Find Her (Detective D.D. Warren #8)(108)

“Love me?” He frowned. “She’s my kid. Love’s got nothing to do with that. It’s bigger than that, better. Love comes and goes. But she’ll always be my daughter.”

“She’s just using you—”

“Using me? Maybe I’m using her. Ever thought of that? I’m the one who found her first. She didn’t know nothing ’bout me. Her mama hates my guts, didn’t even include me on the birth certificate. But I heard rumors. Went looking. First time I saw her, I knew. A father always recognizes his own. I watched her for years, always from afar. Such a pretty little thing. Then one day, when she was eight or nine, a birdie flew into a window beside her. Fell back onto the grass. I watched her pick it up. Figured she’d fuss over it. Maybe cry. But she didn’t. No. Not my kid. She picked it apart. Feather by feather. Oh, she’s my daughter all right. After that, I knew we’d find a way.

“I introduced myself to her the first time when she was thirteen. Not sure if she believed me or not. But then her mama came home, saw me standing there. Went into a rage. Told me if she ever saw me again, she’d call the cops. Put me away. She’d do it too. She’s that kind of woman.” Jacob chuckled. “’Course, what she didn’t realize was that by hating me, she made me interesting. Lindy might have turned away altogether. But after that . . . each time I came around, Lindy was waiting. She wanted to hear more. She wanted to learn more.”

“Her mother hates you?”

“Her mama’s dead. That house she’s in? Used to belong to her mama. But she’s gone now. It’s all Lindy’s and I can stop by whenever I’d like.”

“How did her mama die?” I asked.

Jacob merely smiled. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“It’s going to end badly,” I tried. But he didn’t care. When we were in Florida, it was as if I didn’t exist. Jacob didn’t care about me.

But Lindy did. She knew I hated her. She knew their evenings together left me sick and shaking and dry heaving.

My revulsion excited her. Sending me trembling and pale into the next bar to help select their newest target turned her on.

Can you miss a coffin-size box? Because I did, I did, I did.

Eventually our time in Florida would end. Mostly because Jacob had to earn money. And paychecks came from the big rig, so sooner or later, he’d roll back into the sleeper cab and away we’d go. Me exhausted and strung out in the passenger’s seat. Jacob subdued and chain-smoking behind the wheel.

Neither of us would speak until we crossed state lines. Then, it was as if it never happened. Florida became our Las Vegas. What happened there stayed there, never to be spoken of again.

Eventually, I would call out the letter A. Then he’d find B. And we’d be okay again.

Because that was life heading west. And after enough time, anything can become normal, even hanging out with your kidnapper who’s killed three women and counting.

In Georgia we stopped to refuel. Jacob was gone for a long time inside, doing whatever it was he did. I sat. I stared out my window. I saw cars and trees and blacktop. I saw nothing at all.

And I wondered how long a person could live like this. Dying inch by inch. Mile by mile every time she crossed the Florida line.

I pictured my mom. I thought of her for the first time in so long. Not because you ever really forget but because a person can only take so much pain. But now I allowed myself to picture her. Wearing one of her stiff outfits from the press conferences. The sheen in her eyes. The silver fox at her throat.

I wondered what she’d say if she could see me now. I wondered if she’d still beg for my safe return. Or if she would realize, as I had realized, that there are some things a person can’t come back from. I wasn’t a child from the wilds of Maine anymore. I was the plaything of monsters.

And just for a minute, I wished I could see her again. If only to tell her to let me go. Move on. Be happy. Build a life.

But let me go.

Because then maybe I could let myself go. I wouldn’t fight so hard, do such terrible things in order to survive anymore. I’d just fade away.

Surely that would be better than this.

For the first time in a long while, I sent my mother a prayer. I prayed she would never find me. I prayed she’d never see me like this. I prayed that all the things I’d done were things she’d never have to know.

Then Jacob returned and we drove and we drove and we drove. And he found the letter Q and later I found X, and then I started to laugh, and then I started to cry, and Jacob said we’d driven far enough. He splurged for a motel, told me to shower and clean up. He even left me alone after that as I lay curled up in a ball and cried and cried and cried.

For the mother I hoped and begged and prayed would never see me again. For the little girl who’d once fed foxes and now helped hunt humans for sport. For the life I’d lost and for the future I needed to give up. Because I couldn’t go back to Florida again. There was only so much you could adapt to and accept.

I’d hit my limit and Florida was it.

Which meant it was time to let go. Give up.

After all those days, nights, weeks, Jacob had threatened to kill me—now I needed him to get the job done. He had a gun. I’d seen it. A single shot through the head. Certainly it would be kinder than what he and Lindy had done to the others.