I should have picked her up myself. I should have been there.
The thought looped through my mind, relentless, suffocating. My hands trembled as I reread the message on my phone.
"We have your daughter. No police. 5 million or she dies."
The words blurred. My knees buckled. Ella—my Ella. Just this morning, she had wrapped her tiny arms around my waist, laughing, asking if we could get ice cream after school. Now, she was in the hands of monsters.
I moved like a woman possessed. I begged, sold, borrowed. I tore my life apart bill by bill, until the last stack of cash lay in front of me. My fingers shook as I sent the money.
Minutes passed. Then hours.
Finally, a message.
An address.
An abandoned building on the city’s edge.
I drove like a demon, tires screeching against the asphalt. My heart pounded so violently, I thought it might stop before I reached her.
The building loomed in the darkness, its shattered windows gaping like mouths. The wind whistled through broken beams, carrying the scent of rust and rot.
I stepped out. My voice cracked. "Ella!"
No answer.
I pushed the door open. The air inside was thick, heavy with something unseen. A single bulb flickered from the ceiling, painting shadows that moved when they shouldn’t.
Then I saw her.
Hanging.
Her small frame swayed gently, the thin rope digging into her delicate neck. Her pink dress—the one she twirled in every Sunday—fluttered mockingly.
Something inside me cracked.
I staggered forward, arms reaching, but my legs gave out beneath me. My knees hit the cold, blood-stained floor. My fingers brushed against her ankle. Ice.
A choked sound tore from my throat. My vision blurred. My lungs forgot how to work.
Beneath her dangling feet, a slip of paper rested on the floor.
I forced myself to look.
"Next time, listen."
The room spun. My body caved inward, clawing at a chest that no longer held a heartbeat. I had done everything they asked.
And still, they took her.
The silence was suffocating. The silence swallowed me whole.
And in that silence, I broke.
