When You See Me

by Lisa Gardner

  He inhales sharply, but doesn’t move. Waiting, waiting, waiting.

  Exquisite waiting.

  Has anyone ever waited for me before?

  I have to stretch up on my toes to bridge the gap between us. I move my hands from his chest, to his shoulders, to the back of his neck. Then I bring his lips down to mine.

  His fingers find my waist as our lips brush, brush again. Slowly, carefully, I explore his mouth. I taste him, feel him, let the sensations wash over me. And when no dark, ugly shadows rear in the back of my mind, I go deeper, hungrier, until I feel something ignite inside me. A spark long dead.

  Maybe that girl I used to be, the one with the bright smile and cute little dresses and flirtatious glances, wasn’t so far gone after all. Because suddenly I’m pushing Keith back, till his legs hit the bed and he collapses onto the mattress. What am I doing? What is it I want?

  To not think, I realize. To escape from my head, to have one moment when I’m not Flora Dane, victim-survivor-vigilante.

  I don’t want to be.

  I want to feel.

  I pull off my gray sweatshirt. I remove my faded T-shirt. I start working the button of my cargo pants, then realize I must pause, kick off my boots.

  Keith doesn’t move off the bed. He remains half reclined, watching me hungrily.

  I stare him in the eye. Boots off. Outer clothes. My boring panties, workout bra. There is nothing sexy about my underwear. But the way Keith is watching me, right now, I can almost believe I’m intoxicating.

  Do I look good naked? I have no idea. Once I stood in front of a mirror, admiring my summer tan, my taut stomach. Now I’m probably pale and bony, covered with fresh bruises and old scars. A past-her-prime prizefighter, who’s gone too many rounds in the ring. I should cover myself, turn off the light, something.

  But I don’t move. I stand there, totally exposed, and let him see me. Let him see all of me.

  He rises slowly off the bed. Ready to flee? Already changing his mind now that he’s seen the damaged goods?

  His fingers find the hem of his shirt. He pulls it up over his head, then tosses it on the floor. Next, he removes his shoes, socks, pants. He does wear Calvin Kleins. I knew it. Then those are gone, too, and it’s just him and me, both completely naked, separate, waiting.

  He’s beautiful. All rippling muscles, long, lean limbs. His skin is smooth, his chest paler than his arms after the past few days in the hot Georgia sun. He has a smattering of dark hair across his chest, leading to a thin line running down his stomach to where . . .

  To where he definitely finds me as appealing as I find him.

  I have a moment. Other pictures rise before my eyes. Other memories. An odious man, fat, smelly, vile. Grabbing my hair. Do this, do that. Myself, gagging, repulsed, revolted.

  I shiver slightly. Close my eyes. Will the memories away.

  When I open them again, Keith is still standing there, buck naked, watching, waiting.

  And just like that, I’m over it. I will not be weak. I will not be a victim. I will not live in the past.

  I’m alive. I’m whole. And this man . . . my fingers itch to drift across his bare skin. To feel the heat of him. I want to kiss his neck, drag my leg up his own. I want his hands on my body, clutching tight. I want his blue eyes black with hunger, his body wild with need.

  I want to know I have that kind of power. I want to feel again.

  I am Flora. He is Keith.

  And I want both of us to burn.

  I step forward. Lift one hand. Push him back onto the bed again. He falls willingly and I climb on top of him, my legs straddling his hips. I feel heat. So much of it. An inferno, already threatening to consume us. And damn he’s gorgeous. A perfectly sculpted male. Mine, I think, all mine. Then I find his lips and his hands grip my waist frantically, and the spark combusts.

  We’re young. We’re healthy. We’re wild.

  We roll and tussle, fighting in our fever to connect. I feel him, everywhere. My hips move on their own and for the first time in so long, I want one thing and one thing only.

  I want this man.

  His lips on my lips, throat, breasts. We roll again, then I’m on top. He accepts and gives. I take, take, take. My head arching back.

