Chapter 32
Thirty-Two
T he dining table at Sophie and Tristan’s home was barely visible beneath the chaos of maps, case files, and laptops. Every chair was filled with grim-faced law enforcement officers: detectives from Waverly County PD, including Isobel’s sister Olivia; the State Highway Patrol; investigators from the State’s Attorney’s office; and a handful of federal agents who had joined the effort. The air was thick with tension.
Brad stood at the edge of the table, his arms crossed tightly over his chest as he stared at the maps. His mind swirled with frustration—they had no solid leads. No idea if Hale had altered his appearance, what kind of vehicle he was driving, or where he could have taken her. It was like trying to track a shadow.
The sound of a door opening drew his attention, and Brad turned to see Ethan walking in. His presence was unexpected, a stark contrast to the mess surrounding them. Ethan’s face was drawn, but his movements were purposeful as he crossed the room to Brad.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Brad asked, his voice edged with disbelief. “You just became a father.”
Ethan’s eyes softened, but his voice was firm. “Molly told me I wasn’t allowed to come back to the hospital until her sister was found. So here I am.”
For the first time in hours, Brad felt a flicker of gratitude. “Thank you,” he said quietly.
Ethan gave him a curt nod. “Let’s find her.”
Across the room, Charlotte Everhart sat at the head of the table, poised and calm despite the turmoil. She worked the phone with the ease of someone who had once commanded respect as a deputy police chief. Every call she made was a calculated move, leveraging her old contacts in the hope of shaking loose information.
Ruth and Sophie moved through the room like anchors, keeping everyone steady with a seemingly endless supply of coffee and food. Ruth placed a mug in Brad’s hands, her quiet presence a reminder that he wasn’t in this alone.
But for all the organization, the leads were thin. Brad slammed his hand against the edge of the table, his frustration boiling over. “We don’t even know if he’s changed his appearance. What kind of car he’s in. We’re working with nothing!”
The sudden ring of Larson’s phone cut through the tension. All eyes turned to him as he answered, “Larson here.”
He listened intently, then stood, his face lighting with a glimmer of hope. “We got prints,” he announced to the room. “From the wall and floor where Dillon was attacked. They belong to a twenty-two-year-old female, Courtney Jenkins. Looks like she’s one of Hale’s groupies.”
Alex Marcel didn’t waste a second. He grabbed his partner, Noah Kandor, and his keys. “Give me the address,” Alex said sharply. “We’ll pick her up.”
Two hours later, Alex and Noah returned, hauling Courtney Jenkins into the room. She was young and attractive in a rough, defiant way, with dark makeup and an air of arrogance that grated immediately. She crossed her arms and smirked, as if daring anyone to try to intimidate her.
“She hasn’t said a word,” Alex reported, his frustration evident.
Brad exchanged a glance with John Larson. They didn’t need to speak; their decision was already made. “Sophie,” Brad said coolly, “we need Tristan’s office.”
Sophie hesitated but nodded. “Down the hall.”
“Let’s go,” Brad said, his voice sharp and commanding. He gestured for Larson to follow as they escorted Courtney into the office, closing the door firmly behind them.
Brad leaned against the desk, his piercing gaze fixed on Courtney. Larson stood near the door, his broad frame blocking her only exit. Courtney slouched in her chair, her arms crossed, her defiance palpable.
“You’re going to tell us where he took her,” Brad commanded.
Courtney smirked, though there was a nervous flicker in her eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t lie to me.” Brad’s tone turned icy, his voice laced with authority. He stepped closer, his presence suffocating. “You think you’re clever? You think you’re in control here? Let me make one thing clear: you’re nothing but a tool Hale used, and you’ll break just as easily as you’re discarded.”
Courtney’s smirk wavered, but she crossed her legs, forcing an air of confidence she obviously didn’t feel. “I don’t owe you anything.”
Larson barked out a cold laugh, stepping forward. “Wrong. You owe us everything . The second you helped him take her, you became part of this. And trust me, little girl, you don’t want to find out what happens when we’re not in a forgiving mood.”
Courtney’s lips parted, but no words came out. She looked between the two men, their dominating presence suffocating the bravado she had clung to.
Brad leaned down, his voice a low growl in her ear. “Do you think Hale cares about you? Do you think you’re special to him? You’re nothing. Less than nothing. And when we’re done here, you’ll be just another name on a booking sheet.”
Her breath hitched, and her hands fidgeted in her lap. “I—I don’t know where he went,” she stammered. “I swear.”
Brad slammed his hand on the desk beside her, making her flinch. “Don’t lie to me! Where is he?”
Courtney’s walls cracked. Tears welled in her eyes as she shook her head. “He said I couldn’t come with him. I wanted to go, but he wouldn’t let me. He said I’d slow him down.”
Larson crouched beside her, his voice smooth but dangerous. “What did he tell you? What car was he driving? Did he say anything about where he was heading?”
Her voice trembled. “He’s driving a gray Toyota Corolla. That’s all I know. Please. I swear.”
Brad straightened, his eyes narrowing. “You swear? The way you swore loyalty to a monster? You’ll excuse me if I don’t take your word for it.”
