AN: This is a heavy one, so I'm giving a trigger warning: This chapter talks about and depicts instances of sexual assault. If you'd like a summary of the chapter instead of reading it, please PM me and I will be happy to do that.

This is also a little bit of a late disclaimer late, but this story will sometimes describe horrific acts of violence against victims. I try not to be too grotesque, but if the imagery is too much to bear, I would advise skipping these scenes.

I appreciate you all :)

In the precinct's conference room, Solomon leaned against the edge of the long, worn table, the handset pressed tightly to his ear. His other hand gripped the back of a chair, knuckles white with the strength of his grip. Across the room, Bella and Edward stood quietly, exchanging glances as they listened to Solomon's side of the conversation.

The phone rang twice before District Attorney Samuel Uley picked up, his gruff, no-nonsense voice immediately filling the line. "Uley."

"It's Solomon," the sergeant said, "We've got a situation, and I need your input."

"Let me guess," Sam replied dryly. "Another one of your charming clients trying to worm their way out of justice?"

"Something like that," Solomon muttered, running a hand tiredly down his face "We've got Frank Daniels in custody—murder suspect in the Maggie Walsh case."

There was a beat of silence on the other end before Sam sighed audibly. "I'm aware of the case. You've got solid evidence on him—eyewitness accounts, surveillance footage, motive. Why are we even having this conversation, Charlie?"

"Because Daniels claims he has information that ties Richard Holt to something much bigger," Solomon explained, his tone measured. "He's asking for a deal—claims he'll give us evidence that Holt is running a prostitution ring out of his apartment building. Exploiting women, coercing them, using blackmail to keep them trapped."

Sam's voice hardened. "So Daniels kills a woman, beats up his girlfriend, and now he wants to turn on Holt? What's he asking for, exactly?"

"Full immunity," Solomon said flatly, the distaste evident in his voice.

Sam's laugh was bitter and humorless. "Immunity? For a murderer? You've got to be kidding me."

"I'm not," Solomon said. "I told him there's no way in hell he's walking free, but we can't ignore the possibility that he's telling the truth about Holt. He claims he has videos—evidence Holt uses to blackmail the women. If those videos exist, they could blow Holt's operation wide open."

Sam's tone didn't soften. "And you believe him?"

"I believe he's desperate," Solomon admitted. "But Holt's name came up in Daniels' motel room, tied to a burner phone number. The pieces are starting to line up."

There was a pause, then Sam sighed again, his frustration evident even through the phone. "Look, Solomon, you know as well as I do that cutting deals with scumbags like Daniels sets a dangerous precedent. The guy's a walking rap sheet, and now he wants leniency after leaving a kid without a mother? Even just dropping to third-degree, It doesn't sit right."

"It doesn't sit right with me either," Solomon said evenly. "But if we ignore this and Holt keeps exploiting women—if we could've stopped it—we're just as guilty."

Sam's voice grew sharper. "And if Daniels is lying? If he's playing you to get out of a potential first-degree murder charge? Then what?"

"We don't give him anything until he gives us something concrete," Solomon replied. "No promises, no guarantees. He gives us the evidence, we verify it, and then we talk."

Sam was quiet for a moment, clearly weighing the options. Finally, he spoke, his voice curt but professional. "Here's what I'll agree to. No immunity. No deal until you have irrefutable evidence in hand—videos, documents, something we can actually use. If Daniels delivers, we'll consider a reduced sentence. But I'm not signing off on anything until I see results."

"Understood," Solomon said. "I'll make it clear to Daniels that he's not getting a free pass. He gives us what we need, or he rots."

"Make sure he knows that," Sam said firmly. "And Solomon?"

"Yeah?"

"If this pans out, I'll back you on taking Holt down. But Daniels? He doesn't leave a courtroom without cuffs. Clear?"

"Copy that," Solomon said, his tone resolute. "Thanks, Sam."

"Don't thank me yet," Sam said. "I'll be waiting for your call—with evidence."

The line went dead, and Solomon set the phone back in its cradle with a heavy sigh. He turned to Bella and Edward, his jaw tight.

"We've got our parameters," Solomon said. "Daniels gets nothing until we get everything."

Edward crossed his arms, his brow furrowed. "You think he's going to play ball?"

