Find Her (Detective D.D. Warren #8)(121)

“Okay.”

“Are you crying?”

“Detectives don’t cry.”

“But a restricted duty supervisor . . .”

“Maybe.”

“Thank you for still being alive.”

“Thank you for having my back.”

“Did you find the missing girls?”

“Both Stacey Summers and Flora Dane.”

“That’s great! Are they all right?”

D.D. told him the truth: “We don’t know yet.”


*

I WAKE UP TO BRIGHT LIGHTS. I’m staring at white ceiling panels high overhead, a scratchy sheet tucked tight around my chest, metal bed rail clearly visible. I turn my head just enough to see Samuel sitting slumped in the chair, head in his hands. No suit this time, but a jet-black dress shirt and dark jeans that would be more appropriate for a nightclub than a hospital room.

My mom is on a plane, I find myself thinking, then have to catch myself.

I’m not in Georgia. I’m in Boston. And I haven’t just escaped from Jacob; I’ve escaped from Jacob’s daughter. For a moment . . . there are so many thoughts in my head. So many memories, emotions. I’m not sure where the past ends and the present begins. I’m not sure who I was, and who I will ever be again.

I’m in limbo.

It’s not the worst feeling in the world. All the promise of a fresh start without the pain of actually attempting it.

My shoulder aches. My head is fuzzy. My mouth is dry.

Lindy with her gun. Me with my broken glass and plastic straw. She pulled the trigger. So did the detective. And we all fell down.

She’s dead. I don’t have to ask to know. Lindy must be dead. It’s the only way to explain me being alive.

I got out. I’m free.

And just the thought makes me start to laugh, though it’s not a happy sound coming from my throat.

Samuel appears immediately at my side. Offers me water, fusses with the edge of the blanket. I don’t see my mom yet, but she must be in the hospital somewhere. Even if she hates me, is heartbroken, furious, devastated, she’s not the type to back down from a fight. I guess I get that from her.

I’m laughing again. Or crying. Because here I am, except who am I? A killer? A woman only comfortable in the dark?

A woman with no promises left to keep. Except who is that exactly?

I wish I could scrub my brain. I wish I could bleach my eyes. I wish I could take my entire body and empty it out. No more memories of coffin-shaped boxes, or Jacob’s tobacco-stained teeth, or exactly how it smells when human flesh bursts into flame.

I would give it all up. Remember nothing. Know nothing.

I would be simply a girl running through the woods of Maine, sneaking pieces of cheese to the foxes.

Samuel is holding my left hand, as my right shoulder is heavily bandaged.

“You’re a survivor,” he’s saying. “You’re strong. You can do this. You are a survivor.”

“Stacey Summers?” I hear myself whisper.

“Thanks to you, we found her and got her to the hospital in time. You did it, Flora. You did it.”

I find myself smiling, but again, not the happiest look. Because I know better than anyone that this moment, right now, is the only easy one. This one second, where Stacey gets to wake up, finally free, with her parents by her side. And they cry, and she cries, and everyone is so relieved. Their wildest dream has just come true.

And the other moments? Tomorrow, the next day, the one after that?

She will need help, I think.

And then . . .

She will have it. From me, from Samuel, from my mother. We all started this journey together, each in our own way. I would finish it. If Stacey would let me, I would be there for her. I’ve fought enough alone in the dark. It might be nice to try working together with someone to find the light.

The next question I ask Samuel with my eyes because I can’t say the words out loud.

“She died at the scene,” he offers simply. “It appears she and Devon Goulding kidnapped at least three girls together. Kristy Kilker died. But you, Stacey Summers. You two made it.”

“I didn’t know Lindy was even in town,” I murmured. “I went to Tonic Friday night because Stacey’s friends said they went there on occasion. Lindy . . . Jacob’s daughter. I never knew she was in Boston. Never even suspected.”

“You met her when you were with Jacob.”

I understand the question he’s really asking. Why didn’t I ever talk about her, alert authorities? I tell him the truth: “No one wants to be a monster.”

“You’re not a monster, Flora. You’re a survivor.”

“It’s not enough. You think it will be. But it’s not.”

“You saved a girl’s life.”

“I killed a man.” And that quickly, I can feel the darkness rushing in again. “I watched him burn and didn’t even care. I stood alone in the void. I’m always alone in the void!”

“Then make a different choice, Flora. No one said living is easy. You’re still going to have to get up each morning. And you’re going to have to make decisions. It’s been five years, and here we are again. Do you really want to keep making the same choices?”

I don’t have an answer. He’s told me similar things before. First, you survive. Next, you have to stop feeling like a victim.