Courtney suddenly dropped to her knees, tears streaming down her face. “Please,” she begged, her voice desperate. “You don’t understand. I’ll do anything. Be anything you want. Just don’t send me to jail. Be my Dominants. I’ll obey. I’ll be perfect for you. Please.”
Larson’s laugh was sharp and humorless. “You think this is a game? We’re not interested in your submission, sweetheart.”
Brad stepped back, his expression cold. “You’re going to jail. And if you’re lucky, you’ll live long enough to realize just how badly you’ve screwed up.”
He opened the door, gesturing for the waiting officers. “Take her. Book her. And don’t let her out of your sight.”
Courtney sobbed as the officers hauled her away, but Brad didn’t look back. He turned to Larson, his jaw tight. “We’ve got a lead.”
Larson sighed. “We run every gray Toyota Corolla in South Dakota.”
The room was a hollow shell of despair, cold and damp with an oppressive silence broken only by the distant sound of dripping water. The stone walls seemed to breathe malice, their chill creeping relentlessly into the marrow of her bones—a constant, inescapable reminder of entrapment. The air reeked of mildew and stale sweat, mingling with the faint metallic tang of blood.
Isobel lay crumpled on the floor, her body contorted in an agonized sprawl. Her wrists were bound to a rusted pipe in the corner, the restraints digging so deeply into her flesh that the raw, bloody wounds there were crusted with grime. The torn skin pulsed with every slight movement, a symphony of pain that refused to let her forget the reality of her situation. The pipe groaned faintly under the strain when she shifted, a mockery of her futile attempts to free herself.
Her body was a battlefield of bruises and lacerations, a macabre map of Hale’s relentless torment. Purple and green blotches marred her arms, ribs, and thighs, each one a testament to the force of his blows. The deep imprint of a boot heel discolored her abdomen, the pain radiating outward with every shallow breath. Fresh scratches crisscrossed her upper arms and shoulders, where his nails had raked her skin in one of his violent outbursts, his sick satisfaction palpable.
Her lips were cracked and bleeding, the metallic taste of her own blood a constant presence on her parched tongue. One eye was swollen nearly shut, the surrounding skin puffed and darkened from the backhand that sent her reeling into the wall hours ago—or was it days? Time was meaningless here, swallowed by the black void of the room.
The relentless chill of the stone floor seeped through her tattered clothes, leaving her trembling uncontrollably. She wasn’t sure whether it was the cold or the sheer exhaustion that caused her body to quake, but her muscles twitched and spasmed, refusing to offer her even a moment of reprieve. Her teeth chattered faintly, the sound barely audible over the pounding in her ears.
Hale’s voice echoed in her mind, sharp and cutting, as if it still lingered in the air. “You’re stronger than I expected,” he’d sneered after yet another strike failed to elicit the screams he so clearly desired. “But everyone breaks. You’ll beg me before this is over.”
His methods were calculated, cruel in their precision. He alternated between overwhelming violence and insidious mind games, ensuring she could never anticipate what would come next. He used her moments of silence and defiance as fuel. He’d tried electric shocks, his hands striking harder, his taunts growing darker. When her body slumped in sheer exhaustion, he knelt close, his breath hot and rancid against her ear as he whispered promises of worse to come.
The pipe creaked again as she tried to adjust, the metal biting deeper into her wrists. Her stomach clenched, not just from the lingering pain of his kicks but from the fear that gripped her every time he left the room—because she knew he would always return. And when he did, the torment would begin anew.
She had no idea how long she had been here. Time had dissolved into a blur of pain, hunger, and fear.
Hale stood over her, his shadow looming large in the dim light. His face, once familiar, now twisted into something monstrous. His eyes glinted with a sick satisfaction as he watched her struggle to keep her head up.
"Still holding on, are we?" His voice was smooth, a taunting lull that sent shivers down her spine. He crouched down beside her, grabbing her chin with bruising force and turning her face to meet his gaze. "You are stubborn, Isobel. I’ll give you that."
Isobel’s lips were cracked and dry, her throat raw. She could barely summon the strength to respond, but her eyes, filled with defiance, told him everything he needed to know. He hadn’t broken her. Not yet.
Hale sneered and released her, her head hitting the floor. He stood up and paced the room like a predator circling its prey. “You think someone’s coming for you? Your precious Brad?” He laughed, a sharp, cruel sound. “He’s not going to save you. He’s as weak as the rest of them.”
At the mention of Brad’s name, something flickered inside Isobel, a tiny ember of hope she clung to in the darkness. Brad wouldn’t stop. She knew that. She wasn’t going to die here. Not like this.
Hale’s laughter faded as he grew bored with her silence. He turned back to her, his expression darkening. “But if you’re not going to talk, maybe I should make this more interesting.”
He pulled out a small knife, the blade glinting in the low light. Isobel’s heart raced, her mind screaming at her to fight, but her body was too weak. She could barely move. He knelt beside her again, dragging the blade slowly down her arm, not deep enough to do real damage, but enough to leave a thin trail of blood.
“You see, Isobel,” Hale whispered, his voice deadly quiet, “I can keep this up for as long as I want. You? You don’t have that luxury.”
Isobel winced at the sting of the blade but didn’t cry out. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Instead, she closed her eyes and thought of Brad. She thought of escape, of freedom, of survival.