I shined my light on the carpet. A child’s coloring page lay crumpled beneath a muddy boot print. I bent down and carefully picked it up.
It showed a poorly drawn house, a yellow sun, and a woman holding hands with a little girl.
But right beside them, drawn in heavy, frantic black crayon, was a massive figure with no face. The figure had a distinct, jagged star drawn directly on its chest.
“Found the laundry room,” Boone whispered from the hallway.
I shoved the drawing into my pocket and moved down the narrow hall. The washing machine sat in a cramped utility closet, shoved between stacked boxes of cheap detergent and a rusted water heater.
Boone crouched down and ran his calloused hand under the front edge of the machine. “Right here,” he said.
The wooden floorboard seams were entirely too clean. They had been recently pried up and set back into place.
Miller and I grabbed the edges of the heavy washing machine and slid it to the left with a loud, grinding scrape. Boone wedged a steel pry bar into the seam and popped two of the floorboards loose.
Beneath the dusty joists sat a heavy plastic storage box wrapped tightly in a black garbage bag.
I reached down and lifted it out. My heart hammered against my ribs.
“Open it,” Miller said, his flashlight fixed on the lid.
I popped the plastic latches. Inside lay a stack of glossy photographs, a silver flash drive, folded bank receipts, a cheap prepaid cell phone, and a spiral-bound notebook.
Boone picked up the top photograph. He let out a harsh, venomous curse.
The picture showed Maya’s mother, Jenna, with a severely blackened eye and a split lip. But the photos underneath were far worse. They showed Corbin standing in a dirt lot, exchanging thick envelopes with men I didn’t recognize. They were loading heavy canvas duffel bags into the back of a commercial box truck.
Then Boone turned over the final photograph.
It showed Corbin shaking hands with a towering, muscular man. The man was wearing a very distinct, heavy silver watch on his left wrist. Crawling up his neck was a dark, intricate tattoo of a coiled snake.
“Look at this,” I muttered, pulling out the bank receipts.
The receipts were printed with a massive account balance. But the name on the offshore deposits wasn't Corbin's. It was Jenna's.
I opened the spiral notebook. Every single page was filled with dates, license plate numbers, meeting locations, and frantic handwritten notes.
Girl, maybe six, crying in the blue coat.
Two boys taken to the rail yard.
Corbin says the boss doesn't like delays.
NS-4092.
If I die, it was Corbin and the men with the snake tattoos.
I closed the notebook slowly. A cold, absolute fury moved through my veins.
This was not a simple domestic abuse case. This was a fully operational child trafficking pipeline.
Then, the sudden crunch of gravel echoed from the driveway.
Headlights swept violently across the front living room window, casting long, frantic shadows against the wall.
“Lights out,” I hissed, killing my flashlight.
We heard the heavy slam of a vehicle door. Then another. Male voices echoed outside the front porch. Two of them. Maybe three.
Miller stepped to the edge of the hallway, peering toward the front door. “He came back.”
My jaw tightened. “How many?”
“I see Corbin and two others on the porch.”
We didn’t have police backup. We didn’t have time to call it in.
I shoved the plastic box into Boone’s chest. “Get this out the back window. Protect it with your life.”
A floorboard creaked loudly in the living room.
“Jenna?” a man’s voice called out. It was sharp and irritated, devoid of any real concern. “You in here?”
I motioned for Boone to move backward toward the kitchen. Miller drew a heavy steel baton from his belt. I stayed pressed against the drywall, my muscles coiled like springs.
The first man stepped into the hallway and froze when he saw the displaced washing machine.
It happened violently and fast.
Miller drove his shoulder directly into the man’s chest, slamming him backward into the drywall with a sickening crack.