Pictures were tacked on a corkboard: Full color glossies of Missy and Dena. In the first row, they were alive, going about their daily business, and obviously had no idea they were being photographed. In the bottom row, they were carefully posed in death.

He’d stalked them, planned their abductions, and murdered them.

Carl pointed to papers strewn across the desk. “He detailed their torture like professional counseling sessions.”

“Here,” an officer called. Stella went into a small room. Monitors covered a U-shaped desk. On one, she could see a small body thumping on the door, waist deep in water.

Gianna.

As Stella watched, the water rose around the girl’s torso. The lake was flooding right into the basement. They had to find her.

Where was Mac?

She scanned the rest of the monitors. On the last one, Mac fished in the water with one hand. His other was handcuffed to a gurney. Where was Josh?

She bolted for the door. “Find the basement!”

Water swirled around Gianna’s body, the chill lowering her body temperature. She shivered against the cold and trembled at the effort to stay on her feet.

“Help!” She raised her fists and hammered at the door. “Help me! The water is rising.”

Her legs buckled. She caught herself against the door as the water rose to mid-chest. How long before it was over her head?

Her fists slid down the wood. Terror sheared off her like a glacier, and hopelessness took hold.

This was the end. To think once she’d almost taken her own life, and she’d been healthy then. Now she was fighting to keep her miserable existence.

Truly, she hadn’t appreciated life until she was in danger of losing it.

Maybe this was for the best. Was her life even worth living? As much as she wanted to say it wasn’t, she couldn’t give up. Though, it would be easier to simply let go. Her head would slip under. Her lungs would fill with liquid. How long would it take? A few minutes at best. Then she’d be at peace. So why was she fighting so hard?

Dialysis was awful, but the days in between weren’t so bad. And there was always the hope of a transplant on the horizon. Someday, maybe she’d be healthy again.

The water swirled to her neck. She tilted her face to the ceiling and faced the camera.

“Please. Don’t let me die.”

Stella took the lead. Gun in hand, she descended the staircase into the basement. At the bottom, she spotted another heavy door. Carl swung the battering ram. Wood splintered as the door burst inward.

Crouching, Stella went through the doorway and ducked right as Carl turned left. She swept the room with her weapon. The twenty-by-twenty room was knee-deep in water.

“Stella!” In the center of the room, Mac was handcuffed to a gurney and dragging it behind him. “He’s getting away.”