She remembered the way she’d stood rooted to the spot at the top of the basement back in the shack. She hadn’t even been able to step into the dark.

Like a child all over again. Like a helpless, defenseless little girl.

Ilse felt her finger pressing to the missing lobe of her maimed right ear. She brushed her hair forward for a moment.

“Is that a scar?” Sam murmured softly, her voice sleepy.

Ilse blinked her eyes open and realized her client was peering at Ilse’s missing earlobe.

“It’s nothing,” she said, reflexively. “Are you sure I can’t get you something to eat? I have some granola. It’s homemade. I’m afraid I haven’t gone shopping in a while.”

“I… I don’t really like granola. Sorry,” Samantha said. “I know how spoiled that makes me sound. You’ve done more than enough. Way more.”

“No, that’s fine,” Ilse said, quickly. She flashed a placating smile. Even then, though, she could feel the way her fist had curled.

She resonated with Sam’s desire to fight back. But how did one fight shadows? How did one stave off fear itself? A cowardly, slinking enemy. A corruption that seeped through the imagination, hunted its victims in dreams and memories.

Ilse didn’t know how to even start fighting back.

She didn’t blame Samantha for going still, freezing in place. Didn’t blame her for falling to stop the abductor a second time.

Was it the same hunter from her past? Was it the same monster from Samantha’s childhood?

Her client’s history mirrored her own in such alarming ways. Different countries, different kidnappers, but similar trauma. Similar memories long since buried, slowly surfacing.

Ilse slowly released her hand, rolling her fingers until her knuckles stretched.

“I… I could eat,” Samantha murmured.

“What would you like?” Ilse asked.

“Umm. Maybe pizza?”

Ilse smiled and nodded. “There’s a local place nearby. They usually deliver late.”

Samantha flashed a smile, her cheeks dimpling. An expression so rare for the young woman. An expression like a sunrise against a gloomy sky.

Ilse felt warmth in her chest at the small, simple gesture of joy. One could never underestimate the impact pizza could have on someone’s mood.

“Pepperoni?”

“Sure. Whatever you want. Umm…” Samantha winced. “I hate to ask. But would you mind extra cheese?”

Ilse clicked her tongue in mock severity, but was already fishing out her dumb phone. “Perfect,” she said, getting to her feet and moving toward the small cupboard where she kept the local menus and brochures dropped off at her door from the eateries and restaurants in the area.

She could feel Samantha watching her, as she placed the order for the pie. Twelve-inch, extra cheese and pepperoni. And two ranch dipping cups.

Ilse would have to spend an extra hour at the gym when she got a chance. But tonight was a good night to treat herself.

“Will that be all?” the voice on the other end said.

“That’s it,” said Ilse. “What time?”

“You can pick it up in twenty-five minutes. Thank you!”