Chapter 1: The Basement

The blood spatter on the ceiling told Ren everything she needed to know about how the husband had been standing when his wife shot him.

She adjusted her camera angle, framed the shot, clicked. The Nikon's shutter sound was the only noise in the apartment besides the crime scene techs working the bathroom. Everyone spoke in whispers around the dead. Professional courtesy to people who couldn't hear it anymore.

Ren moved to the next position. Photographed the arterial spray on the wall. The void pattern where the husband's body had blocked some of it. She'd seen worse. Hell, she'd seen worse this month.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket.

She ignored it. Another position. The wife's body was slumped in the recliner, the revolver still in her hand. Gravity and rigor mortis had arranged her in a pose that looked almost peaceful if you ignored the exit wound.

Ren photographed it from three angles.

Her phone buzzed again.

Detective Paul Hendricks appeared at her elbow. Fifty-something, perpetually exhausted, the kind of cop who'd seen enough that nothing surprised him anymore. They'd worked together for six years. He knew when to leave her alone and when to interrupt.

"You good here?" he asked. "We've got the scene locked down. Take your time."

"Almost done." Ren moved to photograph the blood pooled under the recliner. The way it had soaked into the carpet. The techs would bag the gun, pull trace evidence, do their thing. Ren's job was to document everything exactly as they'd found it.

Her phone buzzed a third time.

"You need to get that?" Paul asked.

"No."

But she pulled it out anyway. Three texts from a number she'd saved as "Asshole's Lawyer."

Need to discuss your availability for mediation.

Client has concerns about the environment you're exposing Maya to.

Please respond at your earliest convenience.

Ren put the phone back in her pocket. Took another photo. The husband's face was a mess, but she'd learned years ago not to flinch from faces. It was just meat. Just evidence. You documented it and moved on.

"Custody thing?" Paul asked.

"Yeah."

"How's that going?"

"It's going." Ren moved to the kitchen, where the wife had apparently made herself a sandwich before going back to shoot her husband and then herself. The sandwich was still on the counter. Two bites taken. That detail always got to people. The mundane shit. The sandwich someone made and didn't finish because they decided to commit murder instead.

Ren photographed it. PB&J on white bread. Glass of milk, half empty. A life interrupted.

Her phone buzzed again.

"Jesus Christ," she muttered.

Paul gave her a look. "You want to take five?"

"I want to finish the scene." But she checked the phone anyway.

I need a response today, Ms. Callahan. We're trying to work with you here.

Trying to work with her. Right. What they were trying to do was paint her as an unfit mother because she photographed dead people for a living. David's lawyer had filed a motion to modify custody three months ago. The argument was that Ren's "morbid profession" created an "unhealthy psychological environment" for their eight-year-old daughter.

Never mind that Maya had never seen a single crime scene photo. Never mind that Ren kept her work laptop password-protected and never brought it home. Never mind that she'd been doing this job for ten years, including the entire time she'd been married to David and he'd never had a problem with it.

He had a problem with it now. Now that he'd remarried. Now that his new wife Amanda thought Maya should live in a "more stable home."

Ren typed back: I'll call you tomorrow.

She knew what the response would be before it came.

Tomorrow may be too late. Judge wants mediation scheduled by end of week. Your lack of cooperation is noted.

Ren shoved the phone back in her pocket. Photographed the kitchen from four more angles. The dishes in the sink. The calendar on the wall with a dentist appointment circled for next Tuesday that nobody would be keeping. The mail on the counter addressed to "The Hendersons." First names revealed by an electric bill: Craig and Jennifer.

Craig and Jennifer Henderson. Married fourteen years according to the photos on the fridge. Two kids, teenagers, who'd apparently been at school when their parents decided to kill each other. Those kids would come home to police tape and the knowledge that their normal morning had been the last normal morning they'd ever have.

Ren knew the feeling.

She finished the scene. Packed up her camera. Gave Paul the nod that meant she was done.

"You heading out?" he asked.

"Yeah."

"Ren." He caught her arm. Gentle. "You doing okay?"

"I'm fine."

"You look tired."

"I am tired." She pulled her arm back, not unkindly. "Custody hearing is Thursday. David's lawyer is on my ass. Maya asked me last week why Daddy says my job makes me weird."

Paul winced. "Shit."

"Yeah."

"For what it's worth, you're the best crime scene photographer I've worked with. You catch details that save cases. You probably just saved those Henderson kids a lengthy trial because your photos will make it crystal clear what happened here."

