by Lisa Gardner
I still don’t know what to do with a man like Keith. Who’s obviously interested in me, but also patient and understanding. Sometimes, he even says exactly the right thing, except instead of making me feel better, it makes me suspicious. He’s too knowledgeable, too understanding.
They say Ted Bundy was very persuasive, as well.
“Ribs and sweet potato fries,” Keith says.
“Chicken and slaw,” I counter.
“Anything to drink?”
I shake my head, point to my water. I rarely drink. He’ll order a beer, but generally only one. A consideration for my abstinence or because he’s just as big of a control freak as me? This is what dating is supposed to be all about. Getting to know each other. Determining the answers to these questions. Who is he really? Who am I really? And even more intriguing, who might we become together?
I swear to God I’m sweating through my T-shirt and I’ve already lost my appetite. Serial predators I can handle. This evening, on the other hand, might be the death of me.
Once upon a time, there was a beautiful girl named Flora who laughed and flirted with all the boys. And now?
My phone vibrates. Saved by the bell. I yank it out of my pocket, desperate for the distraction. A moment later, however . . .
I glance up at Keith, frowning.
“You have to go?” he asks. He doesn’t bother to mask his disappointment.
“We both have to go.”
“Both?” He sits up straighter, clearly intrigued.
I hold out my phone to show him the text. “Sergeant D. D. Warren. She wants to meet both of us. Immediately.”
Keith throws cash on the table, grabs his leather jacket, and rises to standing before I can even push away from the high top. In his face, I see the same spark I feel in mine. The thrill of the hunt.
He really is perfect, I think.
And find myself reassured by the subtle pressure of the new blade pressing against my lower leg as I follow him out of the bar.
* * *
—
SERGEANT D. D. WARREN IS A Boston homicide detective. She has short, curly blond hair, crystalline blue eyes, and a razor-sharp jaw. No one would call her beautiful, but she’s striking in a cool, slightly dangerous sort of way. The first time I met her, she struck me as a woman who suffered no fools and took no prisoners. She hasn’t disappointed me yet.
Even though I was a Boston college student when I was abducted, D.D. never handled my case. My kidnapping fell under FBI jurisdiction. Instead, I met D.D. five years after my safe return, when I’d given up sleeping and moved to Boston to hunt predators.
Our initial meeting involved me standing bound and naked over a would-be rapist I’d just annihilated with chemical fire. D.D. wanted to discuss my questionable approach to crime fighting. I wanted the record to show that he’d started it.
I wouldn’t describe our relationship as an easy one, but a year ago she asked me to serve as her confidential informant. I think she’s slowly but surely trying to convert me to her side of law and order. Honestly, her job involves way too much paperwork. I argue it’s only a matter of time before she joins me in the world of vigilantism. We may both have a point.
I don’t have many friends. Like a lot of survivors battling PTSD, I don’t do trust, sharing, or confidence in others. But I would count D.D. as at least a respected associate. And there are times, as cranky as she can be, that I think she almost likes me. A little bit.
Nine months ago, we worked together to solve a domestic homicide. D.D. had recognized the shooter—the pregnant wife—from a case she’d worked sixteen years prior. I’d recognized the victim—the husband—as he’d once hung out in a bar with my kidnapper, Jacob Ness. Both D.D. and I had questions we needed answered.
Along the way, I learned some uncomfortable truths.
Fact one: Jacob Ness, who I’d killed with my own hands, was a suspect in six other missing persons cases, investigations that would most likely never be closed due to the fact he was no longer around to provide information.
Fact two: Jacob Ness, who I’d officially refused to discuss with law enforcement agents upon my rescue, had probably led a much fuller life of evil deeds than even I’d suspected. This life involved networking on the dark web, utilizing computer skills Jacob had no obvious way of knowing. He’d also had access to some kind of cabin where he’d held me in the beginning of my captivity and maybe had kept others, as well. And yet, the FBI could never identify where this location might be—we took to calling it the monster’s lair—which once again suggested a level of forensic sophistication out of line with his background.
