Find Her (Detective D.D. Warren #8)(3)

“You a tease?” he yelled at her, hand squeezing her breast, face screaming just inches from hers.

This close, she smelled the beer on his breath, noted the distinct webbing of red veins around his nose. Closet drinker. She should’ve realized that sooner. Kind of guy who liquored up before coming to the bar because it was cheaper that way. Meaning he wasn’t there for the booze at all but to hook up. To find a girl like her and take her home.

In other words, he was perfect for her.

She should say something. Or stomp her heel on the instep of his foot. Or grab his pinky—not his whole hand, just the pinky finger—and wrench it back till it touched his wrist.

He’d scream. He’d let her go.

He’d look into her eyes and realize his mistake. Because big cities such as Boston were filled with guys like him.

But also with girls like her.

She never got a chance.

He was shouting. She was smiling. Maybe even still laughing. With her head ringing and the taste of blood salting her tongue. Then Mr. Haven’t I Seen You Here Before ceased to exist.

He was there. Then he was gone. Replaced by the body-conscious bartender with the amazing pecs and now a very concerned look on his face.

“Are you okay?” he asked. “Did he hurt you? Do you need help? Do you want to call the cops?”

He offered his arm. She took it, stepping over the body of Mr. Haven’t I Seen You Around Here Before, who was knocked, slack-jawed, to the ground.

“He shouldn’t have touched you like that,” the bartender informed her soberly. Leading her away from the gawkers gathering around. Leading her deeper into the shadows beyond the perimeter of the bar’s flashing lights.

“It’s okay. I’ll take care of you now.”

As she realized for the first time that the bartender was gripping her arm harder than necessary. Not letting go.


*

SHE TRIED TO TALK HER WAY OUT OF IT. Even when you knew better, it was a natural place to start. Hey, big boy, what’s your hurry? Can’t we just slow down? Hey, you’re hurting me. But of course he never broke his stride, nor relaxed his bruising grip above her elbow.

He was walking funny, keeping her tucked against his side, like two lovers out on a very fast stroll, but his head was tucked down and tilted to the side. Keeping his face in the shadows, she realized. So no one could see him.

Then, it came to her. The line of his posture, the way he moved. She’d seen him before. Not his face, not his features, but the hunch of his shoulders, the rounded bend of his neck. Three or four months ago, summertime, on the evening news, when a Boston College student went out drinking and never came home again. The local stations had repeatedly aired a video clip from a nearby security camera, capturing the girl’s last known moments as she was hustled away by an unknown male, head twisted from view.

“No,” she breathed.

He didn’t acknowledge her protest. They’d come to an intersection. Without hesitation, he yanked her left, down a darker, skinnier street that already smelled of urine and dumpster trash and dark things never spoken of again.

She dug in her heels, sobering up quickly now, doing her best to resist. At 110 pounds to his 190, her efforts hardly made a difference. He jerked her tighter against him, right arm clamped around her waist, and continued on.

“Stop!” she tried to scream.

But no sound came out. Her voice was locked in her throat. She was breathless, lungs too constricted to scream. Instead, a faint whimper, a sound she was embarrassed to admit was her own but knew from past experience had to be.

“I have a family,” she panted at last.

He didn’t respond. Fresh intersection, new turn. Skittering between tall brick buildings, out of public view. She already had no idea where they were.

“Please . . . stop . . .” she squeezed out. His arm was too tight around her waist, bruising her ribs. She was going to vomit. Willed it to happen as maybe that would gross him out, convince him to let her go.

No such luck. She heaved abruptly, purple liquid spewing from her mouth, spraying her feet, the side of his pants. He grimaced, jerked reflexively away, then quickly recovered and yanked her once again forward, pulling her by the elbow.

“I’m gonna be sick again,” she moaned, feet tangling, finally slowing his momentum.

“Drank too much.” His voice was filled with scorn.

“You don’t understand. You don’t know who I am.”

He paused long enough to adjust his grip on her arm. “Shouldn’t have come to the bar alone.”

“But I’m always alone.”

He didn’t get it. Or maybe he didn’t care. He stared at her, gaze flat, face expressionless. Then, his arm shot forward, and he socked her in the eye.

Her neck snapped back.

Her cheek exploded. Her eyes welled with tears.

She had a thought. Fleeting. Faint. Maybe the secret to understanding the universe. But then it was gone.

And much like Mr. Haven’t I Seen You Around Here Before, she ceased to exist.

Friday night. End of a long week. She’d earned this.


*

HE MOVED HER. By foot, by car, she didn’t know. But when she regained consciousness, she was no longer on the mean streets of Boston, but tucked somewhere dark and dank. The floor beneath her bare feet felt cold. Concrete. Cracked and uneven. A basement, she thought, or maybe a garage.