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“Hold.”
She lowers the phone.
“CSI got inside.”
“Mama?”
Her hesitation tells me.
“Mercy.”
“The picture is gone.”
Everything inside me drops.
“No.”
“Sweet.”
“He took her.”
“He took a frame.”
“That is Mama.”
“I know.”
“No, you don't.”
The words come out too sharp.
Mercy’s face softens.
“That is all I have.”
“I know.”
My phone buzzes.
I look.
A new picture.
Mama’s frame lies on gray concrete. Behind it is a round rusted metal lip.
A pit.
I know the murder hole even though I have only seen it from behind the festival barriers, sixty feet of old concrete history everybody jokes about because apparently death tourism is charming when nobody currently loves the thing in danger.
Text beneath it:
Come alone or she goes down.
My lungs stop working.
Not burns.
Worse.
