Page 57 of Rampage

"It's locked," I say, examining the simple keyed mechanism. "We didn't find a key."

Tiffany nods, unsurprised. "I anticipated that." She reaches into her briefcase, extracting a set of small tools. "These should do the trick."

While she works on the lock, I guide Lily to a chair, kneeling before her. "You sure you want to see this?" I ask, searching her face. "Some of the images… they might be difficult to see."

She meets my gaze steadily. "I lived it, Reid. Seeing it can't be worse than that."

Her quiet strength humbles me. I squeeze her hand gently, then rise to join Tiffany at the table.

"Almost got it," Tiffany murmurs, manipulating the lockpicks. "Just a simple tumbler mechanism."

A soft click signals her success. The lock disengages, and she carefully lifts the lid, her expression professionally neutral despite the tension in the room.

Inside, neatly organized, lie several USB drives, memory cards, and a stack of photographs secured with a rubber band. Tiffany puts on latex gloves before touching anything, documenting the contents with thoroughness.

"I'll need to examine everything," she says, photographing the box's contents from multiple angles. "But I can give you a preliminary assessment tonight."

Lily stands, moving to the table with quiet determination. Her face is pale but composed as she looks down at the evidence of her abuse.

"That's it," she says softly. "Everything he used to control us."

Tiffany carefully removes the stack of photographs, keeping them face down. "Lily, I should warn you?—"

"I know what's in those pictures," Lily interrupts gently. "You don't need to protect me from them."

Tiffany hesitates, then nods, turning over the first photograph.

My stomach lurches at the image—a teenage girl, maybe fifteen, posed provocatively on a bed I recognize from Frank's house. Her eyes are vacant, her smile forced. Though clothed, the intention behind the image is unmistakable.

"Sarah," Lily whispers, touching the photo. "She was there when I arrived. Disappeared about three months later."

Tiffany turns to the next photo. Another girl, younger, with haunted eyes and a bruise on her collarbone.

"Kimberly," Lily identifies her. "She taught me how to cover bruises with makeup."

Photo after photo reveals Frank's depravity, girls in various stages of undress, all with the same dead look in their eyes. None are explicitly pornographic, but the predatory intent is clear in every carefully composed shot.

Lily's hand trembles slightly, but her voice remains steady as she identifies each girl. "Monica. Jasmine. Amber." Names given to faces I'll never forget.

Then, the next photo makes my blood freeze in my veins. Lily, younger but unmistakable, sitting on the bed, her eyes downcast, a faint bruise on her cheek.

My vision blurs with rage, a roaring in my ears drowning out everything else. I want to tear the photograph to pieces, to hunt Frank down this very moment and end his miserable existence.

Tiffany's hand moves to the next photo, and the air leaves my lungs in a rush. Lily again, this time in just her underwear, tears streaming down her face as Frank's hand is at the end of the frame, gripping her arm hard enough to leave finger-shaped bruises.

"No," I growl, my vision tunneling to red.

Another photo appears. Lily in the bathroom, clearly unaware she's being photographed through a partially open door, her naked back exposed as she steps into the shower.

Something breaks loose inside me. The restraint I've maintained since entering Frank's house, the control I've exercised for Lily's sake, shatters completely.

"Reid—" Mason starts, reaching for me, but I'm already moving.

My fist slams into the wall, plaster cracking under the impact. Pain shoots up my arm, but I barely register it through the haze of rage. I grab the nearest chair and hurl it across the room, the crash as it splinters against the wall oddly satisfying.

"I'll kill him," I roar, my voice unrecognizable even to my own ears. "I'll fucking end him!"

Tiffany quickly gathers the photos, sliding them into an evidence envelope as I overturn the table beside her, sending papers flying. The rational part of my brain, the doctor, the healer, is buried beneath an avalanche of protective fury.

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