Three days passed in the basement.
Emily's world shrank to concrete, cold, and the sound of dripping water. Harlan brought food twice daily—sandwiches, water, sometimes an apple. He never spoke much at first, just watched her eat, eyes unreadable.
On the third morning, he dragged a metal folding chair down the stairs and sat facing her.
"Ask," he said.
Emily's throat was raw. "Why not just kill me?"
"Because death is quick. Your father got quick justice—a year of weekends picking up trash, a fine. My Sarah got eternity." He leaned forward. "I want him to feel every second of what I felt."
He began talking then, words spilling like poison long bottled.
Sarah had been his only child. Her mother died in childbirth. It had been just the two of them—ballet recitals, fishing trips, bedtime stories. That December night, Sarah begged to ride her new bike one last time before bed. Harlan relented. She pedaled down the block under streetlights, reflectors flashing.
Thomas Harper, celebrating a promotion, left the party after too many drinks. Blew through the intersection. Sarah flew thirty feet. Died on impact.
Harlan arrived as paramedics covered her small body. He remembered screaming until his voice gave out.
The trial was a farce. Harper's lawyer argued poor lighting, child darting out unexpectedly. Blood alcohol just over limit, but "mitigating circumstances." Sentence: probation, community service, license suspension for a year.
Harlan sold his house, moved across town, tried to rebuild. But grief calcified into obsession. He followed Harper's life—marriage troubles, birth of Emily, quiet suburban existence. When Emily rented the house next door two years ago, it felt like fate delivering payment.
Emily listened, horror mixing with pity she hated herself for feeling. "I'm sorry for your daughter. Truly. But this won't bring her back."
Harlan's face hardened. "No. But it evens the scale."
That afternoon, the torture began.
He returned with a cattle prod. Emily screamed as electricity arced through her ribs. He was methodical—never enough to kill, always enough to break spirit a little more.
Between sessions, he left her alone with pain and thoughts. She worked at the ropes when he was upstairs, fibers fraying slowly against rough concrete. Hope flickered, fragile.
Upstairs, the town stirred. Emily's coworker Mia reported her missing when she didn't show for her shift. Police took a statement from Thomas Harper, pale and shaking.
Detective Lena Voss, new to the department, caught the case. She interviewed neighbors. Harlan answered his door politely, expressed shock, offered to help search. Voss noted his calm, filed it away.
Thomas sat in his living room that night, staring at Emily's childhood photos. Guilt he'd buried for decades resurfaced, choking. He poured a drink, then dumped it down the sink. Not again.
In the basement, Emily counted ceiling cracks to stay sane. She vowed silently: survive long enough for someone to notice. Fight long enough to make him regret this.