When You See Me

by Lisa Gardner

But hiking? That was Chuck’s idea of a good time. Personally, she would’ve gone with room service and sex, but given the way her boyfriend was now clomping around their quaint room with blatant hiking boot satisfaction, that wasn’t happening. Maybe at the end of the day. Assuming either of them could still move.

  “You have the map?” she asked him now, as she was a city girl and knew it.

  “Yep. Trail is marked. Four miles round-trip, one-thousand-foot elevation gain. We can do this.” He stopped long enough to waggle an eyebrow at her, offer a reassuring kiss.

  She acquiesced while leaning all the way into him. He could be charming, with his mop of brown hair, thick lashes, and dark puppy dog eyes. And he was fit, an up-and-coming ADA who burned away his courtroom frustrations running half marathons. Given how much she enjoyed every inch of that runner’s body . . .

  Fine, she would hike. For love, people had done worse.

  She stepped back, hefted up the first pack, grunted a little at the weight.

  “We’re going to earn those water bottles,” she said.

  Chuck swung the second pack onto his own back as if it were nothing. “We got this,” he said.

  “Promise to carry me?”

  “I don’t want to use up all my strength. I still have some plans for us, end of day. I’ve heard the views are excellent from the trailhead. But I’m kind of wondering”—he leaned closer, whispered in her ear—“if sex on a mountaintop won’t be even better.”

  “Sweaty and pine needly,” she told him, but he had her attention now. Hiking. Huh. She didn’t even like gyms. But the great outdoors, coupled with the promise of the right reward . . .

  “We got this,” she agreed hoarsely. Then, after fighting with the straps of her pack, she followed her lanky, cute-as-sin boyfriend out the door.

  * * *

  —

  FIRST MISTAKE: CHUCK SET THE pace. He was a cardio freak, and steep winding mountain trails were no problem for him. Janet was gasping almost immediately, and transitioning from romantic thoughts to murderous plots. One woman on the jury, she figured. That’s all she’d need to be acquitted of Chuck’s impending demise, if he didn’t slow down for his obviously suffering girlfriend.

  Second mistake: Chuck wore new boots. One mile up, he developed a hitch in his stride. Shortly after that, he was wincing.

  Janet worked as a vet tech, which made her the medical expert even when it came to humans. Meaning she was the one who had to forcefully halt Chuck’s determined death march, sit his ass on a boulder, and demand that he remove the boot.

  The heel of his left sock was already spotted with blood.

  “Gee,” she couldn’t resist saying, “so much for my crappy tennis shoes.”

  He glared at her, and she could tell he was also making the transition from sex to bodily harm. Some things sounded like more fun than they really were. Hiking, Janet had already decided, was one of them.

  She had Chuck gingerly pull off his extra-thick hiking sock. Even sitting in the shade, they were both drenched in sweat and breathing hard. Janet was never leaving air-conditioning again.

  She rummaged through her pack till she found the first aid kit, another purchase still bearing tags. She inspected the bare-bones offerings. Neosporin and Band-Aids it was.

  Chuck flinched when she touched his heel, then made little whimpering noises in his throat. So much for the take-no-prisoners assistant district attorney. He considered himself to be the intense one, while she was his breath of fresh air.

  She hadn’t the heart to tell him he had no idea how much courage it took to help wounded animals, and just how tough you had to be to realize when medical intervention wouldn’t be enough, and that last, final step was all you could offer the sweet, trusting eyes staring back up at you.

  She let him have his man pride now, trying not to sigh too loudly as she gently dabbed the antibiotic cream on his raw heel, then covered it with a Band-Aid. Not a perfect fix, she already knew, as his stiff boots would continue to rub.

  “We should go back,” she suggested.

  “No way. Not this close.”

  “We still have a mile to the summit, not to mention the hike back down.”

  “I can do it. It’s just a blister.”

  “Didn’t you once say blisters are the worst enemy of the long-distance runner?”

  “This isn’t a long distance.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “That’s why you love me.”

