Chapter 5 - The Trail of the Broken Phone
The abandoned auto body shop on Lynch Road loomed like a concrete skeleton against the bruised morning sky. Its windows were shattered, jagged shards of glass sticking out like broken teeth. Rust covered the sliding corrugated steel doors, and weeds pushed stubbornly through the cracked concrete of the parking lot.
Rachel Brooks killed her cruiser's engine half a block away, letting the vehicle coast silently to a halt behind the husk of an old delivery van.
She unholstered her service pistol, checked the magazine chamber with a practiced click, and stepped out into the damp, biting wind.
Her radio hissed with static. “Unit one, backup is five minutes out. Hold your position, Officer Brooks,” dispatcher dispatch crackled.
“I can’t wait five minutes,” Rachel whispered back into her shoulder mic. “If he’s moving her, we lose them.”
She moved like a shadow along the perimeter of the sprawling garage, her boots crunching softly on gravel and broken glass. The smell of stale oil, rotting wood, and damp earth hung heavy in the air.
Near a side entrance half-blocked by rotting pallets, something glinted in the muddy puddle near a discarded tire.
Rachel crouched low, keeping her weapon raised. She knelt and picked up an object: a cracked pink smartphone with a scratched protective case. The screen was smashed spider-web style, but the wallpaper photo was clearly visible—a smiling photograph of Lily and Leo blowing out birthday candles on a cheap frosted cake.
Clara’s phone.
A sharp, metallic clatter echoed from deep within the cavernous interior of the building, followed by a muffled, angry shout and the unmistakable sound of a fist striking drywall.
Rachel didn't hesitate. She edged toward a rusted side door that stood ajar by a few inches, peering into the gloom of the cavernous garage.
Dust motes danced in pale shafts of morning light cutting through holes in the corrugated roof. In the center of the space stood the rusted frame of an old sedan. To the right, a heavy wooden door led into what must have been the old administrative offices.
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From behind that wooden door came a woman’s desperate, choked sob, followed by a cold, gravelly male voice.
“You think you could hide from me in a shithole apartment forever, Clara? You think a wooden chair was going to keep me out?”
