Page 73 of Still Missing You

I nod. Eager for a sign of Dylan.

The basement is larger than I expected. Boxes line one side of the open space, and old furniture, coated in dust, is piled up against the opposite wall. As quiet and forgotten as the cellar appears, something feels wrong. It’s too still. Then I hear it. A voice. Faint. Muffled.

Linc freezes beside me. “You hear that?”

“Yeah. Come on.” We move forward slowly, careful with each step not to make a sound.

The voice grows clearer as we move through the dim space. It leads us toward a small room at the back of the basement, partially hidden behind a row of storage shelves.

My pulse pounds as we approach. The voice is clearer now. Male. Strained.

A pale glow flickers through a gap in the doorway, and I peer through the narrow opening, holding my breath. On a desk against the far wall, a computer monitor glows in the darkness. The video playing on the screen turns my blood cold. I know that voice.

A man is tied to a chair, wearing only his underwear. His face is bruised and swollen. Blood runs from a gash above his eyebrow, streaking through dirt and tear tracks.

Someone stands just outside the camera frame, taunting the man, promising him an agonizing death. A fist swings into the shot, striking him hard. The man groans in pain. I go still.

“What the hell?” Linc breathes.

I take a step closer to the screen. The video quality is grainy, as if it was filmed on an old camcorder.

The man in the chair sobs something unintelligible. Then the voice off-camera speaks again, calm and cold.

“I told you,” the unseen person says, “no one is coming to save you. You belong to me now, and the sooner you accept that, the better things will go for you.”

My chest tightens. It’s Jim.

“Are you ready to accept who you belong to?” Jim asks. The man in the chair coughs weakly and shakes his head.

“Please,” he gasps.

Jim chuckles, mirthlessly. “Stubborn boy. Time for something serious, I think.”

The video cuts to static. I swallow hard. Was this some kind of sick message? Was he doing this to Dylan right now?

“What the hell is this place?” Linc whispers.

“We need to get the cops here,” I say, taking a step back. My foot sinks into something soft.

“What the—” I stumble forward, catching myself on the desk.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Linc asks, voice rising an octave.

“My foot hit something.”

“What?”

“I don’t know. Something. Shine your light over here.”

I already know I don’t want to see what’s there. I step back quickly, and the beam of Linc’s flashlight swings across the floor, stopping on a body half-hidden in the shadows.

Jim.

He’s crumpled on his side, one arm stretched toward the desk.

His skin is gray. His lips blue. His eyes open and empty.

He’s dead.