I’ve barely gotten the words out when I notice the niche to my left. My flashlight beam illuminates a small alcove with crumbling brick walls and an arched ceiling with a splintered wood beam. The sight of the body on the floor sends a shock wave through me, and I take an involuntary step back. Even in the dim light of the beam, I can tell it’s a female. I see blue jeans, a filthy tank top that once was white, beat-up leather sandals. I note the horribly bloated torso, a mottled blue face with eyeballs that have long since liquefied. One arm sticks straight up. I see a black clawlike hand. At first, I think the position is due to rigor; then I notice the chain and I realize she was shackled to the wall.

“Shit. Shit.” My first thought is that it’s Sadie. But the hair color is different, and the hair is shorter. Not Sadie, I realize, and a strange sense of relief sweeps through me.

I cross to the body and kneel. This person has been dead for a few days. Judging from the condition of the body, it wasn’t an easy death; she suffered a good bit of abuse beforehand. I shine the beam on the shackle. It’s constructed of heavy chain welded to some type of steel band that clamps around her wrist. It looks homemade. I can tell by the dried blood on her arm that she struggled—violently enough for the band to have cut flesh. I don’t see any other visible injuries—gunshot or stab wounds—but there’s so much dirt and deterioration, it’s difficult to tell. After a minute, the stench drives me back. I’m loath to leave her, but there’s nothing I can do for her now. Except find her killer.

Holding my sidearm at the ready, I turn and sidle back to the main corridor. I glance right. I can barely make out the gray light from the opening now. I wonder if the deputy has arrived. Putting the flash-light in my mouth, I pull out my phone, hit 911. The phone beeps and Failed appears in the display.

“Damn it,” I mutter, clipping it to my belt.

Sweeping my beam left, I step into the darkness. The sensation of being swallowed by some massive black mouth engulfs me, and I stave off a crushing wave of claustrophobia. I concentrate on my surroundings, listening for any sound, any sign of life—or danger.

I’ve traveled only about ten feet when my toe brushes against something. I jerk my beam down—half-expecting to see a rat—and find myself staring at a sneaker. I kneel for a closer look. It’s a woman’s shoe. The fabric once was pink, but it’s covered with dirt and spattered with blood now.