  And for one moment, I am myself again. Confident, beautiful, sexy. I am the girl who should’ve met Keith years ago, and is so grateful to have found him now. Then he moves his hips. I gasp. He moves more, and all thoughts fly away.

  I grip his shoulders and feel us both explode.

  * * *

  —

  AFTERWARD, WE BOTH SPRAWL NAKED in the middle of the bed, panting hard. I’m not sure what happened to the covers. I’m not sure I care.

  I have my head on Keith’s shoulder. His arm is curled around me, his fingers idly stroking my arm. It’s so soothing I can feel my eyes drift shut. Then I force them open. Maybe I should sleep. But I’m too afraid that when I wake up, this will be gone. We’ll have the awkwardness of the morning after. Or maybe, the magic will be gone for Keith. He finally got what, for years, he wanted most.

  The lone survivor of an infamous predator.

  I can feel myself withdraw. Keith does, too.

  “Stop,” he orders.

  “What?”

  “Whatever you’re thinking.”

  “What am I thinking?”

  “I don’t know.” He tilts my head up. “You think dark thoughts, Flora. I understand. But there’s nothing dark about my interest in you. There’s nothing dark about my feelings toward you.”

  “You have feelings toward me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you a serial killer?”

  “I don’t think so. And given that true crime is my hobby, I think I would know.”

  “You’ve always wanted to meet me.”

  “True.”

  “Because you’re a true-crime aficionado, and what true-crime enthusiast wouldn’t want to talk to someone like me?”

  “I wanted to meet you. Then I did. And then . . . I want more. Which has nothing to do with your past and everything to do with who you are right now. And how you make me feel right now.”

  “Can we take this right now to right now?”

  “Most relationships happen that way.”

  “Okay,” I say.

  “Okay,” he agrees. Then a moment later. “Do you need to rest, or shower, or eat, or anything at all?”

  I shake my head against his shoulder.

  “Good. Because the first time, while great, was a bit on the rushed side. Now . . . I think we can do even better.”

  My eyes widen slightly. Then he’s moving, shifting his weight above. I gasp. No talking, no thinking, just feeling, as he proves his point: The second time is even better.

  Right before I drift off to sleep, I have a realization.

  I’m not surviving anymore.

  Finally, I’m thriving.

  * * *

  —

  I BOLT AWAKE. I REGISTER a foreign weight on the bed, an intruder in the room. Instinctively, I lash out. Thumbs, elbows, knees. Women might not be as strong as men, but there are ways we can still do damage.

  “Shit! Flora, Flora, it’s me!”

  A hand grabs my arm. I roll into the hold, inside my attacker’s strike zone, where I can gouge my thumb into eyeballs.

  “Flora, wake up!”

  I’m naked. He’s naked. Both of his hands clasp my arms. I should, I should . . . Keith. I had sex with Keith. I fell asleep with Keith. I am with Keith. Dear God, what have I done?

  As fast as I attacked, now I retreat, yanking my arms free, spinning away.

  “Stop!”

  A bedside lamp snaps on. Keith’s features emerge. “Flora Dane, don’t move another inch.”

  I glare at him. “You sound like my mo
ther.”

  “Really? You attack your mother in the middle of the night, too?”

  “A couple of times. It’s not safe to wake me.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Then it’s not safe to sleep with me.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “You weren’t?” Now I scowl. “I was asleep.”

  “I know. And you’re ridiculously cute when you sleep. But I wasn’t sleeping. I was thinking.”

  “You’re always thinking!”

  “Isn’t that the pot calling the kettle black? Come back. Relax. You promise not to kill me, and I promise to tell you what I’ve been thinking.”

  I blink my eyes, unsure. Really, this whole situation is mortifying. Leave it to me not to be awkward the morning after, but homicidal. Yet Keith appears completely unruffled. He sits up against the headboard, then holds out his arm expectantly, wiggling his fingers in silent command.