"Thanks." Ren meant it. But compliments didn't help in family court. The judge didn't care that she was good at her job. The judge cared whether her job made her a bad mother.

Her phone buzzed again. She didn't look at it.

"Go home," Paul said. "Get some sleep. Call the lawyer back tomorrow."

"Yeah."

Ren walked out of the apartment. Nodded to the patrol officers keeping the scene secure. Pushed through the small crowd of neighbors who'd gathered on the sidewalk, phones out, filming. Everyone wanted to see death up close. They just didn't want to see it too close.

She made it to her car before checking her phone again.

Five more texts from the lawyer. She scrolled through them. The usual bullshit. Threats disguised as concern. Implications that she was being difficult. A reminder that David was "only thinking of Maya's wellbeing."

The last text included an attachment. A photo. Maya at David's house, sitting at the kitchen table with Amanda, both of them smiling. The caption: This is what stability looks like.

Ren sat in her car and stared at the photo for a long time.

Maya looked happy. That was the worst part. She looked genuinely happy in Amanda's Instagram-perfect kitchen with its subway tile and farmhouse sink. Happy in a way she never looked in Ren's apartment with its secondhand furniture and stack of bills on the counter.

David knew how to hurt her. He'd always known.

Ren put the phone down. Started the car. The radio came on automatically, some pop song she didn't recognize. She turned it off. Sat in silence for a minute.

Then she drove home.

Her apartment was exactly as she'd left it that morning. Cereal bowl in the sink. Maya's backpack by the door from the weekend visit that had ended two days ago. The place felt empty in the way it always felt empty when Maya wasn't there.

Ren dropped her camera bag on the couch. Kicked off her shoes. Checked the time. 2:47 PM. Maya would be getting out of school right now. Going home with David and Amanda. Doing homework at their kitchen table while Amanda made some Pinterest-worthy after-school snack.

She should call the lawyer. Schedule the mediation. Play nice so they didn't make this harder than it already was.

Instead, she opened her laptop. Tried to focus on editing the crime scene photos from last week. A hit-and-run. Pedestrian. The impact pattern suggested the driver had accelerated into the victim, not just failed to brake. Paul would need the photos to prove vehicular homicide instead of manslaughter.

She got through three photos before her eyes started to blur.

Fuck it.

Ren closed the laptop. Turned on the TV. Found some mindless show about people renovating houses. Watched a couple pretend to debate whether they wanted granite or quartz countertops like it was the most important decision of their lives.

She was reaching for the remote to change the channel when it happened.

One second she was on her couch. The next second she was standing in a basement, looking at a pipe.

The disorientation hit like a physical blow. Wrong height. Wrong body. Wrong everything.

Female hands. She watched them move without her input, pressing against the pipe. Cold metal. The sound of a chain rattling.

Oh god.

She was passengering.

The body looked down. Wrists cuffed. Chain running from the cuffs to the pipe. The pipe was old, painted white, running along the ceiling of the basement. Water heater in the corner. Small window up high, mostly covered by a piece of plywood, showing a sliver of afternoon sky.

The body was exhausted. Thirsty. Scared in a way that had gone beyond panic into something duller and more resigned.

How long had this person been here?

Ren tried to assess. The basement was unfinished. Concrete floor. Exposed joists. One bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. A camping toilet in the corner, the kind you'd take hiking. A plastic water bottle on the floor, half empty.

The body sat down. Legs shaky. Ren felt the ache in the knees, the stiffness from sitting too long in the same position.

Passenger syndrome. Twelve hours. She'd be stuck here for twelve hours.

Twelve hours of watching someone die slowly in a basement.

The body's head turned. Ren saw the window again. The afternoon light was starting to fade. Through the gap in the plywood, she could see a brick building across what looked like an alley. Commercial. Maybe a warehouse.

Time passed. The body mostly sat. Sometimes stood and paced as far as the chain allowed. Three steps. That was it. The light through the window shifted from afternoon to dusk to darkness.

Around what must have been six o'clock, footsteps on stairs.

The body tensed. Ren felt the spike of adrenaline. The fear.

A door opened somewhere above. The footsteps got closer. Then a man appeared at the bottom of the stairs.

Ren tried to see his face. Tried to memorize it. But it was wrong. Blurred. Out of focus. Like her brain couldn't process it. She could see his clothes. Jeans. Work boots. A gray hoodie. But his face was just a smudge.

The face blur. Right. Passengers couldn't see their host's face. But this wasn't the host. This was someone else.

The man walked toward them. The body cringed back against the wall. Ren wanted to scream, to fight, to do something. But she had no control. She was just a passenger. Just a witness.

