The bed was unmade.
Toys sat neatly arranged along a shelf.
Then my flashlight reached the far wall near the head of the bed.
The breath vanished from my lungs.
The drywall had been destroyed.
Beginning approximately one foot above the floor and stretching upward to roughly three feet, the paint, wallpaper, and plaster had been violently scratched, clawed, and gouged away until the raw wooden framing underneath was exposed.
It looked as though a trapped wild animal had spent hours—perhaps days—trying desperately to dig through the wall in blind panic.
Mixed throughout the white plaster dust were terrifying, unmistakable smears of dried dark crimson.
Blood from desperate little fingernails.
My flashlight slowly lowered toward the floor beneath those scratches.
Bolted directly into the solid oak leg of the bed frame was a thick industrial iron ring.
Connected to that ring was a heavy-duty, plastic-coated steel cable.
The kind designed to secure a motorcycle.
At the cable’s end was a tight adjustable loop.
A snare.
A leash.
The snake.
I stared down at the coiled steel cable lying across the damp, bleach-soaked carpet.
The loop had been perfectly, sadistically sized to fit around the ankle or wrist of an eight-year-old child.
Emily’s bruises weren’t merely from the belt.
She had been tethered here.
Chained to the bed like an animal, fighting so desperately to escape that she had torn her fingertips against the wall.
Suddenly my radio crackled.
The electronic burst made me jump violently inside the horrific silence of the bedroom.