  I ease back toward him. He wiggles his fingers more. I slowly take up position beside him, bare skin to bare skin. He sighs, rather happily, I think.

  “For a serial killer, you sure are nice,” I grumble.

  “You really think I’m a serial killer?”

  “You look like Ted Bundy and you’re obsessed with crime.”

  “Oh. When you put it that way . . .”

  We both fall silent. “We’re going to have to work on the sleeping arrangement,” he says at last. “One more inch with that knee of yours, and this whole new excellent adventure would’ve been over before we even had a chance.”

  “Sorry.”

  “In the future, I’d rather you go after my eyes. If you think about it, it’s in your own best interest, as well.”

  I close my eyes, mortified again. He strokes my arms. “It’s okay, Flora,” he says softly. “We all have demons. We’ll figure it out. It’s only the first night.”

  I don’t say anything, but I turn my head into him, feel my cheek against his shoulder. His skin is very smooth and warm. He smells amazing. I don’t want to think it, but I have to: Keith is nothing like Jacob. He’s not old and fat and disgusting. Keith is exactly the kind of guy, once upon a time, I would’ve taken home with me. And I realize I’m incredibly grateful, if not a little choked up, to finally feel this way, have this moment, again.

  “Do you ever sleep?” I ask.

  “Not much. I don’t have night terrors like you. But from the time I was young, my mind is always going. I’m restless that way. And I’m a bit of a night owl. It’s when I get my best work done.”

  “At least we have that much in common.”

  “Do you want to hear about my incredibly brilliant thought or not?”

  I roll my eyes. I like being curled up with him. I like his arm around my shoulders. Which is good, because—oh yeah—my not-a-serial-killer almost-boyfriend is pretty damn arrogant.

  “Tell me your brilliant thought.”

  “The more we learn about this town—from the multiple victims spanning years, to the involvement of the mayor and his wife, to the presence of Jacob Ness and his father, even the motel guy trying to kick us out—I’m convinced we’re looking at some sort of criminal enterprise. Not one crime, but many. Not one perpetrator, but perhaps as many as a dozen.”

  A sobering thought. “Okay.”

  “Now.” Keith warms to his subject. “Think about what we learned last year about the dark web. You can’t just log on to some criminal chat room. First, you have to have some other disgusting pervert vouch for your pornographic addiction, or you must provide explicit proof of your own evil doings, making you just as guilty as everyone else in the room. Basically, you have to prove you are a criminal before you can hang out with other criminals.”

  “Okay.”

  “Martha Counsel, her illegal kidney transplant. That made her guilty. Which also made her eligible for the organization. Jacob Ness, serial rapist. No problem establishing his criminal bona fides. Then there’s this mystery guy who may have killed Martha Counsel, maybe even those girls in the woods. Definitely, he’s earned his membership.”

  I nod against his shoulder. In this day and age, more and more predators were seeking each other out. Maybe not always in person, but at least on the internet, via the dark web. Even Jacob, a complete loner, had clearly been learning tricks of the trade from various chat rooms.

  But yes, any time predators interacted with one another, they took the risk of exposing themselves. Hence an elaborate system of personal referrals and/or proof of deviousness, such as compromising images that would make the new person just as vulnerable as everyone else in the network.

  “So, first requirement of membership: a history of evil. But a criminal operation is really no different than a business. You don’t just want miscellaneous employees, you want skill sets. Which brings us to the second requirement for membership: You need to have something to offer the group.”

  I think about it. “Martha has the hotel. A way station for other group members to come and go without anyone noticing. Jacob . . . he could’ve provided transport. Maybe even provided girls. Lilah Abenito, maybe he did kidnap her. Except not for himself. He brought her here, for the group instead.” I tilt my head up. “So why didn’t he do that with me? Why did he keep me instead? Especially, having brought me to his new friends’ backyard.”

  “I’ve been considering that. Socially speaking, Jacob was a loner. You never saw him with others.”