Solomon's expression was grim. "He'll play. He just doesn't know yet how bad we're willing to make him regret it if he doesn't."

…

The air in the interrogation room was heavy as Frank handed back his phone after unlocking it, the smirk on his face as nothing short of vile. "Here you go," he drawled, leaning back in his chair. "Knock yourselves out."

Solomon didn't respond. He took the phone and handed it off to Alice, who had entered to ensure the evidence was handled properly. She plugged it into her laptop, pulling up the files while Rosalie, Emmett, Bella, Edward, and Solomon stood behind her, watching the screen.

The first video began to play, and the room's atmosphere darkened almost instantly as a clear video blinked onto the screen. Maggie Walsh was visible, her face streaked with tears. Her voice, broken and trembling, was barely audible over the sound of Frank laughing and the haunting, unmistakable sound of the bed creaking against a dingy wall. The man's pleasure at her misery was palpable, his vulgar comments filling the silence. Solomon's jaw clenched tightly, the muscles in his face working as he forced himself to watch.

Another video loaded. This time, a young girl, barely in her twenties, came into view. Collectively, the teams' heart sank as she realized this was Bree Tanner.

The video was no different—Frank's predatory laughter, and Bree's clear discomfort. But this time, Holt's voice cut through the background. His words were chilling, instructing Frank on how to "handle" the women if they resisted.

And then the final blow— a video where Holt himself was in frame, his face lit with a twisted satisfaction as he spoke directly into the camera. "This is how you keep them in line," he said, his voice smug, and undeniably cruel. "No one leaves unless I say so."

The team's faces were grim. Bella's fists tightened at her sides, her knuckles whitening. Edward's hands were planted firmly on the back of Alice's chair, his grip so tight the plastic creaked. Holt wasn't just pimping these girls out – he was an active participant in their rapes. Solomon, standing rigid, was the first to speak.

"That's enough," he said in a cold, clipped tone. "We've seen what we need to see."

Alice shut the laptop while Frank chuckled from his seat, clearly enjoying the show, for reasons none of them could really understand. "Told you it was worth it," he said haughtily.

Solomon turned to him, his expression icy. "Congratulations, Daniels. You're not only a murderer and a domestic abuser, but you're a rapist, too."

Frank's smirk faltered for a moment, just slightly. He scrambled to regain control, laughing nervously. "Nah—hey. They wanted it. They wanted it!"

Rosalie stepped forward, her eyes blazing. "They wanted it?" she repeated, each syllable punctured by the venom in her voice. "Maggie was crying. Bree couldn't even look at you. You're a fucking pathetic excuse for a human being."

Frank shifted, the mask of arrogance slipping further. "Look, you don't know what you're talking about," he muttered, but his tone was weaker now, defensive,

Rosalie didn't back down. She leaned in closer, her voice lowering but growing colder, more dangerous. "I know exactly what I'm talking about. Men like you don't deserve the air you breathe. You prey on the vulnerable, destroy their lives, and then sit here smug like you've done nothing wrong. You're a coward, Daniels. A sick, pathetic coward."

Frank's jaw worked, but he didn't respond, his gaze flicking away from hers as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

Solomon placed a firm hand on Rosalie's shoulder, a quiet signal, and she stepped back, her eyes still locked on Frank with unyielding contempt. The team followed their sergeant out of the room, leaving the man alone with his thoughts.

As they stepped into the hallway, the heavy door clicking shut behind them, Rosalie lingered near the wall, her arms folded tightly across her chest. Her breaths came shallow and quick, her composure teetering on the edge.

Bella moved first, her hand resting briefly on her shoulder, comforting. She sought out her friend's eyes, a silent conversation of understanding and solidarity transpiring between them. Rosalie knew more than anyone the horrors of perverted men, having been sexually assaulted at just sixteen-years-old by her step-father. "We'll make sure he pays," she said softly.

Before Rosalie could respond, Emmett stepped in— he didn't say anything at first, just reached out and pulled her into a tight hug. Rosalie froze for a moment, but then her arms came up, gripping the back of his hoodie as if it were the only thing keeping her upright. She stepped back after a moment, taking in one more deep, trembling breath. "Alright. Let's go get fucking Holt."

