The door groaned open. The smell hit us first. Damp earth, mold, and something else—the sharp, unmistakable tang of ammonia and unwashed bodies.
“Oh god,” I breathed, pulling my scarf over my nose.
We descended into the darkness. Bennett clicked on his flashlight, keeping the beam low. We were in a finished basement, but it wasn’t a rec room. It was a prison.
The space was divided by makeshift plywood walls into cubicles. No doors, just curtains.
Bennett swept the light across the room.
Eyes reflecting the beam. Dozens of them.
They weren’t beds. They were mattresses on the floor, stained and thin. Huddled on them were children. Not two. Nine.
They ranged in age from toddlers to pre-teens. They didn’t scream when they saw us. That was the worst part. They were silent, conditioned to silence.
I rushed to the nearest mattress. A little boy, maybe four, looked up at me with dull, glassy eyes. He was shivering.
“It’s okay,” I whispered, tears blurring my vision. “We’re here to help.”
“Are you the Friday people?” a voice asked from the shadows.
I turned to see a girl, older, maybe ten. She was rocking back and forth. “Are you here for the pictures?”
“No,” Bennett choked out, his professional veneer cracking. “We’re the police. We’re getting you out.”
“Uncle Greg is upstairs,” the girl whispered. “With the camera men. And the Judge.”
Bennett stiffened. “The Judge is here?”
“He likes to watch,” she said simply.
Bennett grabbed his radio. “Dispatch, this is Bennett. I have a Code Zero at the Harper residence. Officer in distress. Multiple minors in immediate danger. Send the state troopers. Do not—repeat, do not—inform the local precinct.”
“We have to move them,” I said, reaching for the shivering boy. “Now.”
Suddenly, the door at the top of the stairs flung open. Light flooded the basement.
“What the hell is going on down here?”
Greg Harper stood at the top of the stairs, silhouetted by the warm light of the hallway. He wasn’t holding a camera. He was holding a shotgun.
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