Girl, 11 by Amy Clarke (grave mercy TXT) 📗

was brought home from the hospital in 1999. It was the only thing she had kept of her parents’ after she left home at eighteen. Unfolding the Phillips head screwdriver, she set about unscrewing the plywood. It was tedious work; the screws were wound in tight by an electric drill, and she was sweating by the time she quietly pulled the wood away and placed it in the snow. Cringing in anticipation of the noise, she wrapped her fingers around the grate and yanked it loose from the frame. It came out with a metallic sound that seemed to reverberate around the neighborhood.

Heart racing, Elle crawled into the ventilation system. It was pitch-dark, but she could feel her way easily enough for a while. She hesitated only when she felt blank nothingness in front of her, realizing she would have to go headfirst into a drop with no idea how far it was to the floor. She took a few deep breaths, whispered Natalie’s name, and dove. The landing jolted up her wrists and forearms. She crawled forward another few feet before her hands came up against another grate. She had to punch it a few times before it finally fell inside the house.

If Douglas was here, he definitely knew she was too. She crawled to the edge of the vent and looked inside.

It was a small, dingy room with a hard-packed dirt floor, a single bed frame and dirty mattress, on top of which was the huddled outline of a person. Elle’s whole body ignited, and a sob escaped her lips. “Natalie!”

Before she could think, she scrambled forward and made the eight-foot drop into the room, somersaulting when she got to the bottom. Her right shoulder screamed with pain, but she shook it off and ran to the bed.

Douglas’s girlfriend stared up at Elle, eyes dull but alive.

Elle’s legs buckled, and she gave in, letting herself fall to the floor. She pulled her knees in and buried her face between them. She was too late.

Natalie was gone.

Activity happened in a blur around Elle.

She had called 911 as soon as she realized it was Douglas’s girlfriend on the bed, and they were there within ten minutes. The woman was loaded onto a stretcher and rushed to the ambulance. Crime scene technicians started to fill the tiny basement room, trying to kick everyone else out. One of the first responding officers helped Elle to her feet and the next thing she knew, she was sitting on Douglas Stevens’s perfectly neat sofa with a bottle of water in her hands that she couldn’t bring herself to drink. The thought of anything touching her mouth turned her stomach.

One of the paramedics tried to check her over; Elle waved him off. Her right shoulder throbbed, but the pain was keeping her mind focused. She’d deal with it later.

After the ambulance took off, she looked around the room in a daze. The wood floors were buffed and waxed, covered in a clean, richly colored Oriental rug. Every cushion on the sofa was plush, corners snapped tight. The lamps, shelves, tables, and books didn’t have a speck of dust. It looked like a midrange hotel room—soulless and cold. Natalie and Amanda had cleaned these rooms, worked themselves into exhaustion around this sofa. It made bile sting the back of Elle’s throat.

She was out of time. She should have gotten here sooner. There was no trace of Douglas or Natalie, and the one person who might have information for them was drugged, nearly catatonic when they rushed her to the hospital. Elle had felt hopelessness on this case before, but never at this level, this crushing weight.

Her brain churned as she stared at the bottle in her hands, working at the corner of the label with her thumbnail. It was a picture of a spring flowing from the top of a wooded mountain. Nestled among the evergreen trees was a tiny, raisin-sized sketch of a cabin. It was peaceful, a remote refuge. There might not be mountains and springs, but Minnesota had dozens of cabins like that. Maybe when all this was over, she and Martín could go away to one together.

Martín. She looked at her phone, and sure enough, there were half a dozen missed calls from him. She sent a quick text, promising to explain everything later. The thought of even trying to talk about it made her feel sick with exhaustion.

Elle heard Ayaan’s voice before she saw her burst into the room, a bright orange hijab framing her fiery eyes. The woman dropped her bag and ran to Elle, gathering her in her arms. Elle froze in shock before surrendering to the commander’s embrace, ignoring the pain in her shoulder. She had expected a furious lecture, possibly even a breaking-and-entering charge—not the first hug of their entire friendship.

After a moment, she pulled away and met Ayaan’s gaze. “What are you doing here?”

Ayaan laughed in disbelief and swiped at a single tear that threatened to fall. “I could ask you the same question, but I shouldn’t be surprised you came here on your own instead of waiting for me. I’ll add it to the list.”

“What list?”

“Of the ways you could have gotten yourself killed the last ten days.”

Elle’s face heated. “Every time I told you my theories, you didn’t believe me. I didn’t want you to try to talk me out of it. When I knew he was the one, I just came here. I couldn’t stand the thought of Natalie being here another second.”

Ayaan put her hand on Elle’s. “I know. I know that I haven’t always believed you, but you have been wrong before. You go with your gut, which is great, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t stop to think about the consequences. To yourself, and to the people you love.”

Elle looked back down at the water bottle wrapper, picking at the corner.

“I think I know why you’re doing it, though. Now that I know who you are.”

“Why?” The picture of