Page 105 of Unexpected Heroine

Stopping briefly in the living room, I plant myself in the spot I stood that night. The very same place where I was when I first saw her. Alive.

Closing my eyes, I call up the memory, letting relief cascade over me the way it did when it happened for real.

Being in this place—Lettie calls it the nightmare house—is bringing forth mental images I wish I could scrub from my brain. For a moment, I stop fighting them and let them come. All the while, reminding myself she’s not here anymore.

She’s at home.

Safe and warmed.

But what she suffered here will follow her for the rest of her life.

It’ll follow me as well.

My pulse thrums wildly in my throat as I recall what it was like to hold her in my arms. The feel of her frame clinging to mine. The bittersweet joy of finding her.

Blinking away the memories, I stalk through the house to the bedroom.

I know which one it is—the windowless one in the interior of the structure.

This is where that vile recording was made.

I enter the room for the second time tonight. Because I’m no longer ensuring it’s free of occupants, I see the deplorable conditions with fresh eyes. A few toddler-sized mattresses and mats on the floor. That’s about it.

Considering these monsters don’t view the women as humans, it’s almost surprising they provide that much luxury.

Without warning, a vision slices through me, so painful my knees buckle. I almost fall to the floor, but I catch myself.

Once I’ve steadied my legs, I focus on what I saw.

No, no, no. Not saw.

That isn’t quite right. I didn’t see it.

I felt it.

Curious to decode this, I fixate all my mental power on those feelings—emptiness, loneliness, and shame. As I do, images take shape.

Me.

As a boy.

In a room not much different than this.

Cold. I’m so cold.

Looking around for . . . something.

This isn’t a random thought. It’s a memory. Not entirely the same as the nightmares I often have, but similar.

Of all times for a trip down memory lane, why now?

What was I looking for?

As if I could find it now, my body moves me in circles and my vision searches everywhere. Only I’m not back in my childhood room. I’m here in this fucking cesspool where the love of my life was violated so painfully.

I don’t have time for this. My childhood trauma can fuck right off.

Shaking my head to free myself from the haze, I attempt to focus on the other reason I came into this room. I need to locate the item Savin said will help us take down Lenkov.

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