Page 20 of Beyond Redemption

I forced my eyes forward once I came to the first lifeless hand, unwilling to stare into the vacant eyes of someone’s son or daughter.

The glass doors of the humanities building had been shoved open and left that way, one pane spidered with cracks from some unknown impact that made my skin crawl to imagine. We slipped inside, the world snapping from siren-filled chaosto a heavy, insulated silence broken only by the distant echo of shouting.

“Check your corners,” Coleman hissed.

Thomas drew. I did the same, the weight of my Glock familiar and jarring all at once. My heart was banging against my ribs, and at the same time, my training grounded me like a second skin.

We moved down the main hall in a staggered line, shoulders to the wall, eyes sweeping doorways. Classroom doors had been pulled shut, some with chairs wedged under their handles, others with copy machines or trash cans used as barricades.

“Police,” one of the officers called through a door, voice low but clear. “Stay where you are. Do not open this door unless an officer with a badge tells you face-to-face it’s secure. Do you understand?”

I heard muffled confirmations from inside. A small, thin sob. Whispered shushing.

Although it broke my heart to leave them behind, we kept going.

“Basement stairwell’s at the far end,” Thomas murmured.

My phone buzzed once in my pocket. I slid it free with my support hand, keeping my weapon steady as I checked the screen.

The dot hadn’t moved.

“Still there,” I said, tucking the phone away. Relief, terror, and a wave of numbness hit all at once.

We passed an open door on the left. The officer closest to it sliced in, weapon up, then stepped back.

“Clear. Keep moving.” He called it in quietly over his radio as we moved toward the stairwell in unison.

The building felt wrong. Classrooms were supposed to be full of noise and boredom, kids half-listening, chairs scraping, penstapping. Instead, every footstep sounded louder than it should have, and the corridors seemed to hold their breath with us.

At the stairwell, we stacked along the wall. The officer in front of me cracked the door just enough to see through the narrow window.

“Clear visual,” he whispered. “No movement.”

“Basement first,” Thomas said, frustrated. “These rooms have already been swept.”

We filed down, one at a time, keeping tight to the rail, weapons angled down until the landing, then up again. The air cooled as we descended. It smelled like cinderblock, industrial cleaner, and a faint undercurrent of something metallic from the radiator system. My chest tightened the lower we went. Our point stopped, then hesitated without explanation.

Somewhere under our feet was that pale-haired blue dot.

Somewhere under our feet, our kid was curled on a hard floor, trying not to breathe too loud.

Something in me snapped, hot and immediate, leaving no room for anything but fury. Suddenly, we couldn’t get to her fast enough.

“Let’s move,” I hissed, pushing forward without bothering to check if anyone followed.

At the base of the stairs, the door to the basement hall was shut. Coleman caught up to me, listened with his ear close to the wood, then tried to ease the door open, muzzle first.

“We instructed them to barricade,” Thomas said.

I reached into my pocket, pulling out my phone. “Livvy? Are you still there?”

“Still here,” she whispered.

“We’re right outside the door. Come clear it for us.”

For a second, nobody moved. After a few seconds, one head peeked out, then another. Soon, nine college students were slowly crawling from the closet they’d been hiding in.

Livvy’s eyes found mine in the dim light, wide and red-rimmed. Her hair had half fallen out of its bun, strands stuck to her damp cheeks.