desertion

159

LYDIA

We left the station with a heavy sense of purpose. Mason drove us to the east side of town, where the abandoned house still stood. The car ride was quiet, save for the sound of Mason's fingers drumming against the steering wheel. He kept glancing at me like he wanted to say something, but he never did. Maybe he could sense I wasn't ready to talk yet.

My mind replayed the details of the case over and over, like a broken record. Rachel's face. The cages. The timeline. The fact that there might be more women out there who hadn't been found yet-or worse, who were still alive but trapped, waiting for someone to save them.

"We'll find him," Mason said softly, breaking the silence.

I turned to look at him, surprised by the confidence in his voice. He didn't look at me, his eyes focused on the road, but his jaw was set, his determination clear.

"I know we will," I said, more to convince myself than anything.

When we arrived at the house, it looked just as ominous as it had in the crime scene photos. Overgrown weeds choked the front yard, and the windows were boarded up, but the air around it felt wrong, like the place itself knew the horrors it had witnessed.

Mason and I slipped on gloves before stepping inside. The smell hit me first-stale air mixed with the faint, lingering scent of something metallic. Blood. My stomach twisted, but I forced myself to keep moving.

"Let's start with the basement," Mason said, pulling out a flashlight.

I nodded, following him to the stairs. The wooden steps creaked under our weight, each sound echoing in the quiet. When we reached the basement, the air grew colder, and my skin prickled. It was darker down here than I'd expected, the only light coming from the beam of Mason's flashlight and the small lantern I carried.

The cages were still there, as were the chains hanging from the ceiling. My eyes lingered on the scuff marks on the floor, imagining Rachel's struggle to escape.

"Look for anything forensics might've missed," Mason said, crouching down to examine one of the cages.

I nodded, focusing on the walls and corners of the room. I ran my flashlight along the cracks in the concrete, looking for anything out of place. A hair. A fingerprint. Anything.

"What about the cages?" I asked, glancing over at Mason. "Did forensics say where they came from?"

"They're custom-made," he said, his voice tight. "No serial numbers, no identifying marks. Whoever made them didn't leave a trail."

I frowned, crouching beside one of the chains. It was thick, rusted, and heavy. Something about it caught my eye, and I leaned in closer.

"There's something here," I said, motioning for Mason to come over.

He knelt beside me, shining his flashlight where I pointed. It was faint, but there was a smudge of red near the base of the chain.

"Blood," he muttered. "Maybe the killer's."

I nodded, feeling a small surge of hope. "If we can match it to someone, it might lead us to him."

Mason pulled out a swab kit and carefully collected a sample. He worked quickly but methodically, his movements calm and precise.

"You're good at this," I said, watching him.

He glanced up, a small smile tugging at his lips. "So are you."

I felt my cheeks heat, but I quickly turned back to my search. I couldn't let myself get distracted, not now.

We spent the next hour combing through every inch of the basement, but aside from the blood, there wasn't much else to find. The killer had been careful, almost too careful.

"This place is a dead end," I said, frustration creeping into my voice.

Mason stood, stretching his arms. "Not completely. The blood is something. And the fact that he used this place means he has a connection to it. We just have to figure out what."

I nodded, even though I still felt a gnawing sense of defeat.

As we made our way back upstairs, something caught my eye near the front door-a small piece of paper wedged between the floorboards. I bent down, pulling it free. It was old and crumpled, but there were faint markings on it.

"What is it?" Mason asked, stepping closer.

I smoothed the paper out, squinting at the faded ink. "It looks like... a receipt?"

Mason took it from me, holding it up to the light. "It's a receipt for hardware supplies. Chains, locks, bolts."

My heart raced. "Do you think it's connected?"

"It has to be," Mason said, flipping the paper over. "There's a store name on it. Eastside Hardware."

I grabbed my phone, already looking up the address. "It's still open," I said, showing him the screen.

"Then that's our next stop," Mason said, already heading for the door.

At Eastside Hardware, the clerk behind the counter was an older man with a gruff demeanor. He barely glanced at us as we walked in.

"We're looking for information about a purchase made here," Mason said, holding up the receipt.

The man squinted at it, then shrugged. "Could've been anyone. We don't keep records that far back."

"What about security footage?" I pressed. "Do you have cameras?"

He hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah, but the system's old. Don't know if it'll help."

"It's worth a try," Mason said firmly.

The man grumbled but led us to the back office, where an ancient computer sat on a cluttered desk. It took forever to load, but eventually, we were scrolling through footage from the approximate date on the receipt.

"There," I said suddenly, pointing at the screen.

A man in a hoodie and baseball cap stood at the counter, paying for a large order. His face was obscured, but there was something about the way he carried himself-calm, deliberate.

"That's him," Mason said, his voice low.

We copied the footage onto a flash drive and thanked the clerk before heading back to the station.

Back at the station, Mason and I poured over the footage, trying to catch any identifying details. It wasn't much, but it was something.

"We'll find him," Mason said, his hand brushing against mine as we worked.

I nodded, feeling a spark of hope. This wasn't over. Not by a long shot.