Whether it was the tone of her voice or the way she stepped into his personal space, it worked. Fifteen minutes later, they had a list of ten names, four phone numbers, and two addresses. As they pulled away from the curb, Cord called Hal and rattled off the information Darnell Williams had shared, asking him to run a background check and verify the alibi he’d given. Then he called Joe and Tony, and after divvying up the names Chance had offered up, Alyssa plugged the first address into the GPS, and a minute later, they were on their way.

Chapter Twelve

Monday, May 20

Quick, shallow breaths were all Rachel allowed herself to take because anything deeper sent excruciating waves of pain coursing through every nerve ending in her body. Her throat burned, and her voice was hoarse from the screams that had served only to further fuel the men’s twisted excitement as they abused her in ways she didn’t know were possible.

Her wide eyes strayed to the closet they stood near as they cleaned themselves off with the stack of towels nearby. Sweat trailed like miniature rivers down their bodies, dripping onto the floor and leaving small puddles of wetness beneath their feet.

Rachel’s gaze followed the blond-haired man whose muscles rippled as he pulled his shirt over his head. A shiver raced down her spine, and she swallowed convulsively against the bile that rose up her throat at the image of those flexing biceps holding her immobile while his partner attached hot metal clips… She squeezed her eyes shut, willing the memory to leave her alone, but it continued to flash through her, and the only thing that stopped her from vomiting was the fear of drawing their attention back to her, having them decide they weren’t really done with her after all.

Several minutes ticked by as the men, heavy breaths heaving in and out from exertion, joked back and forth, much of it having to do with what they’d try next time. At their words, Rachel turned her head and pressed her mouth against her shoulder in an effort to stifle her whimpers. But when a knock sounded at the door, a muffled, scratchy cry rumbled up through her chest before she could stop it.

When they’d dragged her in here, she’d begged: please, don’t do this. Then, she’d prayed: please, no more. Though to whom she issued that prayer she was unsure, as the second she’d been tethered to this contraption, she’d stopped believing in any supreme being, much less the God her parents pretended to worship because it made them look better if they attended church services.

A key jiggled in the lock, and the door opened to reveal a woman in her mid-forties, wearing her gray-streaked hair pulled back in a severe bun and dressed like she was ready for a night at the opera instead of entering a room where it was obvious a girl had been brutally and repeatedly victimized. The woman spared a brief glance at Rachel before addressing the men.