xiii.

(Stacy)

What is his obsession with that closet, keeping it closed, locked…

I'd decided when I got just the right moment, I'd find out.

After all, it could be something important, good or bad, and – I'm sure I'd make use of it.  Regardless.

Getting the key, however, had been much trickier than I'd thought it would be, but – like I said, Mr. McMahon was obsessive about this stupid closet…

But – I have feminine wiles.

And truthfully – where there was a wile, there was a way.

Of course, I do not want to go into what I had to do.  Eww.

But – it was late enough, no one would expect anything – perhaps a late night errand, but…

Nothing else.

This was one of the perks of being a 'personal assistant.'

Slipping into his office, I glanced to the mysterious closet door, then do the key…

"Jackpot."

Of course, there was a little rustle that sounded like it came from other side of said door, but…

That had to be my imagination.

This could be something big.

Hearing the click echo through the room, I turned the knob, slowly pulling this mystery open…

What fell out made me scream bloody murder.

"Oh.  My.  God."

Dark hair running over an emaciated frame, and…naked.

Then she looked up.

Reese Benoit.

She'd been missing for weeks, and she'd been here, in Mr. McMahon's closet?

"Stacy…"  She could barely plead, hardly move.

I picked up the phone.

I called 911.

Then…I retched.