Page 195 of Shhh…It’s A Killer Story

Only then did I realise... everyone in the space was staring at me.

There were women. At first my mind refused to settle on the number. Fear has a curious habit of rearranging mathematics.

Six.

No...

Seven.

No.

Twelve.

They were scattered around the container without any obvious pattern, each occupying her own small island of despair. Some sat with their backs pressed so tightly against the corrugated steel that they looked as though they hoped the metal might eventually absorb them. One woman had wrapped both arms around her knees with such force her knuckles had faded to the colour of old paper. Another couldn't have been much older than eighteen. Bruises bloomed beneath her skin like dark violets, spreading across her wrists and collarbone in uneven circles. Dried tear tracks had carved pale rivers through the dust coating her cheeks, leaving clean lines where grief had washed the dirt away.

For a long moment I simply looked at them not because I didn't recognise them but because I did. Every single face. I'd seen them before. Not here but pinned to corkboards. Printed beneath newspaper headlines. Frozen inside televised pleas where mothers begged strangers to remember smiles instead of statistics.

Each one had been reduced to a missing person's photograph. A date, height, weight and last known location. People have an astonishing ability to transform living women into paperwork.

Elias had stood in front of those photographs while explaining the investigation to me, his jaw tight enough to fracture stone. I remembered the way his fingers had lingered on certain names a heartbeat longer than others, as though refusing to accept that ink and paper were all that remained.

They hadn't been dead. They'd been here. All this time…

A young blonde woman slowly edged closer, dragging herself across the iron floor as though every movement hurt. Her cardigan hung from one shoulder, ripped almost completely down the sleeve, and her hands shook so violently she struggled to keep them clasped together.

"Are you alright?" she asked quietly.

I studied her face. The swelling beneath her left eye. The split lip. The tremor in her breathing. The way she kept glancing towards the doors every few seconds, even while speaking to me. Then I answered with the only truthful response available.

"No."

She blinked. Perhaps she'd expected reassurance. People usually do. The truth often disappoints them. Her eyes filled again.

"Do you..."

Her voice cracked before she swallowed hard enough for me to hear it.

"Do you think we're getting out?"

I didn't answer immediately. Hope should never be given away carelessly. It needs evidence. My gaze travelled slowly around the container instead. One entrance. Heavy industrial hinges. External locking system. No visible interior release. Ventilation slits positioned too high to reach without assistance. Steel walls. No corrosion significant enough to weaken the structure. No loose rivets. No obvious escape route.

Someone had designed this place with remarkable patience. They hadn't built a prison. They'd built storage. That thought disturbed me far more than the steel. Finally, I looked back at the blonde woman.

"Yes."

The word left my mouth quietly not hopefully but certainly.

"My boyfriend is a detective."

Several women stared at me without speaking. Their expressions were strange. Almost pitying.

"He'll find me."

I smiled faintly.

"He always follows the pattern."

A woman near the far wall buried her face against her knees and began crying again, the sound muffled by her sleeves.