trying to get away.

Jill bravely—and carefully—plucked them from the dirt, then took them to Dom. He nodded approvingly before shooting Lydia a dark look and telling her to sit on the big rock near him, within his sight. She settled down, glad for the respite, and watched as from his backpack pocket he withdrew a branch.

“Remember the rose hips?” he asked Jill. “That bush we got them from also gave me something to use for catching fish.” He pointed at the thorns on the short branch, then showed Jill how to use it with the cordage, and a flat rock for weight, before tossing his line into the water.

“Isn’t it too cold for fish?” Jill asked.

“Possibly. But the creek has other proteins if you can’t catch fish. Mussels and crayfish. Frogs. Even cattails if you can find them. I bet you didn’t learn any of this in that fancy school your mom has you in.”

At the mention of her mom, Jill’s face fell, and she bowed her head.

“Oh, don’t start that crap,” Dom said. “I’m raising you to be tough. You should be grateful to be here. I’m teaching you a lot more than you’d ever learn without me.”

Jill sat down next to Dom, wrapping her arms around her legs. Lydia had to give it to her. She looked as though she was fighting hard to keep from crying, and she made it through.

Dom didn’t catch a fish and he got bored after half an hour.

“Let’s pack it up,” he said.

Lydia and Jill jumped to their feet and fell in line in front of him as he pointed the way back, keeping an eye on them. His mood had shifted, and he became contemplative. The only conversation he made was when he picked up a few random things, putting them in his bag. A rock. Pinecones. And a few other things Lydia didn’t see.

"You did well today, Jill," Dom remarked, his tone almost gentle. "I’m almost regretful that I'll be leaving again for a few days. When I return, things might change around here."

Lydia's mind raced with dread. What did he mean by “things might change?” Her worst fears surfaced—would he force her into an intimate arrangement again? Or was there some other cruel plan he had in mind?

They returned to the bunker in silence.

Dom instructed Lydia to prepare supper while he unpacked their findings from the day. Lydia followed his orders mechanically, her hands moving with practiced efficiency as she cooked a simple meal of black beans and rice, using supplies from his stockpile.

Jill helped as much as she could, setting the table under Dom's watchful gaze.

Dinner passed quietly. Dom occasionally spoke to Jill about her day, praising her efforts in learning the survival skills he taught. Jill responded politely, her eyes flickering with uncertainty whenever she glanced at Lydia.

After they finished eating, Dom retired to his bunk without another word.

Lydia continued her mechanical cleaning up, her thoughts consumed by what lay ahead. She couldn't afford to lose hope, not when Jill depended on her to stay strong.

As night settled over the bunker, Lydia lay awake in her cot next to Jill, listening to the faint sounds of Dom’s breathing. She wondered how hard it was to suffocate someone with a pillow. Or wrap a belt around their neck and strangle them. His bunk was in the corner, and she tried to brainstorm how she could get behind his head.

Suddenly, his eyes opened, and he sat up on one elbow, looking her way in the dimness of the candle he’d left burning.

Could he see that she was awake?

Lydia didn’t move, or even breathe, waiting and hoping he’d go back to sleep.

“I know you’re watching me,” he said, slowly and threatening, his voice barely a whisper. “Hmm … could you be planning some kind of takeover in that little pea brain of yours? If so, you’d better think long and hard about that. And another thing, Linda. I don’t like how my daughter constantly looks at you for approval. If I find out that you’re trying to turn her against me when I’m not around, you might not get to be a part of this happy family anymore, and, I can promise you, the alternative isn’t nice. Good night, dear.”

He laid back down and turned over to face the wall.

Fear gnawed at Lydia, but she pushed it down, focusing now on praying for her family and getting Dom’s voice out of her head. She went through each person, starting this time with Zoey, visualizing their faces and trying to remember the sound of their voices. She’d already forgotten much, or maybe she’d locked it away in her own mental boxes, some memories too painful to revisit. She only hoped her tower of boxes didn’t come tumbling down until she and Jill were safe again.

Dom was leaving again in the morning. After his latest proclamation, this time Lydia would be thankful to be locked away in the bunker and out from under his constant scrutiny.

CHAPTER 28

Lydia and Jill sat at the small table in the bunker, their heads bent over coloring books filled with intricate mandala designs. They used art pencils to shade between the lines, enjoying the therapeutic process of watching the pages come alive with color.

Despite the stifling atmosphere of confinement, a sense of relief had settled over them with Dom's departure that morning. Still, they couldn't shake the underlying dread of being locked away once again.

Suddenly, the heavy clunk of the bunker door unlocking echoed through the cramped space. Lydia's heart sank as she assumed Dom had forgotten something earlier that morning and was only now returning for it—or worse, had changed his mind about leaving them alone.

Jill looked up nervously, meeting Lydia's worried gaze with her own apprehension.

But it wasn't Dom who stepped through the door.

It was Martha, her usually composed demeanor strained as she entered, laden with a backpack, a sleeping roll, and other supplies slung over her shoulders. She scanned the bunker swiftly, her eyes darting around as if expecting trouble.

"Martha?" Lydia exclaimed in surprise, setting down her colored pencils. “We weren’t expecting you today.”

Martha hurried over to them, her movements urgent. "We need to hurry and leave," she whispered urgently, her eyes flicking toward the door as if expecting Dom's return at any moment. "He could be back any minute."

Lydia's mind raced to catch up with the sudden turn of events. "Leave?"

It took a moment for Martha's words to sink in, and, when they did, Lydia felt a flood of emotions—relief, gratitude, disbelief—all swirling together. Tears welled up in her eyes as she repeated, "Thank you, thank you," repeatedly.

“Get yourself together. There's no time for that," Martha said firmly, though her own eyes betrayed a hint of emotion. "Grab your backpacks and fill them with nonperishable food. Linda, take all the jerky you can find. Jill, grab the dried fruit. And don't forget your sleeping bags."

“Don’t you have a phone with you?” Lydia asked. “We can get authorities on the way. I can call my family, and Jill’s mother.”

“I’m not allowed to have a phone,” Martha said somberly. “Nor the keys to a vehicle. Kenneth doesn’t have a phone. He says they’re a nuisance. Norman has a phone, but he hides it before he comes here so he isn’t tracked. We’ll hike out and find someone who can help. But hurry.”

“Will we be camping?” Lydia asked as she hurriedly gathered essentials. She’d hoped that the woman was going to lead them straight to a vehicle.

Martha paused, her expression serious. “I don’t know yet. We won’t be able to take the westward trails that Norman and Kenneth will be expecting us to, so my plan is to go out through the northeast and go all the way up past Slaughter Mountain until we can get to highway 19. We’ll have to stay off the trails, and it will be rugged going, but, first, we need to get you out of this area. Then we’ll decide what to do.”

“I can’t believe you’re doing this for us,” Lydia said, her voice trembling with gratitude.

“Well, she is my granddaughter, and I can’t stand by and watch my son ruin yet another life,” Martha replied, her tone resolute as she handed Lydia a small knife, a compass, and a roll of duct tape from a box near Dom’s bunk. To Jill, she gave a whistle and a small flashlight. "Keep these close."

Lydia knew she was lucky. Very, very lucky. Martha could easily take Jill and leave her there, for Dom to return to, enraged when he saw his daughter was gone. That she was taking Lydia, too, was a blessing and miracle.

Diablo whined from outside the shelter, as though he knew something was happening.

Jill's voice quivered with anxiety, and she looked out at him. "Are we taking Diablo with us?"

Martha hesitated, concern etching lines on her face. "No. It's too risky. Dom might track us through him. We also only have a limited amount of time to get as far from here as we can. Can’t be trying to keep up with a dog."

Jill's eyes filled with tears. "But Diablo’s part of our family!"

Martha softened as she stared down at her granddaughter’s anguish, her resolve momentarily wavering. "Alright," she relented, her voice gentle. "We'll bring Diablo with us. But if he takes off on his own, we can’t go after him."

“That’s okay. At least he’ll be free,” Jill said softly.

Her statement struck Lydia as way too mature for a ten-year-old, but also fitting for what the girl was going through.

As they continued packing—stuffing their backpacks with supplies and essentials—Lydia couldn't contain her curiosity any longer. "Martha, what did you mean earlier? About not letting your son ruin another life?"

Martha's face darkened, a shadow passing over her features as she turned away briefly, lost in painful memories. "I ... I don't want to talk about it. Just know that I won't let him harm you or Jill anymore. I love my son, but I don’t like who he has become."

The weight of Martha's words hung heavy in the air, a silent testament to the unseen struggles she had endured.

With their packs loaded and emotions running high, Martha led Lydia and Jill to the bunker entrance. She glanced around one last time, ensuring they weren’t leaving anything important behind.

“Oh, I forgot,” Martha said, then went back into the bunker, going all the way to the back, behind the bunks and other shelves. She was out of sight and making a lot of racket. When she returned, she had two handguns, and passed one to Lydia. “Be careful. Safety is on, but if you aim that gun at someone, you’d better be ready to kill them. Put it where you can get to it fast.”

The cold of the barrel felt foreign in Lydia’s hands. She’d never fired a gun before.

Quickly, she tucked it into her backpack.

