Chapter 8

"We're here. Get out."

I jolted in surprise.

The tracking app had just finished downloading—I hadn't even checked the location yet.

My thigh was a mess of self-inflicted wounds, and my light-colored pants were now stained with blood.

I looked up and met the suspicious gaze of a police officer.

"Ma'am, we have reason to suspect you may be under the influence of illegal substances. Please step out of the vehicle for a routine check."

I couldn't afford this. Not now.

"Officer, my five-year-old son has been kidnapped. Check with Detective Harris, badge number 4471. I'm heading to the location now."

He hesitated. Radioed in.

His partner's eyes widened at the response. "Let her through. Harris confirmed."

They escorted me the rest of the way to the industrial district.

The tracker signal pointed to a derelict factory at the far end. Rusted gates. Broken windows. The kind of place where hope went to die.

Harris was already there with a small team.

"We've confirmed movement inside," he said in a low voice. "At least two adults, one child. The kid appears unharmed for now."

For now.

Those two words nearly stopped my heart.

"I'm going in," I said.

"Ma'am, that's not—"

"My son doesn't know any of your faces. If he sees strangers in tactical gear breaking down doors, he'll be terrified. He knows me."

Harris studied me. Saw something in my eyes that made him reconsider.

"Five minutes. Rear entrance. We'll be right behind you."

I nodded.

The old Amanda—the girl who ran with street gangs, who fought her stepfather with bare fists, who survived things no child should survive—she was still in there.

She'd been sleeping.

She was awake now.