The Door Between Us

There was only one rule: don’t open the door. Besides that, I was free to question, threaten, or do whatever it took to get Sebastian Mccaw to talk.

The serial killer and rapist had a rap sheet longer than a fresh roll of Charmin. Worst part? The last two victims on his list included a political VIP and my 19-year-old daughter.

Now in custody for a DUI, this dumb fuck sat right in front of me, separated by a cold steel door. I was known as one of the best detectives, but my reputation for prisoner abuse and Sebastian’s high profile made this interrogation different.

He smirked as I approached, laughing. “Ah, Detective Sanchez, you’re in a good state—much better than your daughter.” His words so vile Satan would be envious. The world went black, the throbbing of my fist hitting glass bringing me back.

“That’s right, let it out! Your daughter tried to hold it in too, but she’s a screamer. My ears are still ringing. Hope my lawyers get me out in time for another round before she passes.”

I kicked the door.

“Where is she, you sick fuck!” I screamed.

“Somewhere safe. Waiting for me to play or end her misery.”

I stormed out, tears burning. “I’ll be back.” By sunrise, something dark had taken hold. I returned, phone in hand, heart cold. His jaw dropped when he saw the photos: his daughter and ex-wife, mouths duct-taped, fingers cut off!

He broke, sobbing. In that moment I became no better than him, but later, I was in an old barn, the stench of manure filling my nose while his victims sobs echoed. I couldn’t release Sebastian’s family, but you can’t make an omelette without breaking some eggs, and I followed the rule I didn’t open the door.