Page 156 of Corpse Roads

“Isn’t it?”

Enzo’s nose brushes against mine. “No, Harlow. You deserve to be happy. I just don’t know if we’re the right people to give you that.”

The truth stings, but I don’t disagree. They’re not the right people. Everything they think about me is a lie, and my presence in their lives only sentences them to an eternity of damnation.

Peeling Enzo’s hand from my skin, I force my feet to move. Each step feels like the crack of fists breaking my bones, blow after blow. Enzo doesn’t stop me from walking away, but I can hear his sigh of defeat as I do.

CHAPTER 29

ENZO

VACCINE - HOMETOWN & YOUNG

“Alright, listen up.”

Staring out at the packed room in HQ, I clock the various teams. After a breakthrough in the past few days, we’re closer than ever to ending this. Hunter’s throwing every single resource Sabre has into a final push for results.

On the left table, the whole intelligence department has been dragged from their dark, antisocial caves to experience the light of day. Theo is chugging an extra-large coffee while his staff—Liam, Rayna and Fox—are all glued to their open laptops.

Opposite them sits the Cobra team—Brooklyn, Hudson and Kade. The Anaconda team, in charge of backup operations, is spread out in a rowdy group next to them.

Warner and Tara are breaking open the energy drinks already. Becket glares at his number two, Ethan, urging him to stop arm wrestling with Hudson before any bones are broken. I trained both teams myself. They’re the best of the best.

Hunter clears his throat. “Let’s recap.”

Behind me, five full-size whiteboards display every bit of horror. All the photographs of mutilated bodies spill across the surface in violent detail, and a high-definition map of the country marks each dump site.

“Eighteen girls in five years, one who was pregnant at the time of death, and another body dumped last week.” Hunter steps up beside me. “All victims are aged between teens to late twenties, with mixed ethnicities and impoverished backgrounds.”

I gesture to several of the familiar faces. “Some of these women were sex workers operating across several different cities up north. They were all taken in public, taking care to avoid being spotted on CCTV. Most of them had no families to bother looking for them.”

Hunter strolls past each photograph—blue, lifeless, their flesh carved like prime cuts of meat—until he stops at the whole board dedicated to Harlow.

Her younger self, Leticia Kensington, was a bright-eyed, angelic wisp of a child. Her hair was the colour of melted caramel, long and slightly curling at the ends, matching her impish smile.

Next to that, the comparison photo is stark. Only her brilliant-blue eyes and hair colour are the same. Leighton provided the picture, snapped as Harlow decorated the Christmas tree last weekend.

She has some more meat on her bones now after the past few months, but the childlike innocence and curiosity of her younger self is long gone. Pain intermingled with strength stares back at us.

“Harlow Michaels is our only living witness,” Hunter explains. “Assisted in his crimes by his wife, the suspect held Harlow captive while indoctrinating and abusing her.”

Theo knocks back the rest of his coffee and brushes tight ringlets from his face before coming to the front of the room.

“Harlow fled captivity on foot,” he addresses the room. “We tracked her back to Northumberland. She travelled for nearly a week, hopping from one truck to another, contracting sepsis in the process.”

Fishing a remote out of his jeans, he clicks the projector on. It splashes a satellite image on the wall, showing a stretch of woodland in rural Northumberland.

He uses the laser pointer to highlight a deep section of forest, far from the nearest town and inaccessible by any vehicle. It spans a good ten-mile radius in all directions.

“Using drones, we have narrowed down the search zone and used public records to find our target. Rayna, would you mind updating everyone on what you’ve found?”

Standing up, Rayna flicks purple hair over her shoulder. “We’ve identified the Mary Magdalene Chapel. Decommissioned for public use in 1936. Over time, the woodland grew and swallowed it whole. No one’s seen the place in years.”

Staring at the tiny region that could represent our first real breakthrough in months, I feel sick. This might be a turning point, the beginning of the end.

I should be relieved, but this case is the only thing keeping Harlow with us. A sick, broken part of me isn’t ready for that obstacle to be removed. No matter how many lives it saves.

“Any signs of activity?” Hunter asks crisply.

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