Page 20 of Bad Intentions

I swing the door open, and the freezing cold air hits my face. The several lit-up stairs at the top quickly morph into a dark staircase down.

“Can you stay on the line with me?” I ask. “I’m just going to check.”

All sorts of scenarios run through my head, but the one that pushes me to go down is my mom’s. When she overdosed in her apartment in Philly, she wasn’t discovered until twelve hours later. The first hour or two could’ve made a difference.

“Please, stay with me, ma’am,” the operator says. “If you are going down, move slowly. And describe everything you see.”

I put the phone on speaker, twisting it so that the screen lights my way, and take several steps down the stairs.

“It’s dark,” I say. “I’m going down the stairs.”

“What do you see?” the operator asks.

“Nothing yet.” I keep going, the fingers of my other hand touching the cold wall. “There’s nothing at the bottom,” I say, seeing just pitch-black darkness.

“Heeeelp! Please help!” the female’s shout comes from farther below, so much closer and louder now.

“Did you hear that?” I ask, my heart climbing to my throat.

“Yes,” the operator says. “Please, be careful.”

I reach the bottom step and look around. I know houses like this. They are all the same. Most basements are not just one room, but a small maze of interconnected spaces with boilers, heaters, and storage areas.

I frantically shine the phone around the walls and see a light switch. I flip it, and the world flashes into life, the front part of the dim, ugly basement of a century-old house.

“I found the light switch,” I say. “There are pipes in front of me. Shelves. I think⁠—”

“I’m heeeeere! Heeeeelp!” The voice sounds much closer, and I instantly dart several steps ahead and turn into the adjacent room.

A shocked huff escapes me when I see what’s at the dark end of the room.

“Ma’am? Are you still here? Ma’am?” the operator asks. “Please, talk to me. What do you see?”

“It’s a woman,” I whisper, a shiver racing through me. “And she’s tied to a pipe.”

13

JOSIE

I open my mouth to say something, but no words come out. The operator’s “Ma’am, stay where you are, the police are pulling in,” echoes through the dim space between me and the person crouching on the floor in the dark corner.

I stare at her. She stares at me. Messy hair tied at the back, a coat, jeans, boots, her hands tied to the pipe with a rope. Only when she tugs at them, making the pipe rattle against the concrete basement wall, do I wince out of my stupor.

“Who are you?” I breathe out.

The woman straightens a little. “Where is he? Is he still here?” she asks, her voice breaking, her eyes full of fear.

She must be in her thirties or forties. I can’t tell. It’s too dark.

“Oh my god. Are you okay?” I ask, my eyes flicking to the pipe she’s tied to, then back to her face.

I take a step toward her, then another, then several more until I reach her and kneel before her.

“C-can you help me?” she pleads.

“Yes, yes.”

“Ma’am?” the operator says on the speaker. “Please, do not do anything. The officers are at the house.”