I saw Isabella, the woman we have been searching for, that we had sent in with a cheap recording device sitting comfortably on the dinning chair. It was like a scene from a surrealist painting.
My mouth fell open. I heard a sharp, choked gasp from Becky beside me. We stood there, two statues of disbelief, our minds refusing to process the image before us.
Isabella was not a prisoner. She was not scared. She was… radiant. And she was looking at us with an expression of cool, detached amusement, as if we were a mildly interesting exhibit she had stumbled upon.
“Isabella…” The name escaped my lips, a breathless, disbelieving whisper. She didn't answer us, she carried a straight face, while we acted as if we have seen a ghost.
Locas laughter boomed through the room, a sound that seemed to
