Find Her (Detective D.D. Warren #8)(107)

My own face hidden behind the cloth he’d tied around my head. Protecting me from the tear gas. The moment the first canister had fired through the window, Jacob had leapt into action. He’d tended to me first.

And now, here we were. Both of us. One bullet from freedom.

Who am I? Who is anyone? We all try so hard. And we all accumulate our failures. From I should never have drunk so much that night, to I never should’ve fought so hard to live. Seriously. Truthfully. If I had just gone ahead and died in the beginning, other girls might be alive right now. Except, of course, after I died, Jacob would’ve snatched another pretty young thing. And then she would’ve died. Or maybe she would’ve been an even better assistant than me, helping him target and kill even more women.

How do you do the math on that?

How many more predators do I need to kill, how many more potential victims do I have to save, in order to balance those scales?

Five years later, I don’t have the answers to these questions. I just know every time I see a case on the news . . . I can’t let it go.

Especially after Florida.

The things I don’t tell Samuel. The activities I never admitted to anyone, because Jacob told me I’d go to jail too, and Jacob never lied.

So I stay alone with the ghosts that send me out each night, until here I am, trying to save Stacey Summers, and instead am just as trapped as she is.

Now I curl my fingers around the shard of glass. I take a deep breath, and I let myself remember the rest of that final day. The swarming commandos yelling at me to drop my weapon. Jacob screaming at me to shoot.

Who am I? Who is anyone?

I’m the girl who leaned down. I’m the girl who didn’t even recognize my own voice as I whispered one last promise in Jacob’s ear. And watched his expression change. As in an instant, I became the one with the power, and he became the one who was terrified.

Then, I pulled the trigger.

Because I’m not just a girl locked in a coffin-size box.

I’m the girl with promises left to keep.

Now, I force myself to rise to standing. I remind myself that I’m not hungry, I’m not tired, I’m not scared, I’m not terrified.

I’m not even okay. I’m more than okay.

I’m a woman prepared to do whatever it takes to complete her mission.

Okay. I can’t break a window to go out. I can’t open the door to the stairs to go down. That leaves me with one option. I will go up.

Somewhere, there must be attic access. I will find it. I will get Stacey Summers help.

I will live to fight another day.

And then . . .

I will return to my mother? I will live happily ever after? I will never seek out shadows again?

I don’t have those answers. I have only my mission.

Time to get to it.





Chapter 41


JACOB WORKING WASN’T A BAD MAN. We’d cruise down the highway, container load in tow, playing the license plate game. Driving, Jacob laid off the beer, weed, God knows what else. He talked instead. About anything, everything. Sometimes he’d rant, about government and politics and all the ways a hardworking guy like himself would never get ahead. But he was just as likely to get fired up about something he saw on the Late Show and wasn’t that Letterman a funny bastard.

I got to sit in the front seat. His audience of choice. He’d talk, I’d listen, and then it would be time to pick where we wanted to stop for lunch, and hey, I remembered this cute diner from the last time we passed through, and he’d agree. That was the thing about Jacob. He wasn’t opposed to making me happy. He’d even started watching Grey’s Anatomy.

Of course, most of these moments occurred as we drove west, away from Florida. But eventually, in the way long-haul routes worked, we’d get a new assignment, sending us back. I would fall silent first. Watching the signs go by, not bothering to read them out loud. Or care if we came upon, of all things, a license plate from Alaska.

Jacob, on the other hand, would become nearly feverish. His eyes brighter. Hands tighter on the wheel. More sex. Way more sex. Because he was anticipating now, except it wasn’t me he wanted.

It was what would happen once we were in Florida again.

I begged him to let her go. She wasn’t good for him, I tried to say. She goaded him into more and more dangerous behavior. He already had me. And look, he’d gotten away with it. Why couldn’t he be happy?

But he couldn’t. The closer we came to Florida.

He would drive to her place the second he delivered his load. Didn’t matter if it was forty minutes away or three hours. If we were in the state of Florida, he headed to Lindy’s house. Sometimes, she’d arrange to meet in a new location. Had to spread their hunting around to keep the locals from getting suspicious.

“Please,” I would beg, even as he turned in the direction of her house. “Let’s just crash someplace. Have a quiet night. We deserve a quiet night. You’ve been driving for days.”

“Nah. I’m fine.”

“You’re gonna get caught. She doesn’t care about you. Second the police catch on, she’ll throw you under the bus. Say you made her do it. And the police will believe her. You know they will.”

“You don’t understand. You don’t have a kid.”

“She doesn’t love you.”