  “I thought it was the puppy dog eyes.”

  “I don’t have puppy dog eyes!” He was already working his sock back on.

  “Puppy dog hair?” she suggested, giving up the battle she already knew she would lose. She returned the first aid kit to her pack, looking off in the distance as he slid his foot back into his boot. He was gritting his teeth, hard.

  Janet rose to standing, watching Chuck lace up his boot, then hobble about as if he were magically all better.

  She retrieved her water bottle from the side pouch for a long drink. It didn’t help. She was hot, sweaty, and completely done with the great outdoors.

  * * *

  —

  CHUCK RESUMED THE HIKE. HE was going to destroy his own foot, no doubt about it. Would rub off all the skin and be in pain for days to come. And she’d get to hear about it. Again and again. Like the man-flu, except for feet.

  New objective: Get to the top, take in the view, snap a selfie, retreat. Then, never speak of this day again.

  Chuck’s limping grew more and more pronounced. Janet trudged along, waiting, waiting . . .

  “I want a stick,” Chuck announced abruptly.

  He stopped and she nearly ran into him.

  “A stick?” she said.

  “Like a walking stick. I think it will help.”

  “Sure.” Because a wooden staff would stop his foot from rubbing against his brand-new boot?

  But Chuck was now a man with a plan. They’d come to a turn in the trail. A slightly flatter spot, but up this high, the trees were shorter and Janet didn’t see much in the way of fallen branches. Chuck shrugged out of his pack. She followed suit, grateful for the break even if she didn’t completely understand the mission.

  They set their packs beside a boulder, then Chuck took the first step off the trail, heading deeper into the shade of the trees. Janet wasn’t sure she liked this, but found herself following.

  There were low leafy shrubs everywhere; Janet hadn’t a clue what anything was called. But a thin path seemed to wind between the underbrush. Chuck hobbled forward, eyes peeled for the right stick, branch, something. Janet kept casting glances back where they’d left the trail.

  Isn’t this how people died? Wandering off trail, never to be seen again?

  Chuck came to a small clearing. The ground was flatter and rockier here. They were definitely off the beaten path, this area covered in layers of decaying leaves. It smelled of mold, Janet thought, crinkling her nose. But ahead was a huge, broadleaf tree and around it, yes, a scattering of debris.

  Chuck limped to the base of the tree. Started looping around. Janet stayed put, one eye still on the exit route behind them.

  “Hey, look at this!”

  Chuck emerged from the other side of the tree trunk, carrying a bleached-out stick.

  Janet frowned. “Isn’t that too short?”

  “Yeah, yeah. But just look at it. The silver gray tone, and it’s so smooth.” He ran his hand along its length. “Not a trace of bark and so perfectly weathered. But still hard as a rock. I wonder how long this stick has been here? How many years to achieve this perfect degree of fossilization?”

  He was closer to her now, that grin back on his face. Like a dog with a toy, she thought. Which is when she got her first true look at his prize.

  “Chuck . . .”

  “What?” He ca
me to a halt beside her.

  “That’s not a stick.”

  He hefted it up. Long, weathered, and smooth, just as he’d described it. With two distinctly round knobs at the end.

  Janet did not want to say what she had to say next.

  “What?” he demanded again.

  “Chuck, that’s a bone. A femur bone, if I had to guess. And given the length and width, not any animal I know of. Which leaves . . .”

  Chuck dropped it. And there went Janet’s romantic weekend, as her badass boyfriend began to scream.

  * * *

  —

  THINGS TAKE TIME, LONGER THAN most realize. First the local sheriff’s department had to hike in and secure the scene. Then the state’s forensic anthropologist was summoned to confirm that the remains were indeed human and begin the painstaking task of exhumation.

  Sketches were made. Dirt sifted for trace evidence. The search zone widened as it became clear scavengers had been raiding the site and not all pieces of the skeleton remained intact. Smaller bones were recovered farther off. Many more remained missing.