…

The SUV was silent as Solomon, Bella, and Edward drove toward Holt's apartment. The tension was palpable, the weight of what they'd seen pressing heavily on them. Bella stared out the window, her jaw tight. Edward's hands gripped the steering wheel as he maneuvered through the city streets, his expression unreadable.

Solomon finally broke the silence, "This ends tonight. No games. No hesitation."

Edward nodded, his eyes fixed on the road. "Understood."

Behind them, Rosalie and Emmett followed in Rosalie's Dodge, their car a silent shadow trailing the SUV. The team was laser-focused, every member prepared for what lay ahead.

The team approached Holt's apartment building with purpose, their movements deliberate and unified. The tension was palpable, each step underscored by a shared sense of urgency. The peeling paint and dimly lit corridors seemed to mirror the rot they knew lurked within these walls.

Solomon stopped just inside the entryway, his sharp gaze cutting through the group. "Rosalie, Emmett," he said, his voice low but firm. "Talk to Bree. See what she knows. Bella, Edward, you're with me. We're taking Holt."

Rosalie gave a curt nod, her face a mask of determination. "We're on it."

Emmett adjusted his grip on his sidearm and gestured for Rosalie to lead the way. Together, they disappeared down the dim hallway toward Bree Tanner's apartment. Solomon, Bella, and Edward turned their focus to Holt's office, their footsteps echoing against the worn linoleum floor.

The closer they got, the sharper the edge of Solomon's demeanor became. He stopped outside Holt's door, his jaw tight. Raising a fist, he knocked hard, the sound reverberating through the hallway like a thunderclap. "Seattle PD!" he barked, his voice firm and commanding. "Open up!"

The only response was silence.

Solomon glanced at Bella and Edward, his brows furrowed in frustration. Bella adjusted her grip on her weapon, her stance ready, while Edward nodded subtly, his expression tense. Solomon's gaze hardened.

"Move back," he said tersely.

Taking a step back, Solomon delivered a powerful kick to the center of the door. The wood splintered with a deafening crack, the door swinging inward as fragments of the frame clattered to the floor. The room beyond was dim, lit only by the weak glow of a desk lamp, and the stale air carried the faint scent of old coffee and cheap cologne.

"Clear," Edward murmured as they entered, weapons raised. Bella swept her gaze across the room, her pulse quickening. The desk was a chaotic mess of papers and receipts, some of them scattered across the floor. A half-drunk cup of coffee sat precariously on the edge of the desk, the liquid inside still warm.

Solomon's eyes scanned the room with precision, missing nothing. The office was empty, devoid of any signs of its occupant. His jaw clenched as he stepped further inside, his boots crunching on some crumpled papers beneath him. "Damn it," he muttered, his voice low and cold. "He's gone."

Bella's gaze lingered on the desk, her mind racing. "He was here recently," she said quietly, pointing to the coffee.

Edward's lips pressed into a thin line as he scanned the room, frustration simmering just beneath the surface. "He couldn't have gotten far. If we move fast, we can still get him."

Solomon exhaled sharply, his expression hardening as he turned toward the hallway, Bella and Edward following closely behind.

Three floors above, Rosalie and Emmett approached Bree Tanner's door with steady, purposeful strides, the worn hallway illuminated only by the flicker of a faulty overhead light. The air was heavy, carrying the faint scent of damp plaster and something acrid that lingered in the back of Rosalie's throat.

Emmett knocked firmly, his large hand rapping against the hollow wood with a sharp thud-thud-thud."Seattle PD," he called, his voice steady but commanding. "Open up, Bree. We need to speak with you."

No answer.

Rosalie glanced at Emmett, her brow furrowing with concern. Her instincts prickled—something was off. Emmett knocked again, harder this time, the force rattling the doorframe. "Bree? It's the police. We're here to help."

Still nothing.

Emmett's expression darkened, his jaw tightening. "Her car is outside. She's in there," he murmured. He motioned for Rosalie to step back, and without hesitation, he planted a firm kick to the door. The lock gave way with a resounding crack, and the door swung inward, slamming against the wall.

The living room was in shambles. The couch was overturned, its cushions slashed open to reveal yellowed foam. A shattered coffee table lay scattered across the floor, shards of glass catching the dim light like jagged stars. Clothes and papers were strewn everywhere, as if a storm had torn through the space. The faint smell of iron hit Rosalie's nose, sharp and unmistakable.

