Find Her (Detective D.D. Warren #8)(18)

I wondered if he was here to finally take me away. Except I didn’t want to go away with my grandpa anymore. I wanted to be right here, in this crappy room with this terrible man and these wonderful, greasy fries. Please, please, please let me eat just one single fry . . .

I’d do anything, be anyone . . .

The man was unrolling the top of the bag. Now he reached in. Now he lifted out a red container marked with a single golden M. Fries jostled loose from the open top. They dropped to the floor, the grimy shag carpet. I watched them land, fingers clasping and unclasping, my whole body tense.

He was going to eat them. He was going to stand in front of me and eat each perfect, salty morsel. Laughing, gloating, gleeful.

And I’d have no choice but to kill him. I would lose control, I’d attack, and he would . . . He would . . .

He handed me the container. “Here. Seriously. For fuck’s sake, put some meat on your bones.”

I grabbed the fries. Both hands snatching up the red box. It wasn’t hot anymore. The fries were lukewarm, grease starting to congeal. I didn’t care. I tossed half the contents into my mouth, swallowing faster than I could chew. Food, food, food. Needed food, had to have food. God oh God oh God.

He started laughing. I didn’t look at him, kept my attention focused on the bag. I needed to eat. I had to eat. My stomach, my body, every cell screamed for sustenance.

My mouth was too dry, the smooshed fries too thick. I tried to swallow, but only managed to gag until my eyes watered. I was going to be sick, I thought, except I couldn’t be sick; I couldn’t afford to waste that many calories. I tried to force the food down, a giant glob of congealed potatoes. My eyes watered, my throat constricting painfully. My stomach heaved in protest . . .

He placed his hand on my arm.

I stared at him, stricken. This was it: He was going to take the macerated fries right out of my mouth. Reach in a finger and scoop out the only food I’d had in days. And that would be that. He’d return me to the coffin-size box and I would die there.

“Slow down,” he ordered. “Get some water. Take some time. Otherwise, you’ll barf.”

He handed me a bottle of water. I took tiny sips, bit by bit, breaking up the glob of food, swallowing it down. When I finally reached for the next handful of fries, he took the box from me. This time, he separated out each fry on top of the grimy card table. One by one, I picked them up. One by one, under his watchful eye, I chewed, swallowed, chewed again.

When the fries were gone, he opened up the fried chicken and handed me a drumstick.

We ate together. Me kneeling on the floor, him sitting in a chair. But we sat together, eating our way through bag after bag of food. I became full faster than I wanted. I threw up, my stomach protesting the very food it couldn’t wait to have. He didn’t yell. Just ordered me to wash my face, then handed me a soda.

He fell asleep on the sofa while I was still resiliently picking my way through a turkey sandwich. When I couldn’t take it anymore, when no amount of vomiting eased the pain of my overstretched stomach, I curled up on the floor next to his feet and dozed off myself.

When I woke up later, he was looking down at me.

“Girl,” he said, “you smell like fast food and piss.”

After another moment, he folded his arms, closed his eyes. “Tomorrow,” he grunted. “Tomorrow, it’s time for you to shower.”

And I was completely, utterly grateful to him.





Chapter 9


THE BLOND DETECTIVE DOESN’T WANT TO LET ME GO. She threatens to get a warrant to compel me to submit to a physical exam. Why not, if I’m telling the truth? A medical exam would only further corroborate my version of being attacked by Devon Goulding.

I think she’s a little hung up on the word corroborate.

No one is touching me. Not a doctor. Not a nurse. Not a vet.

When I make it that clear to her, that absolute, she seems to finally take the hint. She studies me long and hard, then agrees to my compromise: photos of the bruises on my face.

I understand what the detective wants. I understand what they all want. In this day and age, it’s not enough to claim to be assaulted. A victim must prove it. For example, the size of this bruise on my face matches the approximate size of my attacker’s fist. Or the one-inch laceration on my upper left cheekbone corresponds to the sharp edge on the perpetrator’s oversize class ring.

As for other areas of inspection, I’m very clear: There’s no need for a rape exam. Devon Goulding can blame the contents of his own garbage for helping me avoid that displeasure.

And I feared for my life. Waking up bruised, battered, stripped naked, wrists bound. I feared for my life. I feared for my life. I feared for my life.

Would you like my official statement?

I feared for my life.

Dr. Keynes and I don’t talk as he leads me to his car. Frankly, it’s all just been said.


*

WHEN I REGAINED CONSCIOUSNESS five years ago, Samuel was the first person I saw. He was asleep in the chair next to my hospital bed. He wore a charcoal-gray suit, jacket unbuttoned, red tie askew, left leg crossed over right.

His black dress shoes were shined to a high gloss. I studied them for a long time, mesmerized. Dress shoes. Men’s patent leather dress shoes. I almost couldn’t fathom the concept.

We discussed it later. One of our many conversations back in the day when I would talk to him and only to him. That something as simple as dress shoes could be so startling. As in, I was awake a good hour before I ever said a word, ever alerted anyone to my newfound entry into the land of the living. Instead, I simply lay there, staring at a man’s shoes.