Find Her (Detective D.D. Warren #8)(12)

My brother, Darwin, went for speed. Tossing in handfuls of soil, jabbing in seeds. Even back then, he was impatient, wanting to be anywhere but there. My mother had named him well. He loved us, but from an early age we could both tell staying home wasn’t his cup of tea. If the deep woods sang to us, then the entire world sang to him. So he worked beside us, fast, efficient, but his mind always elsewhere. My mother would watch him and sigh. He’s a young soul, she would say, with a tender heart.

She worried for him. But never for me. I was the happy one. At least, that’s how the story goes.

My brother returned from college the minute he heard about my disappearance. He stayed by my mother’s side, first as her anchor. Then, when the first postcard arrived and it became clear I’d been kidnapped, my brother the adventurer became a warrior. Facebook, Twitter, these were the battlegrounds of choice. He created entire campaigns designed to rally complete strangers to help find me. And he brought me to life, personalized his little sister for the masses, photos of my first birthday, me on the farm, and, yes, me sitting on a knoll with fox kits. Except these photos weren’t really for the masses. They were for my abductor, to make him see me as a little girl, a sister, a daughter. My brother made it his mission to humanize me in order to help save my life.

I think that’s why he took it the hardest when I returned home and I was no longer the young woman from all those photos. I didn’t smile. I didn’t laugh. I didn’t play in the dirt or go looking for foxes. See, my kidnapper had a mission of his own, to remove all shred of humanity from me. To hollow me out, break me down, to turn me into nothing at all.

You think you’ll fight, or at least endure. You promise yourself you’ll be strong enough. But four hundred and seventy-two days later . . .

My brother had to leave the farm after my return. He had to get away from the sister I no longer was. I watched him go and was mostly grateful for his departure. One fewer set of eyes to follow me everywhere I went. One less person to be startled by the new, and definitely not improved, Flora Dane.

Once upon a time, I would’ve been saddened by my brother’s departure. I would’ve told you I love him, miss him, look forward to seeing him soon.

Once upon a time, I would’ve told you that I love my mom. She’s my best friend in the entire world, and while it was exciting to go off to college, I still look forward to weekends home.

Once upon a time, I was that kind of girl. Outdoorsy, fun-loving, happy.

Now, there are things I still can’t tell you about myself.

There are things I’m still having to learn as I go along.


*

THE SUN IS UP NOW. Sitting in the back of the patrol car, blanket tight around my shoulders, garbage drying on my face, I feel the sky lightening around me. I don’t look up. I don’t look around. I don’t have to see to know what’s going on.

To my left, inside the house of my would-be attacker, the crime scene techs are now scouring every inch. A handful of detectives are also going through the structure room by room, cataloging each electronic device, glancing at piles of mail, combing carefully through the bartender’s bedroom.

I hadn’t been lying earlier. I’m not a cop or an FBI agent. I’ve never met the girl who disappeared three months ago, Stacey Summers. Like the rest of Boston, or the country, for that matter, I’ve simply followed her case on the news.

But then again . . . I know her. I recognize her beaming smile from her senior pictures, all big blond hair and round blue eyes. I recognize her exuberance in all the high school cheerleader photos, red pom-poms thrust into the air. Then there’s the ominous videotape: security footage of a petite blonde being forcefully abducted by a hulking brute. Morning, noon, and night. There was never a bad time for news producers to roll the sensational image of a tipsy nineteen-year-old former cheerleader being dragged down a dark alley.

I read every account in the newspaper of her abduction. Sat mesmerized by her parents’ appearance on a nationally televised morning show, though in theory, I’ve sworn off that kind of thing. I watched her father, the strong corporate type, struggle with his composure, while her mom, an older, still beautiful woman, hand tucked firmly in her husband’s, begged for her daughter’s safe return.

Beautiful, happy, bubbly Stacey Summers. Who, according to her parents, would never hurt a fly.

I wonder what things she didn’t used to know. I wonder what lessons she’s already been forced to learn.

The truth is, I know Stacey Summers. I don’t want to. I don’t mean to. But I know Stacey Summers. It doesn’t take a PhD in psychology to understand that every time I look at her photo, or read another article, I’m really looking at me.

No one called my mother the first twenty-four hours after I went missing. No one knew I was gone. Instead, she received a confused message four days into spring break from my college roommate: Is Flora with you? Why didn’t she tell us she was heading home early?

Of course, my mother had no idea what Stella was talking about. Apparently it took a good twenty minutes to sort out that I wasn’t in Florida with Stella, nor was I magically back in Maine at my mother’s farm, nor had I miraculously returned to my college dorm room. In fact, no one had seen me in days.

My mother is not the type to panic. She set down the phone and proceeded to cover the basics. Contacted my older brother. Checked her e-mail. Skimmed my Facebook page. Her heartbeat accelerated slightly. Her hands began to shake.