"Ready?" Martha asked, her voice tinged with apprehension.

Lydia took a deep breath, her hand squeezing Jill's reassuringly. She’d never been more ready in her life. "Ready."

Together, they stepped out into the world beyond the bunker, leaving behind the darkness and uncertainty that had plagued their lives under Dom's control. Ahead lay the unknown, but anything was better than being prisoners.

Lydia looked at Martha leading them away from the bunker. She was the most unlikely person they had expected to be their savior—but she was the one who’d brought them a glimmer of hope, a chance for freedom and a return to their loved ones.

Lydia pushed away the thoughts of Caleb and her girls that jumped into her mind, fearful that their escape might be cut short and afraid that her hopes would be dashed. But, despite the fear, as long as she didn’t have to leave Jill behind, she was willing to risk everything for her chance at safety and peace.

She thought of the gun she carried.

Yes, she’d do anything.

Dom was never taking her back.

As they ventured deeper into the woods, Lydia whispered a silent prayer of gratitude, hoping fervently that—this time—freedom would finally be within their grasp.

CHAPTER 29

It was more than a week into the search, and they’d found nothing. Noon had arrived, and the teams broke for a brief respite at Ground Zero. Mabel had brought in food, paid for by donations taken in her restaurant, The Den. Volunteers gathered around makeshift tables laden with sandwiches, water bottles, and granola bars. The atmosphere was subdued, and Caleb sat apart from the others, his mind consumed with a million thoughts that he didn’t want to share with anyone.

He picked at his sandwich, the food tasteless in his mouth, as he wrestled with the gnawing uncertainty that gripped his heart.

The quiet was shattered by the sound of an approaching vehicle—a truck kicking up dust as it rumbled to a stop nearby. Caleb glanced up, his heart skipping a beat as Norman Addler stepped out.

“What the hell,” Caleb whispered under his breath. The man’s presence was like a match to gasoline, igniting a volatile mix of anger and suspicion within Caleb.

Addler approached casually, his attire starkly contrasting with the somber mood of the search site. Dressed as though he were headed into combat, he looked every bit as out of place as a wolf among sheep.

“What are you doing here?” Caleb demanded, rising to his feet in a surge of righteous fury.

Addler’s expression remained unreadable, a mask of innocence that grated on Caleb’s nerves. “I thought I’d come help you search,” he replied calmly, his voice a calculated blend of sincerity and mockery.

Mira approached swiftly, sensing the tension that crackled between Caleb and Addler like electricity. “What’s going on here?” she asked, her voice sharp with concern.

Caleb turned to Mira, his voice thick with emotion. “He’s the one who has Lydia,” he blurted out, his accusation hanging heavy in the air.

Addler’s smirk was infuriatingly composed. “Prove it,” he challenged, his voice as cold as ice.

Mira’s brow furrowed in confusion, torn between Caleb’s desperate accusation and the lack of evidence to support it. “Caleb, calm down,” she urged, stepping closer to him.

But Caleb’s control snapped like a brittle twig. With a primal roar, he lunged at Addler, his fists swinging wildly. The two men grappled fiercely, their struggle drawing the attention of nearby volunteers and officers.

Mira and several other men rushed forward, pulling them apart.

Addler staggered back, holding a hand to his bruised face where Caleb’s blows had landed. He chuckled darkly, his amusement a sharp contrast to Caleb’s raw fury.

“It’s him! He’s guilty!” Caleb shouted, his voice hoarse with rage, struggling against the hands that held him back.

Mira’s voice cut through the chaos, authoritative and stern. “That’s enough, Caleb! Stop this right now!”

His chest heaved with exertion; his trembling hands clenched into fists at his sides. “He’s responsible! I know it!” he insisted, his voice cracking with emotion. “Aren’t you, Addler? Admit it! Tell me where my wife is!”

Addler straightened his jacket with a disdainful flick. “This is absurd,” he declared, his tone cool and collected. “I came here to help, and this is the thanks I get?”

“Get out of here, Addler,” Mira ordered, her voice steelier than Caleb had ever heard it.

Addler shrugged nonchalantly. “Gladly. Just trying to do my civic duty,” he replied, turning on his heel and walking away with deliberate steps. When he was only fifty feet away or so, he turned around. “You know, Grimes, it doesn’t say much for your law enforcement skills that your wife was stolen right out from under your nose. Maybe you’re blaming the wrong man.”

Caleb tried to go after him again, but Mira held his arm in a grip that could rival any man’s he’d known.

As Addler got in his truck and disappeared from view, she turned to Caleb, her expression a mix of concern and exasperation. She led him away from the gathering crowd to a quieter, more secluded spot.

He sank down onto a fallen log, his hands burying themselves in his hair as he fought to regain control. “Am I going crazy?” he asked hoarsely, his voice tinged with anguish.

Mira sat beside him, her presence a steady anchor in the storm of his emotions. “Maybe crazy with grief,” she offered softly, her tone gentle yet firm. “But you have to get ahold of yourself, Caleb.”

Tears pricked at Caleb’s eyes, embarrassment burning hot on his cheeks. “I … I lost it back there,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “If, by some miracle, Weaver doesn’t hear about this on his own, can we keep it quiet? I don’t want to lose my job,” Caleb pleaded, desperation coloring his words.

Mira placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Of course,” she assured him. “You’re not alone in this, Caleb.”

“You’re not going to leave, are you?” Caleb asked, his voice wavering with uncertainty.

“No, I’m not,” Mira replied firmly. “Now, let’s take a breather before we get back to work.”

Together, they sat in the quiet solitude of the forest, the sounds of the search site a distant hum in the background. Caleb took a deep breath, his resolve hardening once more. He wiped away the remnants of tears, steeling himself for another day of disappointment.

CHAPTER 30

Lydia and Jill had pushed themselves hard throughout the day, moving as quickly as they could through the rugged terrain to keep up with Martha, who for her age was surprisingly spry. Diablo ran ahead of them most of the time, as though he knew where they were going, but occasionally he doubled back to ensure they were still okay.

They had passed Justus Mountain and Gooch Mountain, their legs burning with exhaustion as they neared the area around Big Cedar Mountain.

The sun was sinking low, casting long shadows across the forest floor, when Martha suddenly stumbled on a root hidden beneath the undergrowth. She tried to break her fall with her hands, but the impact was hard, and Lydia heard a sharp gasp of pain escape Martha's lips on impact.

"Martha!" Lydia rushed to her side, dropping her backpack and kneeling beside her. Jill joined her and even Diablo trotted back to check out what was happening. "Are you okay?"

Martha gritted her teeth, clutching her injured wrist. Blood trickled from a scrape on her palm where the skin had broken against the rough ground. "I'm fine," she muttered through clenched teeth, trying to stand up.

"No, you're not," Lydia insisted, gently taking Martha's wrist to inspect it. "We need to clean this and bandage it properly. It might be broken.”

"We don't have time," Martha protested, her voice tight with urgency. "We have to keep moving."

Lydia glanced around anxiously, the fading light casting an eerie gloom over their surroundings. "Martha, you've been in a panic all day. We need to slow down, catch our breath. We won't make it if you're hurt."

Martha hesitated, her eyes flickering with fear. "You don't understand," she whispered hoarsely. "If he catches up to us ..."

Lydia's heart sank. "Your son or your husband?"

"Both," Martha replied in a voice barely above a whisper. "They're both insane. I've seen what they're capable of."

Understanding dawned on Lydia, a chill running down her spine at the thought of what Martha had endured all these years. "We'll keep moving," Lydia promised softly, helping Martha to her feet. "But we'll do it at a pace we can manage and only after you let me wrap that wrist."

Lydia found a solid stick that was about the right size and using a few torn strips from the bottom of her shirt, she made a splint around Martha’s wrist, tying it tight.

Martha never made a sound.

They continued, the light fading fast as they pressed forward through the dense woods. By the time darkness settled in around them like a heavy cloak, Jill was visibly exhausted and hungry. They found a small clearing and Martha said they’d stop for the night.

"No smoke or flames," Martha warned, her voice tense with worry. "We'll just have to make do with what we have."

They pooled their sleeping bags together for warmth, sharing dried fruit, nuts, and seeds from their packs. Other than a few pieces of jerky for Diablo, they saved the rest of the meat for the next day's breakfast, knowing they would need the energy to finish their journey.

Lying under the starlit sky, exhaustion weighed heavily on their bodies, but sleep eluded them. Jill, trying to break the tense silence, spoke up softly. "Grandma, tell me something about you."

Diablo had wiggled his way into a space between Lydia and Jill, and Lydia was glad for his protection and warmth. She ran her hand through his fur, and touched Jill’s fingers that were doing the same thing from the other side.

“Yes, Martha. We’d love to know more about you,” Lydia agreed.

Martha was quiet for a long moment, the crackle of leaves and distant rustle of wildlife filling the air. Finally, she sighed heavily, as if steeling herself to share a burden long carried.

"My name isn't Martha Addler," she began quietly. "Jill, I suppose after all you've been through, you're old enough to know the truth. My real name is Shara Williams, but please don’t call me that. She is long gone, and Martha is who I became."

