With trembling effort, the boy pointed to a corner where a worn rug covered a wooden trapdoor.
“They’re down there,” he said. “Your girls. And other kids.”
Harrison’s blood froze.
He pulled back the rug. A metal lock secured the door.
“The key’s in his pocket,” the boy whispered.
Harrison moved carefully, heart pounding so loudly he was sure the man would wake. He found a ring of keys.
One fit.
The lock clicked.
He lifted the trapdoor. Cold, damp air rushed upward.
He descended the narrow ladder, using his phone as a flashlight.
At the bottom, in the dim beam of light, he saw it.
A metal cage.
Inside were several children, thin and frightened.
And there—curled together in the corner—Emily and Grace.
Alive.
For a moment, he couldn’t breathe.
“Daddy?” one whispered.
He rushed forward, gripping the bars. “I’m here. I’m here.”
They clung to him through the metal, sobbing.
A thunderous crash sounded above.
“What’s going on?!” the man roared, stumbling down the ladder with a knife in his hand.
“They’re not yours!” Harrison shouted, stepping between him and the cage.
The man lunged. The blade sliced Harrison’s arm. Pain flared, but he didn’t retreat.