Fact three: I’d thought I knew everything there was to know about the evil, awful terrible man who’d held total control over every breath I took for four hundred and seventy-two days. I was wrong.
Enter Keith Edgar. Given his computer skills and self-proclaimed expertise in the subject of Jacob Ness, he’d been a logical source to contact for more information regarding Jacob’s larger criminal history. That Keith happened to look like Ted Bundy was purely a coincidence, or so I told myself.
Working with Sergeant Warren and FBI SSA Kimberly Quincy, Keith and I had been able to finally determine Jacob’s username and password for the dark web. This enabled Keith to start tracing some of Jacob’s online activities from eight years ago and even solve a murder. The FBI had shown their gratitude by taking away the computer. SSA Quincy had mumbled some trite apologies at the time—FBI policy, FBI forensic techs, FBI blah, blah, blah.
I’d been extremely annoyed. Keith had been devastated. But not too much, which made me wonder how much information he’d copied/memorized/mapped before Quincy had snatched his toy away. Computer geeks can be very resourceful, and definitely aren’t ones to bother themselves overmuch with federal statutes.
In the months since, I’ve never directly asked Keith what he did. I figured he wouldn’t tell me, being the protective sort. While at the same time, if he did make a bombshell discovery, I’m sure I’d be the first to know; he’d just never mention his source.
We work together well. Which is what I keep telling myself, as the Uber driver drops us off at BPD headquarters. Even this time of night, the glass monstrosity is ablaze with lights.
Keith and I don’t speak. We head inside where D. D. Warren is standing in the lobby, already waiting for us. By her side is a small travel bag.
In that moment, I know.
Beside me, Keith knows, too.
“They’ve found something,” he breathes.
“They’ve found someone,” I correct.
And whoever she is, I’m already very sad and very sorry for this poor woman whom I never met but with whom I will forever share a bond.
Both of us once met Jacob Ness.
And neither one of us ever truly came home again.
CHAPTER 3
D.D.
BOSTON SERGEANT DETECTIVE D. D. WARREN was in love.
She’d never meant for it to happen. In fact, once upon a time her life had fallen into three carefully planned phases: work, work, and work. She indulged in the occasional all-you-can-eat buffet, because a girl needed a hobby. Or maybe that was her shoe fetish. But either way, she’d spent the majority of her adult life happily kicking ass and taking names. Some of her fellow investigators found her obsessive, if not prickly. Not her problem. Following an on-the-job injury, she’d become a supervisor of homicide—technically a step up, though the truth was that D.D. was happier in the field than behind a desk. Her former squad mates, Phil and Neil (and now petite, perky, pain-in-the-ass Carol), had finally gotten used to her hands-on ways.
Today’s phone call from SSA Kimberly Quincy—inviting D.D. to join a major taskforce that was re-opening several cold cases attached to an infamous predator—was the stuff of policing legend. D.D. should be thrilled, giddy, dancing in her brand-new smooth-as-b
utter black leather boots. Except, of course, she’d fallen in love.
She’d had to return home. Alex, her crime analyst husband who taught at the police academy, totally understood the demands of her job. He’d been the same way once. Now, at this phase of life, he could afford to slow down, admire her zeal, and smile at her in such a way that stated I told you so without him ever having to utter the words.
What had brought her low? Totally captured her heart, then ripped it from her chest, so that every day she had to leave it behind? They had a son. Six-year-old, hyper, adorable Jack. Who raced around the house in Avengers pajamas with his favorite canine sidekick, Kiko. Jack jumped, their spotted rescue pup jumped higher. Jack sprinted across their fenced-in yard, Kiko ran faster. Jack wasn’t into shoes, but Kiko certainly loved to gnaw on an expensive pair of heels, which Jack then quickly hid under beds and behind sofas, anything to cover for his partner in crime.