Lydia looked at her, surprised by the revelation but not interrupting. It would’ve been a good time to tell them that her name wasn’t Linda, but she didn’t want to interrupt Martha now that she’d decided to open to them.

Martha continued, her voice steady yet heavy with emotion. "When I was just a college student in Washington state, I was abducted. I was with my best friend, Caroline, when we were laying out in the sun behind her house. A stranger came around into the yard and it turned out to be Kenneth, Norman’s father. He asked for a glass of water and Caroline said of course and led him into the back of the house. Back then helping a stranger was mostly safe, and the right thing to do, and it didn’t hurt that he was a handsome young man then. But inside, he tied Caroline up, then came for me and dragged me out the way he’d come through the yard, and into a ragged old camper truck. He had a gun on me, and I believed his threats that he’d use it if I tried to escape the truck.”

Jill gasped, the sound making Lydia jump in the dark.

Martha continued. “We were halfway to Georgia before Caroline’s parents came home, untied her, and she was able to give a description. Of Kenneth, not the vehicle.”

“I’m so sorry,” Lydia said, her voice a whisper. She couldn’t imagine all that the woman had been through.

“Was he mean to you?” Jill asked.

Martha hesitated. “Yes, Jill, he was. I was in a bunker, too. For nine long years before he felt he’d brainwashed me enough that I wouldn’t try to leave. We were never legally married, but he held me here on this property all these years, forcing me to forget who I once was and molding me into the wife and mother he expected—no, that he demanded that I be."

“And you never reached out to your family? Let them know you were alive?” Lydia asked. Martha had freedom to walk around—she’d come to them several times. But she hadn’t walked out?

Tears welled in Martha's eyes. She shook her head. "I made a decision long ago not to reach out to them. I couldn't bear for them to see what I've become, what I've endured at Kenneth's hands. He ruined me and I know I could never make it on my own. Also, I’m sure my parents are long gone now, and my brothers would be ashamed of what I’ve become. The only one that might accept me is Darlene, my little sister, but Kenneth threatened years ago that if I left, he’d find a way to get to her."

“Martha, I doubt that anyone in your family would reject you,” Lydia said. “I bet they’d be relieved to hear from you. To know that you survived.”

Martha paused; her gaze distant as memories flooded back. "That’s just it, though. My survival thus far has been miraculous. I never made a long-term plan, just lived to get through one day at a time. Every incident that Kenneth or Norman put me through, I think I won’t be here to face another tomorrow. Don’t get me wrong, though. I loved the children I bore, and I tried to protect them from their father. But my oldest son, Norman ... He is just like his father. Even as a child, he showed signs of ... cruelty. It only escalates the older he gets but, despite everything he’s put me through, I feel sorry for him. It’s not his fault that his father passed down his DNA. Norman is so smart and capable; he could’ve really done something special with his life. Still can, if he would agree to get help. I think with the right professional, he might get better. He has moments when he’s truly very likable.”

Lydia shuddered, her heart breaking for Martha and the pain she had endured, but she didn’t think that Dom was salvageable. His good moments were most likely a façade, like the actor he had learned to be when needed. But she knew that a mother could never completely condemn her children, no matter what they did.

Even Jeffrey Dahmer’s mother was famous for what she’d said about her son.

He’s not a monster. He’s a human being that I think deserves some help.

Dahmer’s mother was an upstanding citizen, known for being a staunch advocate for those suffering from AIDS, and was the founder of a resource community center for those with the disease. Before her death from breast cancer, she claimed that she was wracked with guilt and constant torment from the things her son had done.

Lydia let out a long sigh. So many innocent mothers, lost in devastation and confusion about how things could go so wrong with their children.

"And Kenny?" Lydia asked softly, leading Martha away from her anguished thoughts of Norman.

"Kenny," Martha's voice softened with affection and sorrow, "was different. He was a sweet child, a good man. As he grew older, he saw the truth of his father's nature and tried to protect me. But he was always torn between loyalty to his father and his desire to shield me from harm." Martha wiped away a tear, her fingers trembling slightly. "Jill, you remind me so much of Kenny. He had your kindness, your strength. He didn’t know the truth of who I was, yet he wanted to give me a chance at freedom, away from the violence of our home, and we were working on a plan, but ..." She trailed off, unable to voice the rest of the painful truth.

Lydia heard a low snore and recognized it as Jill’s.

“She’s asleep,” Martha said, hearing it, too.

“I can’t blame her,” Lydia said. “It’s been an exhausting day, even for an adult. I can’t imagine what all is going through her head. She’s quite a tough one.”

“Took that after me, I’d say,” Martha said, letting out a light chuckle. “No matter how many times Kenneth knocks me down, I get back up. It might take me a minute, but my pride has kept me going all this time. Toughness, too.”

“Martha, I’ve wanted to ask you something important,” Lydia said.

“Shoot.”

“Do you know why your son chose me?” It was a question that she’d rolled over and over in her mind since the very minute she realized he wasn’t a good Samaritan and had plans to keep her. She’d never figured out how he came to know she’d be there, or why he took her.

Martha hesitated.

“Your husband’s fault,” she said. “He was angry at him.”

“My husband? Caleb? But how—why? I don’t think we ever met your son.”

“Your husband was called out to a domestic abuse call involving Norman and Jill’s mother. She’d had trouble with him for a long time, and never called the law, but they were in Hart’s Ridge for a short vacation. The neighbors near their Airbnb heard the ruckus and called the police. Gwen and Jill were taken to a women’s shelter, and I don’t know what the woman there said that got through to Gwen that time, but she didn’t go back to her marriage. Norman lost his control over her that night, and he’s always blamed your husband for it. When he saw a press conference on the news about your abduction, and the search for you in Amicalola, he recognized your husband. He decided to get even. ‘A wife for a wife,’ he said.”

The twisted logic in Martha’s explanation made Lydia sick to her stomach. Only a psychopath would think that was fair.

As the night deepened around them, they continued to talk, hearts heavy with the weight of so much worry. They huddled around Jill under the starlit sky, keeping her safe and finding solace in their shared journey toward freedom—and in the bond that had grown between them, each of them an innocent pawn in the ugliness that was the Addler family.

CHAPTER 31

Lydia awoke to the faint crackling of a fire and the chill of the brisk morning air. Her body throbbed from the previous day's exertion and the discomfort of sleeping on the hard ground. Confusion clouded her sleepy mind as she wondered why Martha had risked starting a fire despite their need to not draw any attention to their location.

Turning over, Lydia's eyes widened in alarm as she saw Dom sitting by the fire, calmly whittling on a stick. Diablo lay at his feet, napping.

Martha was tied to a nearby tree, a gag in her mouth and her eyes wide with fear. It seemed she was trying to convey something urgent to Lydia with her panicked gaze.

"Good morning," Dom's voice cut through the tense silence, deep and filled with anger.

Lydia remained silent, her mind racing for a plan.

Dom spoke, addressing both Martha and Lydia, his voice dripping with resentment and betrayal. "After all we've accomplished, after everything I've provided to keep you safe, you both dared to try to take my daughter from me. And you, mother," he sneered at Martha, "your betrayal is the hardest to understand. Father is eager to deal with you."

Martha's eyes pleaded with Lydia, silently urging her to be cautious.

Dom's gaze turned to Lydia again, his expression cold and unwavering. He had a black eye and his lip looked as though it had been split.

"You've broken my trust irreparably. You knew the consequences, yet you couldn’t just be satisfied with the good life I’ve given you. Perhaps you preferred your previous quarters."

Fear gripped Lydia's heart. She knew this time, Dom wouldn't hesitate to act and, if there was a basement close, she was going into it.

Or did he mean even more dire consequences?

Jill stirred in her sleeping bag, rubbing her eyes sleepily as she sat up and looked around. Her innocent demeanor contrasted sharply with the tension in the air. When she saw Dom, the color drained from her face.

Dom's tone softened as he addressed his daughter. "Morning, Jill. You've had quite an adventure. Time to go home now. You have studies to continue."

Jill's expression shifted subtly, a skillful mask slipping into place. "Okay, Dad. I'm tired of hiking anyway. And I forgot my book."

She was doing a wonderful job pretending she didn’t know they were trying to escape.

Dom scrutinized her for a moment before nodding slowly. "Alright then. Let's break camp and get ready to move. We'll eat as we go."

Lydia and Jill hurriedly packed their belongings, Lydia carefully concealing the gun in her backpack while rolling up her sleeping bag. Dom untied Martha and instructed them to start hiking back the way they came, Lydia leading, with Martha at the rear, Jill tucked safely between them and Dom watching every step they made from his place at the back of the line.

The hike back was grueling, the weight of their failed escape heavy on their shoulders. Throughout the day, they walked in silence, Dom maintaining a watchful eye on them. He rarely spoke. No lessons or showboating about his knowledge of the wilderness.

Diablo didn’t run ahead this time. As though knowing this was a walk of shame, he stayed with them, his tail low to the ground, ready to be struck with one kick or bad word from Dom.

Lydia never found an opportunity to retrieve the gun or get Dom in a vulnerable position.

As evening approached, they arrived back at the bunker.

Dom pushed them inside, slamming the heavy door behind them, leaving them once again imprisoned in darkness.

