Whatever this place is, it’s square. Small. Concrete. A basement room or bunker, maybe. I can make out the rough shape of a doorway. But there’s no handle to open the entrance. No way out.
My heart begins to race. Panic brings more memories flooding back.
Erik in my room. Threatening me.
Brigitte coming in. Plucking Lukas from his crib.
Lifting his little hand in a wave. “Say goodbye to Mama...”
Same as I did back then—whenever the hell that was—I let out an animal scream, a howl of pain and anger and betrayal.
A scream for my baby, wherever he is.
“Hello?” I cry out. “Help me!”
My voice cracks in agony and fear. I fumble to my knees—that’s as much as I can manage right now—and crawl across the cold stone floor.
“Who’s there? Where am I?”
My words echo uselessly off the cement wa
