Find Her (Detective D.D. Warren #8)(119)

I hold my breath, will her to take one more step into the room. Then, I’ll kick out with my left foot, go for the side of her knee.

I am not tired, not hungry, not cold, not in pain.

I am in the zone.

Where I can kill another human being and feel just fine about it.

I think, in that moment, it would be best if my mother never touched me again. Because the daughter she misses is a happy girl who loves foxes. And I am someone else.

I am something else.

Lindy steps into the room.

I kick just as she twists toward me, her teeth flashing white in the dark. She’s already bringing the gun forward, clearly having known exactly where I was standing, exactly what I was planning.

What neither of us can predict, however, is that my missed kick throws me off balance, sending me careening into her, collapsing onto her form.

We crash to the floor and I have a weird sense of déjà vu.

We are in her dingy little house. I have the kitchen knife.

Gun, gun. She has the gun, trapped between us. Pointed at her, pointed at me. I’m not sure either of us know. I can’t afford to roll away, which would give her the room to aim. But tangled up in each other, I can’t effectively jab or stab. We wrestle instead, her determined not to drop the gun, me determined not to lose my broken glass or plastic straw.

I smell blood. Hers from her slashed cheek. Mine from my lacerated feet.

Then: pain, sharp and piercing. Her teeth biting into my ear, grinding, pulling, tugging. In response, I twist my right hand, rake the shard of glass down her side, then twist it cruelly.

Neither of us gasp or scream or cry out. We are intent. This is serious business.

But just for a second, I think I hear something in the distance.

She bites me again. Chomps, chews, does her best Mike Tyson. I can’t afford to care about her teeth. The gun is the problem. I need to get the gun away from her.

Rolling across the dusty floor. Trying to bring my left hand up. I still have the bent straw wedged between my fingers. Now, I punch it best that I can into her throat. We’re too close, inside each other’s kill zones. Once again, I dig in with my makeshift weapon. Even if I can’t take a backswing for effective strike force, I can poke, press, scratch, and claw. She gurgles as the straw jabs deep into her windpipe, interfering with her ability to draw air. I shove harder, determined to capitalize on the advantage.

She wedges both hands between us, forcefully shoves me away. I fall to the side. Realize immediately I gotta move, move, move. The slightest twist on her part, a single pull of the trigger . . .

I thrust with my right hand, scoring the shard of glass down her arm, the back of her hand.

Us on the floor, fighting for the kitchen blade . . .

She gasps, flinches. I slash again and again, my fingers growing slippery with blood.

And she laughs. Breathlessly. Excitedly. Because this is what she likes. This is what she wants. There’s no pain for her, only pleasure.

I am merely Flora 2.0.

She is . . . She is . . .

Beyond Jacob. Beyond any of us. The monster other monsters fear.

She will get the kitchen knife. She will drive it deep into my chest, but only after having some fun first. Then my body will be fed to the gators. Never to be recovered. While Jacob goes out, snatches another girl, and starts the whole process all over again.

Stacey Summers, collapsed upstairs in desperate need of medical attention.

My mother, no doubt standing in my kitchen right now, baking, baking, baking, while she once again awaits word of her daughter.

I don’t want to die in this house any more than I wanted to die in a coffin-shaped box. I accept that I’m not a good person, or a happy person. I realize I can’t find peace walking through the woods of my childhood. I understand that I no longer know how to return my mother’s hug.

But somewhere deep inside, I still believe that one day I might be that person again. That just because I’ve turned into a monster doesn’t mean that one day I won’t change back again, and be the girl my mother and brother both miss.

Someday, I might find myself again.

Noises. In the distance. The groaning wrench of plywood, hard pounding footsteps. Beside me, Lindy stills, listening as well. Her gunshots have drawn notice. Others are coming. Most likely the police, SWAT officers with tear gas. If I can just buy time, they will save me again.

Except . . .

Lindy twists back at me. I stare at her.

And we both know what has to happen next.

Because this isn’t about outsiders. This is, has to be, about her and me.

My right hand slashes down with the shard of glass.

Her arms pop up, absorbing the strike just long enough to level the gun.

I follow with my left fist, plastic straw still tight beneath my fingers as I punch it hard into the side of her neck.

Her wheezing gasp. A suspended moment of time.

“I told him I’d kill you,” I whisper. “That last day. Tears and snot smeared all over his face. I told him I’d kill you next.”

She opens her mouth. I think she’s going to laugh again.

Instead, she pulls the trigger.

I hear the sound as if from far, far away. I feel the impact, an explosion of pain.

I am rocked back. I fall back.

Just as twin beams of light come dashing into the room.

“Police! Drop your weapon!”

The words are hard to hear through the ringing in my ears, but I think I recognize the voice. The female detective from Saturday morning, the one who doesn’t like me.