Jack was silly, wild, and way too charming for D.D.’s or Alex’s mental health.
Which made it so hard to stand in the family room and state, “Mommy has to go away for a few days. Probably a week.”
Jack approached it smartly: no immediate waterworks. Instead, he’d played the brave young man. Head up, shoulders back.
“Okay, Mommy. If that’s what you have to do to catch the bad guys . . .”
While his lower lip trembled. Then, suddenly flinging himself sideways, he wrapped his skinny body around Kiko’s seated form.
“At least I still have you, girl. I know you’ll never leave me.”
He aimed a single glance over his shoulder to see if D.D. had caught the show.
Leaning against the wall, Alex broke into mild applause and congratulated Jack on his performance. Which made both D.D. and Jack glare at him with uncomfortable similarity.
“Your mom’s gotta go,” Alex chided their son. “Now give her a hug and stop auditioning for Broadway.”
Eventually, with a dramatic sigh, the six-year-old had forced himself to his feet. He gave his mother a pat on the back.
“I will miss you,” he declared stoically. “Please text.”
“How much TV is he watching?” D.D. demanded of Alex.
Her husband shrugged. “So many superheroes, so little time.”
“I will be home as soon as I can,” D.D. told her son.
“Sure,” Jack sniffed.
D.D. found herself turning to the dog—honestly, the shoe-eating canine—for moral support. Kiko gave D.D. her back.
“Well then,” D.D. said, addressing her husband. “Will you at least take my calls?”
“Always,” Alex assured her. “I’ll even accept FaceTime.”
“At least someone still loves me.”
Alex put an arm around her shoulders. “The heartbreak of little boys,” he murmured in her ear.
“Parenthood ain’t for sissies,” she mumbled against his shoulder.
He kissed her softly. “You know he’ll get over it in another minute. Go get ’em, slugger. We’re both proud of you.”
“Three to four days,” she muttered. “Seven tops.”
“Federal taskforce?”
“Yep.”
“Gonna catch a bad guy? Maybe even bring some poor lost person home?”
“I hope so.”
“Then don’t worry about us. Your menfolk will be fine. Though I make no promises about too much TV or Frosted Flakes for breakfast.”
D.D. shrugged. “I like Frosted Flakes for breakfast.”
“Perfect, we’ll blame you.”
Which is how D.D. found herself back in her car, travel bag beside her, returning to BPD headquarters with one more awkward conversation to go. Love, such a complicated and powerful emotion. Able to topple the strongest among us, to waylay the unsuspecting, and to wriggle deep inside a woman heretofore laser-focused on her career.
It all made sense till Flora Dane sauntered into BPD headquarters with Keith Edgar at her side. One look at the tightness in her shoulders, the bounce in his step, the way they both glanced at each other while trying not to glance at each other, and D.D. was forced to remember the other half of love. The part that didn’t bloom and grow. The colder, starker truth that love could cost you everything.
And often did.
* * *
—
D.D. LED FLORA AND KEITH to the homicide division’s suite upstairs. Both had been there before, and while D.D. would like to say the bump up to sergeant meant she could now host meetings in her massive office, she could barely stand with a fellow detective in the closet-sized space. Instead, D.D. led Flora and Keith to the glass-doored conference room, which—like the rest of the building—resembled an insurance company more than an urban police force. For that matter, the homicide unit had blue carpet and cubicles that screamed staid corporate job. Some of the detectives had strewn crime scene tape and blood spatter photos all over their padded gray walls just to keep their sanity. Humor was an investigative necessity.
“Here’s what we know,” D.D. started without preamble. “Skeletal remains were discovered two and a half months ago in the mountains of Georgia.”
“Georgia,” Keith interrupted, giving Flora a meaningful glance. Both Flora and D.D. glared at him.
“Outside the town of Niche,” D.D. continued, “which is some quaint little community that exists to house and feed hikers doing the Appalachian Trail. Too small a town for that to be Jacob’s home base.” She eyed Flora pointedly.