The man set down a paper bag. McDonald's. The smell made the body's stomach clench with hunger.

He didn't speak. Just turned and walked back up the stairs. The door closed. Lock clicked.

The body waited a full minute before reaching for the bag. Hands shaking. Inside was a Big Mac and fries. Still warm.

The body ate like someone who hadn't had food in days. Ren experienced every bite. The salt. The grease. The desperate, animal relief of eating.

When the food was gone, the body drank from the water bottle. Carefully. Making it last.

Then just sat there. Staring at the wall. Hours passed in a fog of exhaustion and fear.

Ren tried to take in details. The brick building through the window was barely visible now in the darkness. The water heater had a manufacturer's label. She tried to read it. Couldn't quite make it out. The light was too dim.

A sound. Distant. A bell. Church bell, maybe. Nine chimes.

9 PM. Six hours in. Six more to go.

The body shifted positions. Tried to get comfortable on the concrete floor. Failed. Eventually just curled up on its side, chain clinking against the pipe.

Sleep came in fits and starts. The body would doze for what felt like an hour, then jerk awake. Ren stayed conscious through all of it, trapped in someone else's restless half-sleep.

Hours crawled by. The body woke fully around what must have been two or three in the morning. Used the camping toilet. Drank more water. Sat against the wall and stared at nothing.

The man came back once more. Brought another bottle of water. Set it down without a word. The body didn't speak either. What was there to say?

More hours. The light through the window began to shift. Not dawn yet, but the quality of darkness changing. That pre-dawn gray.

Ren tried to memorize everything one more time. The brick pattern on the building across the alley. The water heater brand. She could almost read it now in the growing light. Started with a B? Maybe?

Then, exactly twelve hours after she'd arrived, Ren snapped back into her own body.

She was still on her couch. The TV was off. Her apartment was dark except for the streetlight coming through the window.

The clock on her phone said 3:17 AM.

Ren sat up. Gasping. Her heart pounding like she'd just run a marathon.

Her phone had sixteen missed calls. Twelve texts. All from the lawyer.

She ignored them.

Grabbed her laptop instead. Started typing. Everything she could remember. The basement. The pipe. The window. The brick building. The church bell. The water heater. The man's clothes.

The body. Female. Thin. Dehydrated. Probably in her thirties. Wearing jeans and a sweatshirt that said something on it. Ren tried to remember what. Couldn't quite grab it.

The memories were already fading. Like trying to hold water in your hands.

She typed faster. Descriptions. Details. Anything that might help someone find that basement.

When she was done, she read it back. It wasn't enough. Not nearly enough. Too vague. Could be anywhere in the city.

But it was all she had.

Ren pulled up the police non-emergency number. Called. When someone answered, she didn't identify herself.

"I have information about someone being held captive," she said. "I want to make an anonymous report."

The operator transferred her. Ren talked to someone who took notes. Repeated everything she'd typed. The brick building. The church bell. The water heater. A woman chained to a pipe in a basement.

"Can you provide a specific address?" the operator asked.

"No."

"Can you describe the location more precisely?"

"I just did."

"Ma'am, do you know the identity of the victim or the suspect?"

"No."

A pause. "How did you come by this information?"

"I can't say."

Another pause. Longer this time. "Ma'am, if you have direct knowledge of a crime, you should—"

"I've told you everything I know," Ren said. "Someone is being held captive. She's going to die if you don't find her."

She hung up.

Sat there in her dark apartment, staring at her laptop screen. At the inadequate details she'd managed to capture before they slipped away.

Someone was chained in a basement. Right now. Waiting. Hoping someone would find them.

And Ren had just done the only thing she was supposed to do. Anonymous tip. Let the authorities handle it.

That was the rule. That was how this worked.

She closed the laptop. Looked at her phone. The lawyer's texts were still there. Mediation. Custody. Maya.

She should call back. Schedule the meeting. Focus on her real life, not on a passenger memory that would fade to nothing in a few days anyway.

Ren looked at the clock. 3:42 AM.

She could try to go back to sleep.

Instead, she opened her laptop again. Read through what she'd written. The details were already less sharp than they'd been thirty minutes ago. Already slipping away.

Someone was dying in that basement.

And there wasn't a damn thing Ren could do about it.

She went back to bed. Lay there. Stared at the ceiling. Didn't sleep.

When her alarm went off at seven, she had three more texts from the lawyer and a voicemail from David.

She ignored them all.