Jill cried out for Diablo, but it was too late. Dom quickly locked the door from the outside, then they heard the clanging of the heavy chain he hooked the dog to.

Lydia's heart sank as the heavy bunker door sealed them once again in the suffocating darkness. The air felt stale and oppressive, a stark contrast to the freedom they had tasted so briefly.

She felt her way to the table and lit the lantern.

Inside, the atmosphere was tense and silent, broken only by the faint echoes of their footsteps on the concrete floor. Martha, visibly shaken from their encounter with Dom, leaned against the cold wall, her injured wrist cradled protectively against her chest, her eyes bright with a frenzied fright.

Jill moved closer to Lydia, her eyes wide with fear and confusion. "What's going to happen to us, Linda?" she whispered, her voice trembling. “He’s so angry.”

Lydia swallowed hard, her mind racing with fear and uncertainty. She couldn't afford to show any weakness now, not when Jill was looking to her for reassurance. "Not at you, Jill. He’s only angry with me and Martha. And don’t worry, we'll figure something out," she replied quietly, though doubt gnawed at her.

Martha's voice broke through the silence, her tone filled with remorse. "I'm so sorry, both of you," she murmured, her eyes cast downward. "I should’ve never said to stop for the night. My son is a better tracker than I thought."

"It's not your fault, Martha," Lydia said firmly, trying to quell the rising panic in her own voice. "We'll find a way to get out of here. We have to."

Hours passed in anxious silence as they huddled together in the dim light filtering through a small vent in the ceiling and the lantern on the table. They hadn’t eaten all day, but none of them had an appetite.

Lydia's mind raced, searching for any possible escape plan. She couldn't let fear paralyze her—they had to act because Dom was most likely going to separate her from Jill. She couldn’t let that happen.

Finally, Martha spoke up, her voice low but determined. "I just remembered something. There might be a way out," she said, her eyes flicking toward the bunkbeds where Dom slept.

“Are you saying that there’s another way to exit?” Lydia asked, incredulous. She thought she’d checked every inch of the shelter.

“Yes, if it doesn’t have a lock on it. I forgot about it because I haven’t seen it in ages, but Dom would never build a shelter without a way to escape if someone was at the door.”

Martha led her there and first pulled all the storage containers out from under the bottom bunk, and then instructed Lydia to help pull the bed away from the wall.

Lydia still didn’t see anything, but Martha pointed at the floor.

There it was, with the side grooves of a small door so fine and level that it blended in and could barely be seen.

Martha tried it.

Thankfully, it wasn’t locked.

"It leads to an old maintenance tunnel. It's risky, but it might be our only chance," she said, then hesitated. “It really depends on timing. If Norman was headed to get Kenneth and return right away, they’ll find us. If he plans to let us simmer in here for a while, we may get away.”

Lydia nodded, her heart pounding with a mix of fear and hope. "Let's do it," she said, her voice steady despite the turmoil within her. She went to her backpack and pulled out the gun, then dumped everything in the pack and put the gun back in.

They moved cautiously toward the hatch. Martha reached out, her fingers brushing against the cold metal. With a silent prayer, she pushed it open, revealing a narrow passageway barely wide enough for one person at a time. It was made from some sort of thin metal, like the kind used in air vents.

"I'll go first," Martha whispered, her voice barely audible. "Jill, you follow, then Linda. Move quietly and, please, you have to go quickly."

With Martha leading the way, they crawled through the dark and dusty tunnel, their hands and knees scraping against the rough, metal floor. Lydia had to push her backpack ahead of her, as there wasn’t room to wear it on her back and still move freely.

"We’ll come out a quarter of a mile from the bunker, further into the woods," Martha whispered, her voice barely audible over the pounding of Lydia's heart.

The air in the shaft was thick with the smell of mold and decay, and there were insects and dead rat carcasses, but they pressed on, driven by desperation and the flickering hope of freedom. Jill gasped a few times, but Lydia put a reassuring hand on her back, and she kept going.

After what felt like an eternity, they emerged into a dimly lit storage room, stacks of crates and old equipment casting long shadows in the faint light. Lydia spotted a generator, and barrels, most likely more stored water.

Martha motioned for them to stay quiet as she cautiously approached a rusted door on the far side of the room. With a creak, she pushed the door open, revealing the cool night air and the distant twinkle of stars overhead. She nodded, her eyes scanning their surroundings for any hint of danger. "All clear. There's a trail not far from here," she said, her voice filled with determination. "If we hurry, we might be able to put some distance between us and this place."

Carefully, they slipped out into the darkness, their senses alert for any sign of pursuit. The night was eerily quiet, broken only by the distant hoot of an owl and the rustling of leaves in the breeze.

“This way,” Martha pointed.

“Wait,” Lydia said, reaching out and putting a hand on each of them. “Stop for a second.”

She heard him before he was visible, and the whistling sent a chill running through her.

Three blind mice, see how they run …

Suddenly they were washed in a spotlight … and the three of them froze in place.

“Going somewhere, ladies?” Dom asked, his voice deadly.

CHAPTER 32

When Lydia turned to find Dom and who she assumed to be Kenneth standing before them, two threatening shadows in the dark, she thought she’d faint. She looked to Martha, seeing her tremble as she looked to this new man. This had to be Kenneth. A weathered and menacing figure, he stood next to Dom as he wielded a gun and flashlight.

Jill whimpered and clutched at Lydia's arm, her fear palpable.

Martha's voice was barely audible as she whispered urgently, "The gun, Lydia. Get out the gun."

Lydia pushed Jill behind her and moved quickly to retrieve the gun from her backpack. Her hands trembled violently as she pointed it in the direction of the men, blinded momentarily by the flashlight in her eyes.

“Oh? So, Mother, even more betrayal. You gave her a gun,” Dom said calmly.

Kenneth's voice was cold and calculating. "Looks like we have an old-fashioned showdown here. You're going to have to shoot your woman, son," he said to Dom.

"Seems like a waste after all we've been through," he taunted toward Lydia. “You just couldn’t behave, could you?”

With the light in her eyes, she couldn’t see his face, but she knew what it would look like.

Emotionless. Cruel.

Lydia’s hands trembled as she held the gun and she thought of what Dom’s father had done to Martha. Her abduction and then captivity for years until she’d submitted to him thoroughly and permanently.

It was sick and twisted, but unfortunately was common around the world. So many girls and women snatched out of their lives, only to be forced into a new one of abuse and submission, brainwashed to accept their fate, many of them never to be heard from again.

It was clear that it was exactly what Dom’s plan was for her life. And for Jill’s.

She thought of Jaycee Dugard, kidnapped at only eleven years old and kept in a dilapidated shack in the backyard of Phillip and Nancy Garrido. It was eighteen years and two children bore to her abductor by the time she was finally freed.

Martha's voice cut through the tension, pleading, "Norman, don't do this in front of Jill. She'll never forget it."

"The child will get over it," Kenneth replied dismissively. "Martha, shut your mouth. Do what you have to do, son."

Lydia's mind raced. "I can't do this," she whispered to herself, panic rising within her. She’d never shot a gun before, much less one aimed at a human being. She’d taken an oath long ago to do no harm. But also in that oath was the promise to protect those who were vulnerable and could not speak for themselves.

Behind her, she heard Jill crying.

Felt her fear.

She raised the gun a bit higher, holding it even tighter. It still shook and, despite all she knew of Dom and his father, she faltered in her decision.

Suddenly, in a blur of movement, Martha stepped forward and wrestled the gun from Lydia's trembling grasp. Three consecutive blasts rang out, echoing in the night.

Dom's shot missed, but Martha's found their marks, felling both men within an instant of the other. Kenneth lay motionless on the ground, while Dom sat upright clutching his chest, gasping in disbelief.

"Mother, you shot me," he uttered incredulously, his eyes wide with shock.

Martha grabbed Dom’s gun and tossed it to Lydia, then she picked up the flashlight, training it on Kenneth first, then Dom. "I’m so sorry, but I had to," she said softly, tears streaming down her face. “For my granddaughter. For Jill.”

Behind her, Jill was chanting something over and over, but Lydia couldn’t make it out. Something about God.

A prayer?

Norman was frantic and pleading now, the blood pouring through his fingers. “Give me something, Mother. Your shirt, hurry. I need to stop the bleeding. Don’t let me die.”

“You never admitted that it was your fault Kenny died,” Martha said, slowly, ignoring his demand, but now she was sobbing hard, her words tortured through her sobs. “You are just like your father, and I love you, son, but this ends here.”

She pulled the trigger again, and this time Norman fell back from the impact, completely motionless now, his blank eyes staring up at the dark sky above.

Jill, suddenly screaming uncontrollably, ran into the darkness.

Lydia stood frozen, unable to comprehend the swift turn of events. There was so much blood, and the ground was turning scarlet between the men.

Martha turned to Lydia, the gun still in her grip.

She looked confused.

Lydia's voice shook as she reached out. "Martha, give me the gun," she urged gently. "We have to find Jill and get out of here."

Martha looked at Lydia with haunted eyes, her grip on the gun tightening before she dropped her head, her gaze on the ground. "Kenneth was evil to his core, but Norman wasn't all bad," she murmured, her voice trembling.

