Find Her (Detective D.D. Warren #8)(17)

D.D. stared at him. “Seriously. She called you, an FBI agent—”

“A victim specialist.”

“To give her a ride home.”

“There’s more to it than that.”

“You mean, such as, as long as you’re here, you can run interference with the police?”

“No, such as, as long as I’m taking her home, I can run interference with her mother.”





Chapter 8


I DREAMED OF FRENCH FRIES. Hot, golden greasiness. Salt-encrusted decadence. Licking them, smashing them, stuffing them in my mouth. I wanted dozens. Bagfuls. Boxes full. Dipped in ketchup. Smothered in mayonnaise. Coated in ranch dressing.

And a burger dripping cheese on a pillow-soft white bun and piled high with fresh-sliced tomatoes, onions, and pickles. I’d take greedy, gulping bites, sinking in my teeth, feeling the fat and carbs explode against my tongue.

I dreamed of food. As my stomach growled and my muscles clenched and I whimpered in physical pain.

Then, I woke up.

And I could smell it. Here, in the room. Full fast-food glory. Cheeseburgers. French fries. Chicken McNuggets. I could hear it too, the rustle of food wrappings, the pop of a straw being thrust through a plastic lid.

I think I whimpered again. There’s no pride in starvation. Only desperation.

Footsteps. Coming closer. For once, I prayed for him to step faster, advance more quickly. Insert the key in the padlock, twist it open. Please. Pretty please.

Whatever he wanted me to do. Whatever he needed.

French fries. The smell of French fries.

When he lifted the lid, I had to blink against the flood of light. From narrow beams through finger-size holes to a wash of bright white. My eyes welled. Maybe in response to the sudden onslaught of visual stimulation, but mostly due to the smell. The wonderful, intoxicating smell.

Memories. Hazy. Humanizing. Running through sprinklers on short chubby legs, laughing with little-kid glee as I tried to catch droplets of spray on my tongue. Then a voice, distant but familiar. “Tired, love? Let’s go get a milkshake . . .”

Fast-forward a couple of years. Fresh memory: hands age-spotted, shaking unsteadily as they set down the brown plastic tray. “Ketchup? Nah. Best thing on fries is mayo. Now, looky here . . .”

For a moment, I am four, or six, or eight, or ten. I’m a child, a girl, a woman. I am me. With a past and a present. With family and friends. With people who love me.

Then he spoke, and I disappeared again.

There was only the food, and I’d do anything for it.

He had to help me out of the box. I did my best to exercise as much as I could in the narrow space, but time had grown long and I didn’t always remember what I should do or if I’d already done it. I slept a lot. Slept and slept and slept.

Then I didn’t have to hurt as much anymore.

When I finally rose to standing, my legs shook uncontrollably. I hunched reflexively, as if expecting a blow, but I couldn’t blame my rounded posture on the box. I was always lying tall and straight in the box.

“Are you hungry?” he asked me.

I didn’t answer; I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to. Besides, my stomach growled loudly enough for words.

He laughed. He was in a good mood. Cheerful even. I found myself standing up straighter. He was cleaner tonight, I noticed. Hair damp, as if he’d recently showered. And he was steady on his feet, gaze clear, which wasn’t always the case. I found myself looking past him, to the battered gray card table. Food. Bags and bags. McDonald’s. Kentucky Fried Chicken. Burger King. Subway sandwiches. A fast-food banquet.

He’s bingeing, I realized. Food, not drugs this time. But why? And what about me?

“Are you hungry?” he asked again.

I still didn’t know what to say. I whimpered instead.

He laughed magnanimously. This room was his kingdom. I got that. Here, I was his property and he got to revel in his power. Beyond these walls, no doubt he was a Loser, capital L. Men disrespected him. Women laughed at him. Hence, his need for this room, this box, this helpless victim.

And now, this exercise in terror.

I moved, tentatively. I’d learned by now that his permission was all-important. And everything he gave, he could also take away, so I had to proceed with caution. When he didn’t object, didn’t reach out a hand to stop me, I closed the gap with the food-covered table. Then I stood, head ducked, hands clasped meekly before me. I waited, though it was the most painful waiting I’d ever done. Each muscle trembling, my stomach clenched unbearably tight.

“What do you want?” he asked.

I frowned, his question confusing me. I didn’t know what I wanted. I’d been trained these past few weeks to be no one, to want nothing. That was my job. Now, I was scared. Because the smell was intoxicating, overwhelming. I could feel my self-control slipping and I couldn’t afford to mess up.

Worse than starving would be to stand surrounded by food and still go hungry.

“You should eat,” he stated at last. He jabbed my bony arm, pinched a protruding rib. “Getting too thin. You look like crap, you know.”

He picked up the bag closest to him. Opened it up, waved it under my nose.

McDonald’s French fries. Hot and golden and salty.

I could hear my grandfather again. “Looky, kid, best thing on fries is mayo.”