Denise brushed her hands off with slow deliberation. Her voice, when it came, was calm but urgent. "We need more officers. And a proper forensic team. Whatever happened here… it wasn't a one-off." She turned to the closest officer. "Call for backup. Now."
"She's right," I said, stepping forward. My voice felt foreign in my throat, too low, too steady for everything I was remembering. "This man—whoever he is—he's tied to Peterson. I don't have proof yet, but I know it in my gut. He used to lurk around St. Mark's Haven. Always watching. Always silent. I think he's part of something bigger."
The officer nodded and stepped aside to make the call. Another one, older, more weathered, looked me straight in the eye. "Do you have a name?"
I shook my head. "No. Just a scar. Deep across the left cheek. And the way he moved—efficient, quiet, military almost. But those eyes... I'll never forget them."
Beside me, Denise had already pulled out her phone, scrolling through her files like a woman possessed. "I'll run the staff records from St. Mark's Haven. There has to be something. A cleaner. Dressed in black. Scarred. Someone must've remembered him."
Before I could respond, the front door opened again, this time with purpose. A second team of officers walked in. One of them nodded toward Denise. "We were told to secure the site. What are we looking for?"
"Everything," she answered without hesitation. "Start with fingerprints, blood traces, hidden compartments, or doors. If this place was used by Peterson's people, we're only seeing the surface."
I walked toward the wall I'd pointed to earlier, my fingers brushing the surface. The cold met me like it remembered. "This wall," I murmured. "It's not solid. I heard it. Before I blacked out."
One of the new officers joined me, tapping gently with his knuckles. The sound that came back was wrong—thud, then a hollow echo.
"Get a light," Denise called out.
Someone handed one over, and within seconds a beam sliced through the gloom, sweeping along the baseboards. There—just beneath a torn edge of plaster—was a seam.
"There's something here," I said, crouching down.
Denise knelt beside me, her breath shallow. "What if it's a hidden room?"
I looked at her. "No... what if it's a holding cell?"
We didn't need to wonder long. One of the officers wedged a tool into the seam, and with a reluctant groan, the panel came free.
The compartment behind it was narrow. Dark. Cramped. It smelled like rot, mold, and something far worse—desperation maybe. I couldn't breathe for a moment.
"God," the officer whispered. "What the hell was going on in here?"
I had to turn away. My chest tightened. I could see Janica in that space. I could see myself. I could see others—faceless, nameless—trapped, silent, waiting.
Denise stood again, her jaw set. "This isn't just abuse. It's organized. Funded. Someone knew this place wouldn't be found easily."
She turned to the officer who had taken charge. "We need every file from the Shuttle Green Project. Every location, every fund transfer. We need eyes on everything Peterson owns."