Lydia's heart broke for her, for the impossible choices she had faced. "You did the right thing," she said softly, her voice filled with empathy. “Now give me the gun. Jill needs you now, Martha. We have to find your granddaughter.”

Martha turned and met Lydia's gaze, tears streaming down her face. "He was my child," she whispered, a mix of grief and resignation in her voice.

Before Lydia could react, Martha lifted the gun to her own head. "No!" Lydia screamed, but it was too late. The gunshot rang out, shattering the night air. Martha crumpled to the ground, leaving Lydia standing in stunned silence, surrounded by the aftermath of tragedy.

CHAPTER 33

Caleb’s drive home from Double Mountain felt interminable, each mile stretching out like an eternity of shattered hopes and bleak thoughts. The headlights of his truck cast long shadows across the familiar front porch as he pulled into the driveway. The house stood dark and silent against the night sky, no longer the oasis he used to return to from work. Without Lydia, it was just a house, not a home.

Approaching the front door, it swung open before he could reach for the handle. Blair stood there in her housecoat; her eyes filled with unspoken sorrow. Without a word, she enveloped him in a tight embrace, her arms a lifeline in the sea of his despair.

“The girls are all asleep,” she said into his ear.

Caleb clung to her briefly, finding a momentary solace in her warmth before pulling away awkwardly, feeling the weight of his failure pressing down on him.

“Good. How’s Grace? Still angry?”

“You could say that. And I know I’ve said it before, but this has to stop, Caleb. You’re killing yourself,” she said, her voice quiet.

Her concern was palpable, her presence a mix of comfort and worry. When Zoey’s cry echoed faintly from her room, Blair moved to go to her, but Caleb stopped her with a gentle touch on her arm.

“No, I’ll do it,” he murmured, his voice thick with exhaustion and emotion. “You go back to bed.”

Blair looked like she was going to argue, but then she nodded silently, stepping back as Caleb entered Zoey’s room.

The soft glow of the nightlight bathed the nursery in a gentle luminescence, casting shadows that danced across the walls. Zoey was kneeling on her mattress, her hands on the bars of the crib as though she were looking out of a jail cell. Tears streaked down her plump face.

He approached the bed with heavy steps, reaching in to lift her into his arms.

“I’m sorry, little one,” he whispered. “I didn’t find her.”

Zoey stirred in his embrace, her tiny hands curling instinctively around his finger as her cries downgraded to whimpers.

Caleb sank down into the old rocking chair beside the crib, its weathered wood creaking softly with each movement. He cradled Zoey close to his chest, rocking gently back and forth as he tried to soothe both himself and her.

Memories flooded his mind like a torrential downpour, memories of happier times before Lydia vanished. He remembered the joy and trepidation of learning they were expecting Zoey, their third child—a surprise that had filled their lives with renewed purpose and love. As a family, they’d decorated the nursery, letting the girls have a vote in every piece of it. They’d been just as excited to have a little sister on the way.

He and Lydia had embraced parenthood again with open hearts, savoring every moment of Lydia’s pregnancy, cherishing the quiet evenings spent planning their future together as a family of five. But now, their dreams lay shattered. The once vibrant echoes of laughter and love were replaced by the haunting silence of uncertainty and loss.

He recalled the way Lydia had selflessly decided to give up her beloved career, believing it was more important to be present for their children and provide them with a childhood filled with joy and security.

Now, their childhood was marred by sadness and the absence of both parents. Lydia missing and possibly dead, and him buried in the relentless search for truth. He couldn’t shake the guilt that gnawed at him, a relentless beast clawing at his conscience. He had dragged his family into this relentless pursuit, hoping against hope for answers that seemed to slip further from his grasp with each passing day. His relentless pursuit of truth had turned their childhood into a battleground of emotions, leaving scars that might never heal.

Zoey finally succumbed to sleep in his arms, her breathing steady and innocent.

Caleb still held her close, unwilling to disturb the fragile peace that settled over them both. He closed his eyes, the weight of exhaustion pulling at his limbs, and, for the first time in days, he allowed himself to drift into a fitful sleep. As he surrendered to sleep, he clung to the warmth of Zoey’s presence, seeking comfort in the innocence of her slumber.

CHAPTER 34

Shaking off the shock and sadness at how Martha chose to end her life instead of embrace freedom, Lydia forced herself to act. She had to hurry and find Jill before she went too far and got lost. She might even have worked herself into an asthma attack.

She searched Kenneth's pockets first, finding nothing useful. Turning to Dom's motionless form, she rifled through his pockets and discovered a set of keys. Grabbing the flashlight, Lydia called out, "Jill! Come back! It's over! We can go home!"

She sprinted in the direction Jill had run, the flashlight beam cutting through the darkness. After running in several directions. Lydia slowed to a stop and listened.

Suddenly, she heard whimpers. Carefully and as noiselessly as possibly, she followed the sound, finally finding Jill huddled against the trunk of a large tree, trembling and distraught, clutching her inhaler.

Lydia knelt beside her, gathering her up in a comforting embrace.

“Breathe, Jill. I’m sorry, but your father is dead. Kenneth, too. It's over. We can go home," Lydia whispered gently, trying to soothe Jill's shattered nerves.

Jill took a puff and then put her inhaler down. She lifted her tear-streaked face, her eyes searching Lydia's for confirmation. "And my grandmother?" she asked quietly.

Lydia hesitated, her voice soft with sorrow. Jill looked so mature. Years older than she had days before. "I'm so sorry, Jill."

But the little girl was still in her. Jill dissolved into fresh sobs, her body shaking with grief. Lydia held her close, letting her cry out the anguish of the night's horrors as well as the emotions she’d bottled throughout the weeks of captivity. As Jill sobbed, Lydia imagined a tall tower of boxes, filled with emotions, falling over and scattering throughout the corners of Jill’s mind, finally free to be experienced and processed fully.

There would be more later. Jill would need professional help to get her through everything. Lydia knew this, but, for now, this was a start.

It took a while but, eventually, Jill's tears subsided to tired, muffled sniffles and an occasional tremor going through her body.

"You’ve been so brave, Jill. I’m so proud of you. Now, are you ready to go home, sweet girl?" Lydia asked softly.

Jill nodded silently. Lydia helped her up and, before they could take another step, she saw a blur running toward them making a loud racket. Instinctively, she put Jill behind her, and wished she’d picked up one of the guns.

But it was Diablo, pulling at least six feet of chain behind him, attached to his collar.

“He must’ve pulled loose when he heard you scream,” Lydia said.

Jill dropped to the ground and buried her face in the dog’s fur as he wagged his tail furiously. Diablo was smarter than Dom had given him credit for.

Lydia had an idea.

“Jill, maybe Diablo can lead us to Martha’s house, and we can find a phone. Tell him to go home.”

“But won’t his home be the bunker?”

“Maybe, maybe not. Let’s try it.” Lydia unhooked his collar, letting it and the chain drop to the ground.

“Go home, Diablo,” Jill ordered, her voice firm.

The dog perked his ears.

“He knows that word,” Lydia said, her hope soaring that they wouldn’t have to wander around in the dark looking for a trail back to the house.

“Home, Diablo,” Jill called out again.

This time, Diablo veered off in a different direction, trotting purposefully through the dense undergrowth.

Lydia and Jill struggled to keep up, their footsteps crunching over fallen branches and through thickets until they finally emerged onto a narrow trail, barely discernible amidst the overgrown foliage. Forty-five minutes of brisk walking later, the trail opened into a small clearing that revealed the backyard of a dilapidated house.

It looked like someone was a junk collector. There were a few old, huge satellite dishes that no one used any more. There was also a scattering of vehicles, some on blocks, others with weeds grown up high around them.

Parked next to a tractor, Lydia saw a four-wheeler. Probably the same one that Dom had used to transport them from his brother’s property to the bunker.

He’d said that people were searching for her on the wrong mountain, and she wondered now how far away it was. She’d been in shock the day he’d pulled her from the basement, and now couldn’t quite remember how long it had taken them on the four-wheeler to get to the trail they’d taken to the bunker.

On the driveway next to the house sat two old trucks.

The house itself stood as a relic of bygone days, its weathered, wooden siding adorned with peeling paint and patches of moss. The roof, probably once sturdy, now sagged under the weight of decades of neglect. A rusty kid’s swing set, overtaken by vines, creaked eerily in the breeze near the overgrown lawn, where wildflowers and weeds tangled in an untamed dance.

The back porch of the house sagged under the weight of old furniture and neglected belongings. Piles of weathered and empty flowerpots cluttered the steps, hinting at a past life now forgotten. Cobwebs draped lazily from the eaves, undisturbed by the infrequent passage of time, and crumbled leaves were scattered about.

“Wait,” Lydia said, holding out her arm to keep Jill from going further into the yard. “Let’s be careful. Someone else might be here.”

They waited for a few minutes and, after not hearing or seeing evidence of anyone else, they crept up to the rickety back porch.

As Lydia approached cautiously, flashlight in hand, she noticed the front door slightly ajar, swaying in the breeze.

Diablo, sensing their hesitation, padded forward cautiously, sniffing the air before curling up near the porch steps, his presence reassuring.

