And then he’d unlocked the cell, set the tray of cheese, crackers, and water inside, relocked the door, and headed back upstairs, this time laughing as he sang the lines to, ‘Don’t Worry, Be Happy.’ And that was when Rachel had leapt up and raced to the bathroom.

Too weak to move, she chose to lie on the cold tile floor instead of trying to crawl back to her mattress. A fine sheen of sweat broke out on her skin, and she shivered.

She couldn’t survive another trip to The Toybox, the twisted den with a childlike name that held nothing but a horrific menagerie of cruel instruments all neatly organized in The Toolbox. She didn’t want to survive. Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes, and then she was gasping for air as sobs shook her entire body.

How long she lay there, howling in frustration and helplessness, she wasn’t sure, but she finally allowed Becca and Faye to help her up and guide her back to her mattress where they covered her in a sheet before settling themselves next to her. Even as they comforted her, Rachel noticed how Jersey and Cheyenne cocooned themselves around Katelyn as the younger girl sat with her back against the wall, her arms wrapped around her knees as she rocked back and forth, her eyes closed tightly.

Rachel wished she could go to her, help comfort her, but how did any of them go about protecting her from what was to come? They couldn’t escape this nightmare, and they couldn’t save Katelyn from the grips of the evil that awaited her.

So, no one spoke. Even as the shadows in the cell darkened, they remained silent, lost in their own fears. What was left to say?

Instead, they listened, jumping at every unexpected noise, their hearts pounding at the prolonged periods of quiet. And they watched the door at the top of the stairs, willing it to stay closed a little longer and wondering how any of them had allowed themselves to foolishly hope they’d be spared further torture.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Friday, May 24

By the time Alyssa and Cord made it back to the precinct, she was in a full rage at having not only hit the proverbial brick wall, but completely crashing into it. Steve Yarmini was on the run, and right now, she was putting the blame squarely on Bartholomew Rosenfelt’s shoulders because if he had answered her calls, had they obtained Yarmini’s address last night, they may have gotten to him in time. Instead, she’d had to rely on obtaining a search warrant to go through Yarmini’s home, only to come out empty-handed there, as well.

From the obvious disarray of the man’s house, the way clothes were strewn about his room as if he’d grabbed whatever he could, and anything that fell was left behind, it was clear he’d left in a hurry. There was a chance he might’ve slipped through their grasp anyway, but she didn’t know that, and so she chose to blame the man’s boss.