  Eventually, the forensic anthropologist and the heavily weathered skeleton journeyed back to Atlanta and the comfort of the lab, where the bones were given their own box and a case ID number. Several experts, not to mention some grad students, stopped by to check it out. Everyone was impressed by the quality of the find. No one had immediate answers.

  More weeks passed. Then a couple of months, given the case backlog.

  Finally, progress. A local artist reconstructed the face using modeling clay. Photos were taken. Images loaded into a nationwide database—and at last, a possible match. The forensic anthropologist conducted additional studies, cross-referencing age, gender, then the presence of an old childhood injury (broken arm) to the corresponding humerus. Confirmation was made, and finally the skeleton had a name.

  Which was when SSA Kimberly Quincy received the call, as her name was flagged in the missing persons case file. According to the forensic anthropologist, the remains of Lilah Abenito, missing fifteen years, had been recovered in the mountains of Georgia. Cause of death, undetermined, but injuries to the hyoid bone were consistent with strangulation.

  Kimberly hung up the phone. Absorbing. Thinking. Absorbing some more. She’d been waiting for this call for so many years, it felt faintly impossible. But at long last, Lilah Abenito had been found. Which meant . . . ?

  Kimberly took a deep breath in, long breath out. Then she knew exactly what to do.

  CHAPTER 2

  FLORA

  IDATED ONCE. PJN. PRE Jacob Ness. I remember brushing out my sun-streaked hair till it glowed California gold. Then I’d line my lashes in deep purple and go heavy on the mascara to bring out the gray depths of my eyes. A wisp of a dress. Thin spaghetti straps, a hem that barely brushed mid-thigh. Why not? I’d spent my childhood running around the wilds of Maine and I had long, graceful legs to show for it.

  In those days, I was a girl on fire. I didn’t just enter a bar, I sauntered: bright, shiny, the life of the party. I was young and arrogant. And stupid. Dear God, so stupid. Even now, eight years later, I wish I could go back and have twenty seconds alone with my younger, stupider self.

  But no such luck. So instead, bright, shiny me headed to Florida on spring break. And like tons of pretty college coeds, I donned my wisp of a dress and headed out with my bestest buds, all almost as golden and giggly as me, ready to rock the palm trees. We downed tequila shots. We shimmied across peanut-strewn floors. We spurned good-looking guys for downright sexy ones.

  Then . . .

  I danced myself away from the protection of the bar lights. Into the shadows of the sparsely populated beach, listening to some song only I could hear in my tequila-soaked head.

  And Jacob Ness, who later told me he’d been watching me for hours, snatched me off that beach. Yanked me right out of my life, my pretty girl bluster, my young and glorious ways. He came. I disappeared. And for the next four hundred and seventy-two days, I learned about an entirely different kind of existence. One involving a coffin-sized box and the whims of a vicious predator who’d always wanted his own personal sex slave.

  Again, if I could just have twenty seconds alone with younger, stupider me . . . But there are some mistakes you never get to take back. And there are some experiences there is no returning from.

  There is what was. And now there is what is.

  But I still miss that girl sometimes. Especially on a night like this one.

  * * *

  —

  WE MEET AT THE RESTAURANT. Keith knows better than to ask to pick me up at my apartment. It’s silly, really. The guy is such a computer nerd he can probably hack the DOD. No doubt he has my address. Hell, probably a blueprint of the entire town house, for that matter.

  But I need my illusions, and at this phase of our “relationship” he’s willing to give them to me. Tonight’s attempt at dating will take place at a popular rib joint in Boston. The kind of place known for its huge portions and sketchy neighborhood. Hipsters need not apply. Tourists definitely wouldn’t survive. My kind of place.

  Last time I agreed to dinner, Keith took me to some establishment that was clearly five-star pretentious with starched white table linens and twenty-nine pieces of silverware. Even wearing my nice hoodie, I didn’t exactly blend in.

  Keith did the requisite, “You’re beautiful anywhere you go, in anything you wear.”

