Innocence Tied in pink
The photo wouldn’t stop burning in her mind.
A little girl. Eight, maybe nine. Pink nightgown. Duct tape over her mouth, eyes swollen with fear. She sat in a chair too big for her, arms bound, feet barely touching the floor. Salem had seen a hundred crime scene photos in her career. Victims, suspects, even children. But this one felt different.
This one felt personal.
The red wax seal. The crescent imprint. It all screamed Camille.
Salem laid the photo on her kitchen counter and reached for her burner phone. Not the department-issued line. This one was hers — for when things went off the rails.
She hit a number she hadn’t dialed in over a year.
One ring.
Two.
A tired voice picked up on the third.
“This better be life or death.”
“Hi, Dante,” Salem said. “Still got your laptop? I need a trace on an anonymous photo. It came with a wax seal.”
There was silence, then a chuckle.
“So… death then.”
Thirty minutes later, Dante Cross her ex, and a tech genius with enough legal violations under his belt to sink a small country — walked through her door holding a backpack and a smug grin.
“Still keeping secrets, huh?” he said, dropping his bag on her counter. “You look like hell, by the way.”
“I haven’t slept.”
“I can tell. You’ve got murder under your eyes.”
Salem slid the photo over.
“She’s in danger. A girl. Probably taken recently. Look at the lighting, the walls, the shadow under her left foot. I think the photo was taken in a basement. Somewhere damp.”
Dante’s face shifted.
“Why you?”
Salem hesitated. Then: “Because the woman who took her is someone I left behind. A long time ago. I thought she was dead.”
Dante nodded, not asking further. That was why she called him. He didn’t need the full story. He just needed the scent of the hunt.
“I’ll get to work.”
By noon, Dante had a partial lead. He isolated background audio from the photo — a faint humming, like machinery. He matched it to a type of industrial cooling system used in old textile factories. Most of them shut down now. But a few? Still standing. Condemned. Forgotten.
“Five buildings in Noir City match the profile,” he said, spinning his laptop around. “But only one still pulls consistent power from the grid. Unregistered.”
He pointed at the map.
Harper Mills. Abandoned. East side.
Salem was already grabbing her gun.
Harper Mills looked like it hadn’t seen life in fifty years. Vines crawling up rusted brick. Windows shattered like broken teeth. The chain-link fence had a hole cut just big enough for a body to slip through. Salem parked two blocks away and went in on foot.
The smell hit first mold, wet cement, something else under it. Something metallic.
She moved like shadow, gloved hands brushing the grip of her pistol. Her heartbeat slow. Focused.
Inside, the air was thick. Old machines loomed like giants, draped in cobwebs. She heard the echo of dripping water, then something softer — a hum.
Exactly like the one Dante pulled from the photo.
She followed the sound down a hallway, then down a narrow staircase choked in dust and grime. The basement smelled of rust and old blood.
And there, through a crack in a rusted door, she saw it:
A girl.
The girl.
Same pink nightgown. Same blonde hair. Duct tape over her mouth, her arms now zip-tied to the chair. Her eyes met Salem’s and widened in hope, in fear.
But there was no time for comfort.
Because behind her, standing in the shadows—
Was Camille.
Salem’s blood turned to ice.
Camille stepped forward, slowly. The light revealed the scarred, twisted skin of her left cheek, the way her lips curled like fire had never truly left her body.
But her eyes?
Her eyes were the same.
Green. Burning. Alive.
“Hello, Salem,” she whispered. Her voice was gravel and sorrow. “I was wondering when you’d come.”
“Let her go,” Salem said, gun raised. “Now.”
Camille tilted her head.
“You don’t recognize her?”
Salem blinked. “What?”
“She’s not random. None of them are.” Camille circled behind the girl. “Her name is Ava. Her mother used to work at Hawthorn. Do you remember Miss Jennings?”
Salem’s stomach twisted.
Jennings. The quiet night matron who used to sneak extra biscuits to the girls. The only one who tried to protect Camille after the fire started. The one who got fired for it.
“She died last year,” Camille said, softly. “Breast cancer. Ava went into the system. Bounced around. I found her two weeks ago. Just like I found the others.”
“What others?” Salem’s voice was hoarse.
“The ones who watched me burn. The ones who laughed behind closed doors. The ones who stayed quiet.”
Camille stepped closer, out of the shadows.
“Not you though,” she added, eyes locked with Salem’s. “You ran. And running? That’s worse than laughing.”
Salem didn’t flinch. But the memories screamed behind her eyes.
She had run.
When the fire started, when the smoke got thick, when Camille screamed for help Salem had run.
“I was thirteen,” she said.
“We were all thirteen.”
They stood in silence.
Then Camille stepped aside.
“Take her. Take Ava. But know this: the others are coming. The ones who left me in that room. The ones who forgot me. I’m not done, Salem.”
Salem moved slowly toward the girl, slicing through the zip ties with her knife. Ava collapsed into her arms, shaking.
“You’re safe now,” Salem whispered.
But as she carried her out, past the broken machines, through the iron hallway of ghosts, Salem knew she wasn’t lying.
Camille wasn’t done.
Not by a long shot.
Back at her apartment, Ava slept in the guest room. Salem sat on the couch, staring at the bottle of whiskey she hadn’t touched in months.
She poured a glass.
Then another.
Outside, thunder cracked.
Inside, her phone buzzed.
A new text.
UNKNOWN:
You chose her over me again.
Salem swallowed hard.
UNKNOWN:
One saved. Three more to burn.
Tick tock, Salem. You remember the names.
And she did.
Every name.
Every girl.
Every secret.