“Snake! Linda!” Jill called out and pointed to a window.

Lydia startled involuntarily before she saw where Jill was pointing.

“He’s a black snake. They’re the good ones,” she said.

Lydia glanced at the house and back to Jill again. "I can’t believe they lived in this. It looks like no one's been here in years," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “Stay behind me, Jill.”

With a deep breath, she stepped onto the porch, the floorboards groaning under her light weight. She reached for the door, pushing it open further, revealing a dimly lit interior cloaked in shadows.

“It’s creepy in here,” Jill whispered.

She was right. The interior of the house was a bit better taken care of, but no less dismal as the outside as they wandered through the rooms and searched for a phone. The walls were a drab brown paneling, the floors scarred oaks. The only snippets of color were crocheted afghans that were slung over the back of the couch and the one recliner. In colors of brick red and black, they were old, and Lydia imagined that they were done by Martha’s hand, an outlet and something of her own to occupy her anguished thoughts and idle hands over the years.

The floors were bare, showing every scar on the old hardwoods, no rugs to soften a step or bring comfort to cold feet in the winter. But there was an old stove in the corner of the living room. It was a bigger version of the one in the bunker, and a huge stack of firewood stood next to it. Someone had started a fire, but it was nearly burned out and ready for another log. The chill was already creeping in and around the air in the house.

When they moved into the kitchen, Lydia retracted the thought of Martha with idle hands. Shelves lined the walls around the dining nook and were filled to the top with jars of canned goods. Pickles, tomato sauce, vegetables, beans, salsa—it was all there, an array of homegrown foods that Martha had probably tended, picked, and processed all by herself for future meals.

The jars looked the same as those in the bunker.

Martha was obviously a hard worker. A good little servant for the men, it seemed.

The kitchen was clean. Much more so than the rest of the house they’d seen. It must’ve been the one place that Martha treated as her own, because, clearly, her husband was a chauvinist and believed that women should stay in the kitchen.

The table was covered with a red and black checkered tablecloth, a bowl of red apples the centerpiece. Martha had tried to make her prison a home, it was clear in the small touches throughout her kitchen.

Lydia swallowed back a lump in her throat when the vision of Martha crumpled on the ground filled her mind. She couldn’t go there. Later, she’d have time to process everything that had happened but not now.

They found a lot of weird things, but no phone.

“I have the keys from your father’s pocket,” Lydia said. “Let’s go see which vehicle they fit. We’ll drive to the nearest house and ask to use their phone.”

They went back outside and tried the four-wheeler first.

It wasn’t the right vehicle.

They decided to try one of the old trucks next and, to their luck, the keys worked in the first one. It was an old Ford that looked heavy with miles, but the engine sounded strong and dependable.

“Let’s go,” she said.

They called out for Diablo, and he trotted around the side of the house and jumped up into the cab, Jill right behind him as Lydia shifted the truck into gear. It was a straight drive, and it had been years since Lydia had driven a stick shift, and never one on the column, but, after a few faltering seconds, she got it going.

Driving down the mountain, she noticed where the bluest of the mountains sat in the distance—and felt her first notion of where they were. A few miles later when she saw a sign that advertised Springer Mountain Fireworks, 1.2 Miles, she was sure.

She glanced at Jill beside her. "Jill, I think we're near Ellijay. That means we aren’t too far from Hart's Ridge, where I live. Maybe about an hour and a half.”

"How far is it to my house?" Jill asked.

Lydia considered their options, the gas gauge ticking lower. She didn’t have any money. "That’s much more than a few hours’ drive, I think."

Jill nodded thoughtfully. "Instead of stopping at a stranger’s house, we could call my mom from your place so that you could go straight to your family," she suggested. “I’d love to meet Zoey. Grace and Ella, too.”

"Are you sure?"

Jill nodded firmly.

Lydia knew she should contact the authorities immediately, but she also longed to see her family for just a moment without interference. Once the news was out that she and Jill had turned up, it would be a circus and could be days or weeks before she got to be alone with them.

She felt a surge of gratitude for Jill's understanding.

"Did I ever tell you how special you are, Jill?" Lydia asked softly as they drove through the night.

Jill smiled faintly. "You've been pretty amazing too, Linda."

Lydia glanced over at her. “My name is Lydia. Your dad didn’t want you to know, probably in case you’d heard the news about a missing Lydia Grimes somewhere before he grabbed you.”

“Oh. I didn’t hear anything, but okay. And my name is still Jill.”

They continued in silence, the radio playing softly in the background, a brief respite from the night's horrors.

Lydia couldn't shake the surreal feeling of being back in the real world after their harrowing ordeal. It felt like a dream. A good one, this time, but still so unreal.

They kept the windows down, and the heater turned on high. They both wanted to feel the brisk wind of the outdoors on their faces, a fresh reminder of their sudden freedom and a closer connection to the few people they passed along the way.

As they approached Hart's Ridge, Lydia felt a mix of anticipation and apprehension. Pulling into her driveway, she spotted Caleb's truck and felt her heart race with relief and anxiety.

Jill saw her hesitation and placed a reassuring hand on Lydia's wrist. "It'll be okay, Lydia," she said gently.

They got out of the truck and told Diablo to stay put and walked up the driveway.

Quietly, they entered the house through the back door. Inside, Lydia noticed signs of life—the kitchen felt warm and lived-in, clean dishes in the drainer waiting to be put away, and homework left on the table, Ella’s name scribbled at the top.

Stuck to the fridge were still the family summer snapshots Lydia had left there a few years before. Long days on the lake with sun-kissed smiles, all of them oblivious to the dangers that were waiting just around the corner for their family.

The pictures were bittersweet but brought a sense of normalcy and did a bit toward helping the situation feel less like a dream. Her kids were here. Just within reach. She would be able to touch them in just a few minutes.

When she heard a meow, she looked down to find her cat, Zuri, looking up at her. She picked her up and snuggled her against her neck.

“I’m back, sweet girl.”

Zuri nudged her face with her nose repeatedly, her version of affection as she purred. Lydia carried her around the kitchen, Jill right behind them. "Here's the phone." She pointed out the landline, then she pulled a piece of mail from the wall caddy and set it in front of Jill. "That’s our address. Do you remember your mom's number?"

Jill nodded, tears welling in her eyes.

“Do you want me to stay with you while you call?” Lydia asked.

“No, it’s okay.”

Lydia hugged her briefly before she moved softly through the kitchen, to the staircase that led to Grace and Ella’s room. She hesitated, her hand on the railing, then looked down the hall that led toward her and Caleb’s room, and Zoey’s nursery.

The sight of Zoey's room drew Lydia to step away from the staircase and head that way. Quietly, she pushed open the door and saw Caleb, asleep in the rocking chair with Zoey cradled in his arms.

They were beautiful together.

Oh, how Zoey had grown! She didn’t look like a baby anymore, her long legs wrapped around her dad, her hair so much longer with the most gorgeous tiny ringlets at the ends. Lydia longed to twirl one around her finger as she breathed in the smell of her child, a scent that had haunted her for so many months.

Caleb.

Her heart lurched. He looked so lean, his arms and elbows like wire hangers. There were new lines and deep crags on his face—ones she’d not noticed before. His hair was thinner, and so much grayer. He’d aged dramatically in the time they’d been apart, but he was still the most handsome man she’d ever seen.

Tears welled in her eyes as she knelt beside them.

She gently touched Caleb's knee, whispering his name. Slowly, he stirred awake, his eyes filled with disbelief and hope.

"Are you real?" he asked softly, his voice thick with emotion. He reached out and touched her cheek, a soft stroke of his thumb.

"I'm real, Caleb," Lydia said, tears streaming down her face. "I came back to you."

Overwhelmed with relief and disbelief, Caleb pushed at her skin harder, his thumb going deeper. Then he gasped and pulled Lydia into his arms, holding her with Zoey cradled between them, tears mingling as they reunited in the quiet of their daughter's room.

"How?" he asked eventually, his voice choked with emotion.

"It's a long story," Lydia replied, holding him tightly. "But first, I want to see the girls."

"Wait," Caleb said, gently placing Zoey back in her bed and covering her with a blanket.

He led Lydia out into the hallway, where they held each other tightly, both overcome with emotion. He pulled back and looked at her from head to toe.

“Was it Norman Addler?” he asked, his eyes searching hers.

She nodded and his shoulders slumped.

“You look so different,” he said then, and more tears came.

Lydia remembered seeing herself in the bathroom mirror at the cabin, what felt like ages ago, and how haggard she’d appeared. Like a stranger. She’d recovered from that day somewhat once she’d had access to food and water, some fresh air. But she knew she still didn’t look anything like she had before everything had happened.

She reached up and smoothed her hair, feeling suddenly self-conscious. “I know, I look so⁠—”

"Don’t," Caleb whispered through his tears as he gently pushed her hand down. He knew her so well. Always could tell just what she was thinking. "You are still beautiful. And I'm sorry, my love. So, so sorry."

Lydia shook her head, her heart breaking for his pain. "What are you sorry for? None of this was your fault."

"For what has been done to you. And because I couldn't find you," Caleb said, his voice raw with anguish. "I knew you were out there, somewhere, but I couldn't find you. I never believed you weren’t out there … waiting for me to find you."

