Behind him, I saw the faces of “respected” men. I recognized the Mayor. I recognized Judge Blackwell.
“Ms. Thompson,” Greg sneered, raising the weapon. “You really don’t know when to sit down, do you?”
“Drop the weapon!” Bennett shouted, stepping in front of me and the children, his service pistol drawn. “State Police are three minutes out, Greg! It’s over!”
“You’re trespassing,” Greg spat, though the barrel of the gun wavered slightly. “These are my foster children. This is private property!”
“Nine children?” Bennett yelled back. “Locked in a basement? Look at them, Greg! You’re done.”
“Shoot them!” Judge Blackwell’s voice hissed from the hallway. “Get rid of them before the troopers get here!”
For a second, time suspended. I looked at the children—huddled, terrified, waiting for the violence they knew was inevitable.
Then, a siren wailed. Not local police. The distinct, high-pitched yelp of State Trooper cruisers.
The sound broke Greg’s resolve. He glanced back at his conspirators, and in that split second of distraction, Bennett lunged.
The shotgun discharged into the ceiling with a deafening boom. Plaster rained down. Bennett tackled Greg to the concrete floor, the two men grappling in the dust.
“Run!” I screamed to the children. “Up the stairs, now! Go!”
I grabbed the four-year-old and ushered the others toward the exit. The older girl, the one who had spoken, hesitated.
“Go!” I urged her.
“Lily is upstairs,” she whispered. “In the special room.”
My blood ran cold. I handed the boy to the girl. “Get outside. Run to the lights.”
I didn’t follow them out. I ran up the stairs, past Bennett who had Greg pinned and cuffed. I ran past the Judge, who was trying to flee through the kitchen, only to be met by a wall of uniformed troopers bursting through the front door.
I ran to the second floor.
“Lily!” I screamed. “Lily!”
I kicked open the doors. Guest room. Bathroom. Master bedroom.
At the end of the hall, a door was locked. I threw my shoulder against it. It didn’t budge.
“Lily, move away from the door!”
I backed up and kicked the lock with everything I had. The wood splintered.
The room was set up like a studio. heavy curtains, bright lights. And in the center, a chair. The chair. It was wooden, high-backed. And even from here, I could see the glint of metal protruding from the seat.
Lily was standing in the corner, pressing herself into the wallpaper as if trying to merge with it.
“Ms. Thompson?” she whimpered.
I crossed the room in two strides and fell to my knees, wrapping my arms around her. She was shaking so hard her teeth rattled.
“I didn’t sit,” she cried into my shoulder. “I promised I wouldn’t sit!”
“I know, baby. I know.” I held her tight, shielding her eyes from the equipment, from the chair, from the truth of what this room was. “You never have to sit there again.”
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