Inside Room 112, Angela’s eyes adjusted to the dim light seeping through the curtains. The girl was seated on the edge of the bed, her blonde hair falling around her face like a veil. Her hands were clasped tightly in her lap, fingers interwoven, pressing against the material of her jeans. Daniel Harper stood a few feet away, his back partially turned to the window. His posture was tense, his head lowered, and he seemed to be talking, though Angela couldn’t hear the words.
It was what he was holding that sent a chill down her spine—a small camcorder, its red recording light blinking methodically. The girl sat motionless, her eyes glazed over as if she were staring through the walls and into another world. Angela felt her breath catch, the air around her thickening as dread settled deep in her stomach.
Angela’s instincts screamed at her to do something, anything. For a moment, she froze, panic rooting her to the spot. Her mind raced, trying to piece together what she was seeing, what it meant. The image of the camcorder burned into her memory, each blink of the red light a silent cry for help.