Lydia cupped his face in her hands, looking into his eyes. She would have to make him believe that she’d be okay. That they could move forward with their lives. She could see that he was close to a breakdown.

"You did more than find me," she said softly. "Your love kept me going. Thoughts of you and the girls kept me sane. I felt you, Caleb. And you brought me through this. Don't ever doubt that."

They held each other close again, finding solace in their reunion.

Jill approached quietly, startling Caleb.

He stepped back.

"This is Jill," Lydia said in introduction to the little girl. "She's the other reason I didn't give up. We were quite a team out there."

Jill beamed.

Caleb looked down at Jill. "So nice to meet you, Jill," he said warmly. "I know exactly who you are, and you have no idea how many people have been looking for you."

CHAPTER 35

Taylor lay in the hospital bed, surrounded by the rhythmic beeping of machines and the faint murmur of voices. The first thing she noticed, upon awakening, was that her headache had subsided. It was sort of still there, lurking like a shadow at the base of her neck, but was no longer the center of everything.

She was also acutely aware of her Sam sitting beside her, his hand gently clasping hers, but she couldn’t open her eyes.

Alice was talking to her dad from somewhere near Taylor’s feet. She’d just been touching her toes a minute ago.

Inside her mind, a storm of frustration raged. She yearned to let them know she was there, listening to every word, feeling every touch. But her body remained unresponsive, imprisoned in a stillness that suffocated her, preventing her from reaching out to her loved ones.

Alice’s voice was a mix of seriousness and excitement. “Dad, you know the next time a white, long-haired Chihuahua comes into the rescue, I want to keep it.”

“That’s out of nowhere. Why a Chihuahua, Alice?”

“Well, there was this woman named Alice Roosevelt back in 1902. She was extraordinary, Dad. Completely independent. She had this long-haired Chihuahua named Leo, and, get this, she also had a pet snake named Emily Spinach. She used to take them both to parties, Dad. Can you believe it?”

Sam chuckled softly. “Sounds like quite the character. What else did she do?”

“Oh, she did everything, Dad. She wore pants when no other woman dared, drove cars, smoked cigarettes, and partied all night long. In just over a year, she attended hundreds of parties, balls, and dinners. People called her a wild animal in fancy clothes, and her stepmom even called her a 'guttersnipe.' Can you imagine?”

Sam sounded entertained by her story. “Sounds like she kept life interesting.”

“Absolutely! She even managed to get banned from the White House twice. Once for creating a voodoo doll of President Taft's wife, and then again for telling a scandalous joke about Woodrow Wilson in public. Dad, she was fearless!”

Sam chuckled again. “Taylor would love hearing about her.”

Taylor's heart swelled with bittersweet emotion as she listened. She longed to join in the conversation, to share in the laughter and nostalgia. She missed them so much.

Alice paused for a moment, her tone turning. “Alice Roosevelt called herself a hedonist once, Dad. Said she loved pleasure. Can you imagine living life like that?”

Taylor wanted to smile. Alice was probably the only thirteen-year-old in the world who knew what a hedonist was and thought it was a bad thing.

“She was also President Roosevelt’s daughter. Did you know that?”

“Yeah, I know,” Alice said confidently. “He once said he could run the country or tend to Alice but couldn’t do both.”

Sam’s husky laughter rang out.

It sounded so wonderful.

Taylor felt a tear slip down her cheek. She wanted desperately to tell them she was there, that she understood everything they were saying. But her voice remained trapped within her, unheard and unspoken.

“Dad, look!” Alice said. “She’s crying!”

They were suddenly standing over her. Taylor could feel them, their concern covering her with a warmth of protectiveness.

“Taylor, are you awake?” Sam asked softly.

She tried again, this time using all her might and, slowly, she was able to lift her eyelids.

“She’s awake!” Alice said, her voice light with joy.

Their faces were fuzzy, and she couldn’t quite bring them into focus, but they were there, and they were real. There’s no way this was a delusion because she could feel their love seeping into every fiber of her being.

“Alice, go get the nurse. And get Cate, too,” Sam said, sending her running out of the room. “Here, babe. Take a drink.” He held a cup up and guided the straw into Taylor’s mouth.

She sipped slowly, then turned her head to let him know that was enough.

“Taylor,” he said. “First, you’re okay. You’re in the intensive care unit of Rango County Memorial Hospital and you’ve been here for four days.”

“How?” she finally whispered through her cracked lips. Her vision was slowly coming back, and he looked clearer to her. And so very handsome, even with several days of beard growth and tousled hair.

He clasped her hand tightly. “I haven’t gotten the entire story. Something about you passed out in your cell when you stood up and they couldn’t revive you. One of the inmates carried you down over her shoulder, then another one named Quig tried to get a CO. When they wouldn’t listen, she tried to break the window in the main door using a chair.”

Oh, Quig, I hope you aren’t in more trouble.

Sam continued. “The whole pod went nuts screaming that you needed medical care, causing the captain to send in the riot team. When the chaos subsided, they finally saw you and took you out, then called an ambulance. And here we are.”

Taylor shook her head with disbelief. How could she not remember any of that?

“One more thing you need to know immediately,” Sam said. “Lydia Grimes is home with her family, safe and sound. There were three bodies left behind, but Caleb was right. It was Norman Addler all along. He also had taken his daughter and was hiding her and Lydia out in a bunker in the wilderness behind his parents’ home. The search team was close, but searching the wrong mountain.”

Taylor gasped but, before she could react, Alice ran into the room with Cate close behind her. “The doctor was at the nurses’ station,” she said, hurrying back to Taylor’s side.

Cate rushed to Taylor’s side and took her other hand. She was crying, the tears coming hard and fast as she tried to talk. “Thank God,” she finally got out. “Everyone’s out there, Taylor. The whole family. Your sisters are going crazy with worry. Your dad and Cecil, too. We’ve all been waiting for you to come around.”

A woman walked through the door, carrying a tablet and smiling broadly at Taylor. “Well, hello there. I’m Doctor Kellner and I’m so glad to see you back in the land of the living. You’ve had quite a rough ride.”

“What’s wrong with me?” Taylor whispered, looking at the tubes and wires attached to her wrists.

“You’ve got fungal meningitis,” the doctor said. “We confirmed it with a cerebrospinal fluid culture when you first arrived. We’ve got you on IV fluids and antibiotics. And a heart monitor, too.”

Meningitis? She couldn’t believe it. She’d thought the worst it could be was a new variant of COVID.

“We think we know how you got it, too,” Sam said. “Remember the dog hoarding call you got a few weeks ago? All those dogs in that moldy basement?”

Taylor nodded. After the arrest, she’d turned the case over to animal control and hadn’t heard anything else about it since, but she wasn’t surprised. The dogs were being kept in squalor.

“I talked to your sheriff,” the doctor said. “The Humane Society has been alerted to the issue and has isolated those seized to have them tested. The sheriff sent someone to alert the homeowners, too, and find out who else may have been exposed. We’ve also notified the county health department to watch for an outbreak.”

“Con— c— contagious?” Taylor asked, her voice hoarse. She knew nothing about meningitis other than it sounded scary as hell. She didn’t want her family getting too close to her if they could get sick.

Dr. Kellner shook her head. “No, not at all. Fungal meningitis is usually acquired from inhaling fungal spores from the environment they are growing in. It cannot be transmitted from person to person, but anyone who was in that basement needs to be checked out.”

“Prog—prognosis … long-ttt … term side effects?” Taylor asked, the words mumbled and jumbled, barely comprehensible. What was wrong with her speech?

The doctor’s expression changed to one more guarded. “The recovery rate for patients with this type of fungal meningitis is good with proper treatment, so I’m glad you’re here now. The first few days were scary—as your husband can attest to—but that you are awake now means a lot. Long term, we can’t really say at this time. There could be problems, or there could be nothing. I don’t want you to think about that. What’s most important right now is getting you healthy and keeping an eye on—” She was interrupted by a nurse entering the room, pushing a piece of medical machinery.

“Oh, here she is now. Perfect timing,” the doctor said, taking over and bringing it to the side of the bed. “Thank you, Gretchen. I’ll take it from here.”

“Sorry, Dr. Kellner,” the nurse said. “It took me a minute because it was being used down the hall.”

“What?” Taylor asked. She couldn’t sit up and get a better look, though she tried. She was still too weak.

“It’s an ultrasound machine. Like I was saying, treatment of your condition is crucial, and it will last three to four months, and, in that time, we’ll keep a closer eye on the fetus than we normally do, just to make sure everything is going as well as can be.”

Taylor froze.

Fetus?

She looked at Sam, searching his face. He nodded, tears threatening to spill from his eyes before he turned to the doctor. “Um, I didn’t have a chance to tell her yet, Doctor Kellner.”

“Well, secret is out. You’re going to have a baby, Taylor,” Cate said, squeezing her hand.

“I’m going to have another sibling,” Alice said, sounding excited.

“Oh, my gosh. I’m so sorry,” the doctor gushed, then she looked at Taylor, smiling. “Well, congratulations. We think you’re about nineteen weeks along. Don’t look so surprised. Some women get all the way to giving birth without knowing they were pregnant. You’ve at least got time to prepare. Now let’s take a look.”