  I debated how much damage I could inflict with the four available knives, particularly the fish knife, which was a new and interesting implement. Not terribly sharp, but then again, you didn’t need a razor’s edge when targeting eyeballs. For that matter, the butter knife had a heavy silver handle, perfect for bludgeoning. Then there were the crystal glasses that could be smashed into jagged edges, or fine china plates which could be hurled as deadly Frisbees . . .

  We left shortly after that.

  I adhere to a certain style. I call it urban disenfranchised. Basically, steel-toed boots and dark-colored cargo pants topped by any number of hoodies. Some of my sweatshirts have words on them—a logo or print. All have been washed so many times they can no longer be read.

  I don’t spend money on clothes, not party dresses or even new hoodies. I did recently invest in a new butterfly blade. The steel handles, when folded together like a closed fan—or wings of a butterfly—are etched with the most amazing dragon design. Flick of a wrist, the handles flip open and back, the blade appears, murder and mayhem ensue. I love my new blade, spend hours at night, flicking, unflicking, tracing the amazing craftsmanship, then flicking, unflicking, all over again. Tonight, the butterfly knife is wedged in the top of my boot. It’s one of the main reasons I came out. I wanted to see how walking around with the concealed weapon would feel.

  Because dating . . . A girl like me, with a guy like him . . .

  Keith Edgar is a self-employed computer analyst. He’s also a true-crime enthusiast who considers himself to be one of the foremost experts on Jacob Ness. I met him in December, only because I needed some information on the life Jacob led before he found me.

  At the time, I’d assumed Keith would be some basement-dwelling dweeb who drooled over crime scene photos the way others drool over porn. He’d be bat-blind, moonfaced, and with a fetish for Doritos and energy drinks.

  Instead . . .

  He’s tall, with a lean athletic build, thick dark hair, and impossibly blue eyes. He favors Tom Ford suits and—in the middle of the night, when I’m thinking about things I don’t want to think about—I’m guessing Calvin Klein briefs. He’s incredibly smart and can analyze a police report or a predator profile almost as quickly as I can.

  My current theory is that he’s either the first good thing to happen in my life in a very long time. Or he’s a serial killer.

  Which is one of the many problems with nights like tonight. I honestly can
’t decide. And I don’t know if that already tells me something about him, or yet more things I don’t want to know about me.

  Now, sitting at the table at the edge of the crowded rib joint, I count the exits. Front, back, kitchen door, which probably also has a rear egress. Three. I would prefer five.

  Across from me, Keith watches me tap my fingers against the sticky wood tabletop and shakes his head. “Four,” he corrects, having already deduced my line of thinking. “The men’s room, at least, has a window large enough for escape. You’ll have to check out the ladies’ room on your own.”

  He nods in the direction of the restrooms. They are located on the opposite side of the bar, which is positioned like a circular bull’s-eye in the middle of the floor. Annoying layout if you ask me. Six steps to dart left, half a dozen to escape right, given the obstacle smack-dab in the middle. Still, more exits are more exits.

  “I’m thinking of the short ribs in the chipotle maple glaze,” Keith says brightly, picking up the menu.

  “You’re a brave man to wear cashmere to a rib joint.”

  I earn a brilliant white smile. Serial killer, I think again.

  “Flora, most would consider me a brave man just for sharing a table with you.”

  Endearing, too. Dammit.

  “I bought a new knife,” I say.

  “For my side dish, I’ve picked sweet potato fries. And you?”

  I scowl at him. “Cole slaw.”

  “Seriously? No one chooses slaw over fries. Now you’re being contrarian.”

  I scowl harder.

  He waggles his smartphone. “I can bring up studies if you’d like: Slaw versus fries and those who lie about their innermost desires. Don’t make me go all nerd on you. You know I’ll do it.”

  He would, too. Charming, endearing, and smart. Bastard.

  I return to studying the menu. I’m anxious and uncomfortable. My hands, holding the menu, appear foreign to me. My nails clipped short, no buff or polish. My palms ridged in calluses. I have practical hands, I tell myself. Capable hands. But practical and capable for what?