Got in the shower. Got dressed. Made coffee. Went through her morning routine like a normal person who hadn't just spent twelve hours trapped in someone else's dying body.

Her phone rang. David.

She let it go to voicemail.

It rang again. The lawyer.

She answered that one. "Ren Callahan."

"Ms. Callahan. Richard Moss. We've been trying to reach you."

"I know."

"We need to schedule mediation. Today if possible."

"Fine. When?"

A pause. Like he'd expected more resistance. "This afternoon. Two o'clock. At my office."

"I'll be there."

"Excellent. Please bring any documentation regarding—"

Ren hung up.

Finished her coffee. Grabbed her camera bag. She had a scene to photograph. An overdose in a motel room. Paul had texted her the address last night. Before she'd passengered. Before everything.

She drove across town. Parked outside a motel that rented rooms by the hour. Ducked under the police tape.

Paul was waiting. "You look like hell."

"Thanks."

"No, seriously. You okay?"

"I'm fine."

He gave her a look but didn't push it. "Vic's in room 114. Pretty straightforward. Heroin. Paraphernalia is all still there."

Ren nodded. Walked to the room. Started photographing.

Young guy. Early twenties. Collapsed next to the bed. Needle still in his arm. The usual detritus of addiction scattered around the room. She documented it all mechanically.

Her mind kept drifting back to the basement. The woman chained to the pipe. Had the police followed up on her tip? Were they searching? Or had they filed it as another crank call?

She finished the scene. Packed up her camera.

Paul caught her on the way out. "Hey. I got a weird call this morning. Someone reported a possible kidnapping victim. Basement location. Anonymous tip."

Ren's stomach dropped. "Yeah?"

"You hear anything about that?"

"No. Why?"

He shrugged. "Just asking. The details were pretty vague. Probably nothing. But we're looking into it."

"Good."

"If you hear anything, let me know?"

"Sure."

Ren drove to the lawyer's office. Sat in the waiting room for twenty minutes. When they finally called her back, David was already there with Amanda.

Maya wasn't. Thank god. At least they'd spared her this part.

The mediation lasted two hours. Richard Moss laid out David's concerns in calm, reasonable language that made Ren sound like a monster. Her job. Her hours. The "psychological impact" on Maya of having a mother who documented violent death.

Amanda talked about the stable home they'd created. The routine. The family dinners.

David talked about his concerns for Maya's emotional wellbeing.

Nobody asked Ren what she thought. They just wanted her to agree that Maya would be better off living with David full-time. Ren could have visits. Every other weekend. Maybe one night a week if her schedule allowed.

Ren sat there and thought about the woman in the basement. About how she'd begged with her eyes for someone to help her.

"Ms. Callahan?" Richard Moss was looking at her expectantly. "Do you need a moment?"

"No."

"So you'll agree to the proposed custody modification?"

Ren looked at David. He had the decency to look uncomfortable. Amanda just looked victorious.

"No," Ren said.

Richard Moss blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"I said no. I'm not agreeing to anything."

"Ms. Callahan, I don't think you understand the situation—"

"I understand fine. You want me to give up my daughter because my job makes you uncomfortable. I'm not doing it."

David leaned forward. "Ren. Come on. Be reasonable."

"I am being reasonable. Maya loves me. She needs me. And I'm a good mother."

"No one's saying you're not," Amanda said in a voice that very clearly said exactly that.

"I photograph crime scenes," Ren said. "I don't commit crimes. I document them. I help solve them. I help families get justice. That's not morbid. That's important."

"The court may not see it that way," Richard said.

"Then we'll go to court."

David's face went hard. "Fine. But you're not going to win."

"Maybe not. But I'm not rolling over either."

She walked out. Got in her car. Drove home.

When she got there, she opened her laptop. Read through the notes she'd made at 3 AM. The memories were already hazier. The details less certain.

The woman's face had been blurred. That was normal for passenger syndrome. You couldn't see your host's face. But Ren had seen other things. The sweatshirt. What had it said on it? She'd seen it clearly at the time.

Now it was just a blur. Like trying to remember a dream.

She pulled up local news. Searched for missing persons. Found three reports from the last month. None of them matched what she remembered.

Maybe the woman hadn't been reported missing yet. Maybe she lived alone. Maybe no one knew she was gone.

Ren stared at her laptop screen.

She should let it go. She'd made an anonymous report. She'd done her duty. The memories would fade completely in another few days. That was how passenger syndrome worked.

But she kept seeing the woman's eyes. The resignation. The slow dying.

Ren opened a new search tab.

She wasn't going to let it go.

She couldn't.