“He’d stand out,” Flora filled in. “A long-haul trucker with a raging drug habit and a lack of personal hygiene. Not ideal small-town material.”
“Exactly. The body, however, was identified as Lilah Abenito—”
Keith abruptly pulled his laptop from his bag, fired it to life. Notes, of course. Now D.D. remembered. Keith spent all their encounters pecking away at his computer like some rabid chicken. The man practically lived hardwired. She often wondered what Flora, who had a strictly hands-on approach to problem solving, thought of having a techie boyfriend.
Keith got his laptop booted up. D.D. continued: “Lilah Abenito was declared missing fifteen years ago. She is one of the first victims connected with Jacob Ness. Given the find, FBI agent Kimberly Quincy is forming a federal taskforce to investigate Lilah Abenito’s murder, and look for further evidence of Jacob Ness’s past activities.”
“What do you know so far?” Flora asked. She hadn’t taken a seat, but was standing in the conference room, gripping the back of a chair.
“Not much. But now that this case has been declared a priority, given its connection to Jacob Ness, everything will be revisited, including the forensic anthropologist’s initial findings. While us taskforce members”—she looked at Flora and Keith—“will be heading to Mosley County. Our job is to re-examine the gravesite—and all trails, communities, and activities around it.”
“I’m guessing this tiny town isn’t off a major freeway,” Flora said.
“No. Up in the mountains and off the beaten path. Certainly not off the kind of roads a long-haul trucker such as Jacob Ness would be traveling for work.”
“An old grave makes it harder to find evidence,” Keith was musing out loud. “On the other hand, fifteen years ago Ness’s crime spree was still in its infancy. Means he probably wasn’t as refined about covering his tracks. He hadn’t perfected his technique.”
“This is a unique opportunity,” D.D. agreed. “SSA Kimberly Quincy has invited us all to join the taskforce. Which, I don’t have to tell you, is quite an honor for two civilians.”
“She needs me,” Flora said flatly. “No one knows Jacob like I do. No one else survived to tell the tale.”
“I didn’t do so shabby tearing about his computer in December,” Keith echoed. “Certainly I learned more in forty-eight hours than the FBI did in six years.”
They were
both right, and D.D. knew it.
“We’ll head to Atlanta tonight,” she informed them. “First taskforce meeting will be bright and early in the morning, and our work starts immediately after that.”
Keith didn’t speak. He simply shut his laptop and rose to standing, clearly having made his decision.
As for Flora, D.D. knew there was never any doubt. Wherever Jacob Ness went, now as before, Flora Dane followed. It was both an impressive show of strength and a sad testimony of survivorship.
“You have the tickets?” Flora asked.
“Our Delta flight leaves out of Logan, nine oh two P.M.”
“We’ll see you at the airport.”
CHAPTER 4
DO YOU HAVE A NAME?
I can almost remember mine. It hovers on the edge of my memory. I lost it the night the Bad Man came, and the gun exploded. Then my mother was gone, and my words went with her.
I see a picture. Hazy, shimmering around the edges. Sometimes I get a fragrance, like a flower. Other times the image dims, becomes silvery like the moon. Then I can hear my mother’s voice, soft and low. Humming. Walking around the house, washing our clothes, stirring the pots on the stove, she was always humming. Sometimes, I try to hum again. I place my hand against my throat, feeling for the vibration. I have a memory of sound, of words, of lips that worked and a mouth that spoke. But no matter how much I focus on my mother’s hum, will her happiness into my throat, I can’t make anything come out.
The Bad Man came. My mother told me to run but I didn’t. And our pack of two is no more.
Girl. That is what they call me now. Girl, do this. Girl, wash that. Girl, come here. Girl, go away.
I picture the bad people as black shadows with narrow eyes. The men, the women, they all appear the same to me: a mass of darkness I walk among every day, fetching this, tending that. I keep my head down, my feet silent as I hobble through the halls, dragging my weak leg behind me.
