White-painted walls. Bright studio lights on stands. A large white backdrop. Five children—Lily among them—lined up in a row. They wore mismatched outfits: frilly dresses, tiny tuxedos, animal ears. A man in a crisp suit adjusted a professional camera on a tripod. A woman arranged props—stuffed toys, balloons, fake flowers. Evelyn stood beside Lily, smoothing the dress, whispering something that made Lily force a small, terrified smile.
David’s hands shook, but the autofocus held steady. He recorded every second: the poses, the forced laughter, the way the adults directed tiny hands to touch shoulders, waists, cheeks. Professional. Practiced. Routine.
This wasn’t a one-time thing. This was an operation.
Sirens wailed in the distance—faint at first, then louder.
Inside the basement, heads snapped up. Panic erupted. The suited man yanked memory cards from cameras. The woman shoved children toward a back hallway. Evelyn grabbed Lily’s wrist and dragged her toward an exit door.
David sprinted around the house.
He reached the rear just as the metal door banged open. Evelyn burst out, pulling Lily behind her.
She froze when she saw him.