  “Never.”

  “So I’m wondering if he didn’t play around on the dark web, perhaps become involved in whatever is going on around here, as a sort of master class. He helped them, and in return, he learned how to cover his tracks on the computer, how to utilize abandoned cabins in the woods, that sort of thing. You said he accepted that he was a monster. That he had no interest in reform.”

  “No. He was who he was, and he was proud of it.”

  “Then I think this was his education of sorts. And for that, he gritted his teeth and dealt with others. But a loner is a loner, right? So once he learned what he needed . . .”

  “He went back to his loner ways.”

  “Confident in the fact he could now get away with an even more elaborate crime, such as not just kidnapping a girl, but holding her for over a year.”

  I nod. It makes a crazy kind of sense.

  “Here’s the deal. A business is a business and everyone has a role. Using that as a model, we should be able to start homing in on individuals around town to question. Transport. With Jacob gone, they’d need someone else to provide girls for illegal labor, organ transplants, whatever.”

  “Walt Davies,” I murmur. “His trips to Atlanta to sell microgreens. Maybe that’s all just a cover for what he brings back.”

  “I thought of that. We’re going to need to speak to him again.”

  I nod.

  “Howard and Martha Counsel are lodging. The mystery man . . . I’m thinking he’s muscle. Like, the enforcer of the operation. A girl gets out of line, a member of the organization appears on the verge of talking—”

  “He takes action.”

  “Exactly. Now let’s consider other roles. Marketing. Which I’m guessing takes place over the dark web. These ghost tourists who are coming into town. Who is reaching out to them, or how do they know to come here? Gotta be a dark web interface. Only way it could work.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Meaning we need to start asking around for someone with computer skills. That person will be the gatekeeper of a massive amount of information. Find him or her, we could blow this thing wide open.”

  I look up at Keith. “Didn’t the ATV guy mention something? A town clerk who was working with the mayor starting ten years ago to boost Niche’s profile, lure in tourists?”

  “Dorothea,” Keith murmured. “I think that was her name. And yeah, she fits perfectly. Raising the
town’s profile could very well be a euphemism for advertising goods on the dark web. Lodging packages could refer to all sorts of things. Yes, let’s start by interrogating the town clerk. Perfect!”

  “You’re good at this.”

  “Remember that tomorrow when SSA Quincy and Sergeant Warren tear my theory to shreds. But, Flora, there’s an even bigger role we haven’t discussed yet.” Keith sits up straighter, peers down at me earnestly. “Who’s running this enterprise? The missing cook? She doesn’t sound smart enough. The missing maid? Quincy has already said she’s most likely a victim, not a perpetrator. That leaves us with this UNSUB they’ve talked about—but again, he sounds more like brawn than brains. Meaning . . .”

  “We still don’t know who’s in charge.”

  “Meaning, we still don’t know who to trust.”

  We stare at each other for a long time in the glow of the bedside lamp.

  “I’m really glad I brought my knife,” I say.

  “And I’m really glad I travel with you by my side,” Keith answers.

  CHAPTER 33

  MY MAMI IS COOKING AT the stove. I watch her raise lids, stir pots. I listen to her hum happily. I am not here. Even in my dream, I know that. She is not here either. But I’m so grateful to see her, I don’t care.

  My mamita.

  As if she heard, she turns and smiles at me. “Chiquita,” she whispers, and the love in her eyes fills my chest with such bittersweet pain, I think it might burst.

  Her face is softer. Her cheeks no longer gaunt, the shadows gone from beneath her eyes. She is radiant in her white blouse and red peasant skirt, topped by her favorite apron. I see bits of crumbled cheese smudged near her pocket.

  Then I look down and realize I am sitting at the kitchen table, a block of queso blanco in my hand.

  A shadow drifts across the kitchen. I know then what will happen next.

  “No,” I try to tell her.

  “It’s all right, my love.”