She was so matter of fact and moving so fast that Taylor didn’t have time to react, to question, or to marvel at the fact that she was going to be a mother.

How did she feel about it?

She didn’t even know.

Alice elbowed her way closer to the screen as the doctor slathered Taylor’s belly with gel from a tube, then began sliding the machine’s wand around. She pointed at the screen, to a small dark spot. “There’s the heart. Pumping strong, too. Would you like to know the gender?”

Taylor looked at Sam. He shrugged.

“It’s up to you,” he said.

She might as well know everything. She was already completely overwhelmed with everything they’d hit her with in the last ten minutes. She also couldn’t imagine going the next several months wondering if she was going to have a son or a daughter.

“Oh look,” Alice said. “It’s touching its toe to its nose! Maybe it’ll be a gymnast!”

Cate laughed. “Very active baby. That’s good to see.”

Taylor swallowed past the lump in her throat. She could truly see the outline of her baby. It’s head. Feet. A little hand.

A baby she and Sam had created together. A symbol of their love and commitment to always be there for each other.

The baby shifted and she could see the tiny button nose clearer. It was Sam’s nose; she just knew it. And suddenly she hoped that it looked exactly like him. She could just see him, rocking a baby in his arms, the smile he’d wear.

“Yes. Www—we want to know,” she said, finally. “I think.”

The doctor laughed. “Okay, I’ll whisper it to you, and then you can tell everyone else if you want to. Let me just make sure.”

She moved the wand around again, zooming in closer before she nodded confidently. Then she bent down and whispered it into Taylor’s ear before standing up and pointing at the screen again.

“Now that’s a wave if I’ve ever seen one. A wave at Mommy, I believe.”

It sure did look like it. The tiny hand with the most perfectly shaped fingers that Taylor had ever seen, was in the air, slowly waving back and forth. Was she really waving at her? Guilt flooded through her for what her baby was going through.

“It’s going to be okay, Taylor,” Sam whispered, kissing her head.

There was so much going through her mind it was like being on a tilt-a-whirl. She was going to be a mother! Did her sisters even know yet? Would her dad tell her she was too old for a baby? Wait—they were going to have to prepare a nursery. And her job? What would she do? Maternity leave? She wanted to know all the details about Lydia’s rescue. And how was Caleb? And Sheriff Comer, too. She may not have been able to do the six weeks, but she had a lot to tell him on how to run a better, more humane jail.

“Taylor?” Sam said. “Do you hear me? It’ll be okay.”

“I h— hear you.” She smiled at him. If he said it was so, she’d believe him, for he was her anchor in every storm. And now wasn’t the time to let her mental health decline. She had to get healthy and strong. If not for herself, for Sam and Alice. And for the new little life that was coming soon.

Her baby was still waving.

Slowly, Taylor lifted her own hand and, with tears flowing, she waved back at the screen and whispered. “Well, hello, little g—girl.”

A NOTE FROM KAY

Hello, readers! I hope you enjoyed HELLO LITTLE GIRL, the tenth book in the Hart’s Ridge series. The crimes wrapped into the fictional town of Hart’s Ridge and its characters were loosely inspired by several true stories, including an experiment done in a Georgia county jail system, just like Sheriff Comer did with unlocking a pod, though there was not an undercover deputy involved in real life.

Taylor’s illness was inspired by a woman’s traumatic stay in a Steuben County jail located in upstate New York, in which the jail personnel refused her medical assistance until she was near death. She was twenty-six years old. A week after becoming sick, when she told the CO she thought she was dying, instead of giving her medical care, they then moved her to Seg (because she was disturbing the peace) and put her on suicide watch. The sergeant who took her there told her, ‘Your head can't hurt that bad if you're screaming. I couldn't scream like that if my head hurt.”

A second sergeant was the one who, with what she thought might be her last bit of strength, she finally convinced there was something terribly wrong with her. She was finally taken to the hospital. The doctor who diagnosed her with fungal meningitis said her intracranial pressure was nearly double what it should’ve been, and only a few points from being fatal, insisting she would not have made it twelve more hours.

There are thousands of stories like this from previously incarcerated people with other medical emergencies and illnesses that are ignored by the jail/prison staff. I am a believer in humane treatment for all living beings, no matter if they are a criminal or not, and our penal system needs to do better.

On a lighter note, I’ve been busy deciding a name for Taylor and Sam’s baby and dreaming up all kinds of things for the Hart’s Ridge characters to get into. At this point, per many requests, I plan to continue the series with at least a few more books.

For those who love the holidays, you’ll be happy to know that I’ve decided to set the next Hart’s Ridge book during the biggest American holiday of the year. So This is Christmas will give the readers much more page time with the Gray family and a few new characters, and, of course, a crime to solve. You can pre-order that one here [So This Is Christmas] and see the beautiful cover below!

The quaint town of Hart's Ridge glistens with holiday magic each Christmas, as festive lights and holiday attractions draw visitors to its charming streets. This year, Deputy Taylor Gray is enjoying a quieter holiday at home, fully embracing her new role in the midst of family festivities.

But peace and goodwill are shattered on Christmas Eve when four bodies are discovered and two children are left as orphans. Taylor finds herself walking a fine line between her desire to please her husband, Sam, who insists she stay out of the investigation, and her passion for keeping the town safe. As she navigates her restrictions, she must find a way to contribute without jeopardizing her promise to Sam.

“So This Is Christmas” is book eleven of the bestselling Hart's Ridge small-town mystery series, written by Kay Bratt, million-copy best-selling author.

If you’d like to be notified when there is a new title and pre-order button, as well as any book sales I am having, you can sign up for my monthly newsletter at the following link:

JOIN KAY’S NEWSLETTER HERE

While you’re waiting on the next book in this series, I have many more books for you to read! I’d love for you to check out my By The Sea trilogy, starting with True to Me, a mystery that packs a heck of a twist!

I’d also like to invite you to join my private Facebook group, Kay’s Krew, where you can be part of my focus group, giving ideas for story details such as names, livelihoods, sneak peeks, etc. in this series. I’m also known to entertain with stories of my life with the Bratt Pack and all the kerfuffle’s I find myself getting into. Please join my author newsletter to hear of future Hart’s Ridge books, as well as giveaways and discounts.

Until then,

Scatter kindness everywhere.

Kay Bratt

*Learn more about True to Me at this link: Get Book or keep scrolling to see the book description:

From the bestselling author of Wish Me Home comes a breathtaking novel about the secrets that families keep and one woman’s illuminating search for the truth.

Quinn Maguire has a stable life, a fiancé, and what she thinks is a clear vision for her future. All of that comes undone by her mother’s deathbed confession—the absentee father Quinn spent thirty years resenting is not her real father at all. With that one revealing whisper, Quinn embarks on a journey to Maui, her mother’s childhood home, a storied paradise that holds the truth about her mother’s past and all its secrets Quinn is determined to uncover.

But settling on the island has its complications, and, with the fiancé she left behind questioning every choice she makes, Quinn’s quest for her truth is even more difficult than she expected. As time passes and she digs deeper into her family history and her own identity, one thing becomes clear: Maui is as beautiful as she’d always imagined, and its magic is helping uncover the woman who Quinn was always meant to be.

Get True to Me in eBook, Paperback, and Audio here:

Get TRUE TO ME

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

PHOTO © 2021 STEPHANIE CRUMP PHOTOGRAPHY

Writer, Rescuer, Wanderer

Kay Bratt is the powerhouse author behind over 35 bestselling books that span genres from mystery and women's fiction to memoir and historical fiction, with many reaching bestseller statuses. Her books are renowned for delivering an emotional wallop wrapped in gripping storylines. Her Hart's Ridge small-town mystery series earned her the coveted title of Amazon All Star Author for every month in 2023 and continues to be one of her most successful projects out of her more than a million books sold around the world. Kay's literary works have sparked lively, wide-reaching book club discussions, with her works translated into multiple languages, including German, Korean, Chinese, Hungarian, Czech, and Estonian.

Beyond her writing, Kay passionately dedicates herself to rescue missions, championing animal welfare as the former Director of Advocacy for Yorkie Rescue of the Carolinas. She also considers herself a lifelong advocate for children, having volunteered extensively in a Chinese orphanage, and supported nonprofit organizations like An Orphan's Wish (AOW), Pearl River Outreach, and Love Without Boundaries. In the USA, Kay served as a Court Appointed Special Advocate (CASA) for abused and neglected children in Georgia, as well as spearheaded numerous outreach programs for underprivileged kids in South Carolina. Kay is currently a Hospice Companion Care volunteer.

As a wanderlust-driven soul, Kay has called nearly three dozen different homes on two continents her own. Her globetrotting adventures have taken her to captivating destinations across Mexico, Thailand, Malaysia, China, the Philippines, Central America, the Bahamas, and Australia. Today, she and her soulmate of 30+ years find their sanctuary by the serene banks of Lake Hartwell in Georgia, USA.

Described as southern, spicy, and a touch sassy, Kay loves to share her life's antics with the Bratt Pack on social media. For more information, visit www.kaybratt.com.