He would just smile and say, “There’s nothing worth stealing.”
The screen opened—and with it, something I could never undo.
Messages filled the screen.
Dozens of them.
Short ones:
“She’s restless today.”
“Give her less this time.”
“Check the locks.”
“Don’t let her near the stairs.”
Longer ones:
“If her mother asks again, tell her nothing’s there.”
“Stop explaining so much. It makes things suspicious.”
My name.
They were talking about me.
My stomach turned. I kept scrolling.
Older messages.
Months.
Years.
Words that made no sense at first—and then too much sense.
“Sedatives.”
“Basement.”
“She remembers.”
“Keep her quiet.”
I covered my mouth, trying to hold in a scream.
Five years.
Five years of mourning.
Five years of believing my daughter was gone forever.
While they talked about locks. About drugs. About keeping her hidden.
Then I saw the photos.
Dark. Blurry.
A small concrete room.
A thin mattress.
A lamp on the floor.
A tray with food.
I swiped.
A woman sat on the bed.
Her hair was longer. Her body thinner—too thin. Her skin pale. Her eyes… hollow.
But I knew that face.
I knew it before I could even say her name.
“Emily…”
My voice broke.