Emmett took a cautious step inside, his gun raised. "Something's not right," he muttered under his breath, scanning the chaotic scene.

Rosalie followed, her weapon steady but her chest tightening with unease. "Bree?" she called, her voice echoing hollowly in the desolate space.

They moved methodically through the apartment, clearing each room in tense silence. The kitchen was untouched save for a half-filled sink of dishes, and the bathroom was eerily pristine. The hallway leading to the bedroom felt narrower than it should, the air thick with a suffocating stillness.

When they reached the second to last room, Rosalie's stomach churned with unease. She pushed open the door, and her breath caught in her throat. For a moment, she was frozen.

"Body!" she called out, her voice tight and trembling despite her best effort to stay composed.

Bree Tanner lay face down on the floor, her thin frame curled awkwardly to one side. The carpet beneath her was soaked with blood, a dark, sickening stain that spread outward like a morbid halo. Her hand was outstretched, fingers just inches away from a broken lamp, as if she'd been reaching for it in her final moments. The room itself was a disturbing contradiction—aside from the violence done to Bree, it was neat, almost untouched, as though someone had carefully staged it to mask the horror.

Rosalie felt the weight of her emotions press down on her chest. She swallowed hard, trying to push past the initial shock. Her gaze lingered on Bree's hair, matted with blood, and the pale skin of her arm that was marred with bruises. A knot formed in her throat, threatening to choke her.

Emmett stepped into the room behind her, and he let out a low sigh, his face hardening as he took in the scene. "Damn it," he muttered, his voice heavy with frustration and sorrow. This was, without a doubt, Holt's work. He had to know Frank would talk, and this was his solution.

Raising his radio, he called in, his tone clipped and urgent. "Solomon, we've got a body. Bree Tanner is down. She's gone."

The static crackled briefly before Solomon's voice came through, indignation apparent in his voice. "Copy that. We're coming up. Call it in to CSU and secure the scene."

Emmett radioed in for CSU as the rest of the team thundered up the stairs to Bree's unit.

Rosalie crouched briefly, her eyes sweeping over Bree's form as she searched for any sign of life, though she knew it was futile. The crimson pool beneath her told the story all too clearly. Rising, she pressed a hand to her temple, the ache of anger and sadness threatening to overwhelm her.

"She was just a kid," Rosalie murmured under her breath, her voice barely audible.

Emmett cupped a hand over his mouth, rubbing the stubble of his jaw. "We're going to get that fucker," he said, the words an undaunted promise.

Rosalie nodded, her jaw tightening as she turned toward the doorway, just as Edward, Bella and Solomon made their way into the apartment.

"Shit," Edward breathed, his voice low as he stepped into the room behind Bella. His eyes swept over the gruesome scene, lingering on Bree's lifeless form. Bella hesitated in the doorway, her stomach twisting. She closed her eyes briefly, forcing herself to steel against the wave of nausea rising within her. She didn't want to imagine the horrors Bree had endured in her final moments.

Unable to take it any longer, Bella turned and walked out of the room, the muffled sounds of approaching sirens echoing through the apartment. In the hallway, her eyes caught on something—a framed photograph hanging slightly askew on the wall. She stepped closer, frowning as she took it down for a better look.

The photo showed Bree, smiling brightly, her arms wrapped protectively around a little girl who couldn't have been more than three or four years old. The girl sat in Bree's lap, her chubby hands clutching a stuffed animal. Bella's heart clenched as she traced a finger along the glass frame, a fresh wave of anger and sadness crashing over her.

She walked back into the room, holding up the picture. "Her daughter's not here?" she asked, her voice tight.

"Her daughter?" Emmett echoed, his frown deepening as he turned to Bella.

Bella nodded, holding up the frame for him to see. "She has a little girl."

Edward's head snapped up, his expression darkening. Without a word, he strode out of the room and down the short hallway, opening the door to the last bedroom Emmett and Rosalie hadn't yet cleared. His heart sank as the door creaked open, revealing a child's room. The pink, frilly sheets on the small bed were neatly tucked in, the abundance of toys scattered around the room standing in sharp contrast to the horror in the next room. Colorful posters of cartoon characters adorned the walls, and a tiny pair of sneakers sat neatly by the door.

"Here," Edward called out, his voice grim.

