I came to visit my daughter, but her stepfather blocked the doorway. “She went traveling with friends,” he said smoothly. Her mother forced a smile. “She’s happy. Stop worrying.”

The heavy metal door scraped loudly along its tracks, letting a wide shaft of afternoon sunlight pierce the gloom of the warehouse. The air inside hit me instantly—it smelled of rust, old machine oil, and underneath it all, the sickeningly metallic tang of human blood and unwashed fear.

My eyes adjusted rapidly to the dim lighting. The warehouse was mostly empty, save for some discarded pallets and old lawn equipment. But in the center of the vast concrete floor, sitting under a single, flickering halogen bulb, was a heavy wooden chair.

My heart stopped.

Emily was bound to the chair. Her wrists were tied tightly behind her back with thick nylon zip-ties, cutting deeply into her pale skin. She was trembling violently, her head hanging low.

"Emily!" I shouted, rushing forward and dropping to my knees beside her.

She flinched at the sound of my voice, pulling away until she recognized me. When she lifted her head, a white-hot rage ignited in my chest, threatening to consume all rational thought. Her beautiful face was marred. Her left cheek was heavily swollen, a deep purple bruise blooming across the bone. Her bottom lip was split and crusted with dried blood. The sleeves of her shirt were pushed up, revealing dark, finger-shaped bruises gripping both of her arms.

Scattered all around the base of her chair, like fallen leaves, were dozens of legal documents. I recognized the formatting immediately. They were trust transfer forms, power of attorney declarations, and property deeds. The name "Victor Hale" was printed boldly on the signatory lines, waiting for Emily's authorization.

"Pop," she whispered, her voice a fragile, broken rasp. Tears spilled over her bruised cheeks, cutting through the dirt on her face. "You came."