Bella appeared in the doorway, her breath catching as she took in the sight. "She has a little girl," she repeated, this time with a harder edge to her voice. Her mind raced as she processed what they knew. "Holt," she murmured, almost to herself. "This wasn't just about silencing Bree."

Solomon entered the room, his gaze hard. "He's using the girl as leverage," he said, the realization settling heavily on everyone.

Rosalie's lips pressed into a thin line as her jaw tightened. "If he has her, she's in danger."

Bella's fists clenched at her sides, her voice rising with urgency. "We need to find her. Now."

Solomon nodded sharply, already reaching for his radio. "Agreed." He pressed the button on the side and spoke firmly, "Alice, please tell me you've got something on Holt's location?"

Alice's voice crackled through the line from the surveillance van. "I've been combing through DOT traffic cams on I-5. Holt's car was picked up about twenty minutes ago near Exit 145. He pulled off onto State Route 167, heading north. Rural area—mostly backroads and forested neighborhoods. Sending coordinates now."

The group exchanged grim looks as Solomon turned to them, his voice calm but commanding. "We're not waiting for this bastard to make another move. Edward, Bella, you're with me. Emmett, Rosalie, coordinate with patrol and set up a perimeter around those coordinates. Bring everything you've got. We're not leaving any room for him to slip through."

Solomon's gaze swept over his team, his expression resolute. "Let's move. This ends today."

…

Bella and Edward climbed into the back seat of Solomon's unmarked cruiser, an unspoken heaviness settling over them all. Solomon drove with his jaw set, his sharp eyes fixed on the road ahead. The coordinates flashed on the dashboard GPS, guiding them toward the rural area where Holt had last been spotted.

Edward's knuckles were white as he gripped the edge of the seat, his mind racing with worst-case scenarios. "If Holt's desperate, he could do anything," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

Bella glanced over at him, her heart squeezing at the uncertainty etched into his features. She knew where his mind had gone—knew because hers had been there too. "He's already desperate, Edward," she said firmly, her voice steady despite the turmoil churning inside her. "We know what he's capable of. But we're going to find that girl. We're not letting him take anything else."

Edward exhaled sharply, his eyes flicking toward her. Her determination should have reassured him, but the worry in her eyes mirrored his own, a reflection of their shared fear and anger. "We have to," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Bella turned her gaze out the window, the darkened landscape rushing past. Her arms were crossed tightly over her chest, and her nails dug into her palms. Her thoughts kept circling back to Autumn's face in the photograph—innocent, vulnerable. Bella's stomach twisted at the thought of the little girl in Holt's hands, the what-ifs gnawing at her resolve. He's hurt so many already. She can't be next.

Edward leaned back slightly, his chest rising and falling in slow, deliberate breaths. He was trying to calm himself, but the effort only seemed to deepen the fire simmering beneath his surface. His voice, low and edged with bitterness, broke the silence again. "You think he's stashed her out there? Or… worse?"

"Don't," Bella snapped, sharper than she intended. She immediately softened, her tone shifting to something more measured. "Don't go there. Not yet."

Edward nodded tightly, but his jaw remained clenched. The faint pulse of anxiety in his temple betrayed the storm still raging within him.

The radio crackled again, jolting them slightly. A patrol officer's voice came through: "Units in position near the coordinates. No visual on the suspect or the girl yet."

Solomon's eyes narrowed, his voice steady as he responded. "Copy. Hold position. We're five minutes out."

The cruiser's tires hummed over the asphalt, the distant glow of headlights casting long shadows on the empty road ahead. Bella glanced at Solomon's profile, his calm exterior masking a fury she knew matched their own. She respected his ability to compartmentalize, but at that moment, she wished he would say something—anything—to break the crushing possibilities.

Instead, she turned back to Edward, her voice quiet. "We're going to find her, Edward. Alive."

Edward didn't answer immediately, but his eyes softened, a flicker of hope piercing through his doubt. "We better," he said finally. "Because if we don't…"

"You will." Solomon's voice cut through their exchange, low. He didn't take his eyes off the road, but the finality in his tone left no room for argument. "And when you do, Holt won't have anywhere left to hide."

The team was united in purpose, their determination fueling every move. The clock was ticking, and they all knew it. Holt wasn't just a criminal on the run; he was a predator with nothing left to lose. And for Bree's little girl, every second counted.