Find Her (Detective D.D. Warren #8)(36)

I recoil. I can’t help myself. Then, instinctively, I grab the empty plastic bucket and clutch it to my chest. As what? A hammer or a shield?

I’m not thinking anymore. I want to. But for all my experience, training, and bravado, my heart rate has once again climbed and I’m shaking uncontrollably on my feet.

While across the room, maybe five, six feet from me . . .

Breathing.

In. Out. In. Out.

He’s here. Watching me. Waiting for me to panic, freak out, beg for mercy? Or just enjoying the show?

Just like that, I’m angry. I don’t care what he does or what he thinks he can do to me. Compared to Jacob Ness, Mr. Silky Nightgown, Mr. Breathing Heavy, is nothing but a carnival sideshow. A Freak.

Just because he broke into my triple-locked apartment, ambushed me with drugs, and spirited me away to some blacked-out dungeon . . . I refuse to be afraid of him.

Instead, I’m thinking of my first visit with Samuel, the day after I got out of the hospital:

“Do you remember what you did to survive, Flora? Every rebellion, every submission, every lie, every adaptation?”

My own slow nod.

“Good. Don’t forget. Don’t second-guess. Accept. It may not feel like it right now, but you’re strong, Flora. You survived. Don’t let anyone take that from you. And don’t take it from yourself. You’re a tough girl. Four hundred and seventy-two days later, you saved yourself. Based on that alone, you never need to feel frightened again.”

I set down the bucket. I focus on the sound of his even breathing. Slowly but surely, I match it to my own until I inhale as he inhales, then exhale as he exhales. In. Out. In. Out. We are breath for breath, perfectly pitched.

And I understand already, in this introductory battle of wills, the person who speaks first loses.

He’ll move. I’m certain of it. No one goes to this much trouble just to watch. So I fix my gaze in the direction of his breathing, and I stare as hard and defiantly as I can. Come on, freak. Show me what you got.

In. Out. In. Out. I’ve never heard such even breathing. Without the slightest quickening from excitement, or a missed beat from shock. Just in, out, in, out. As if he really doesn’t care that I’m upright and staring straight at him.

As if he really is that much in control.

With all the time in the world . . .

My own breathing hitches. I don’t mean to. Hate to give him the satisfaction. But the steady, even beat is getting to me. No one breathes that regularly. No one, in this situation, can possibly keep that calm.

Then, suddenly . . . a dawning realization. A slowly shuddering fear.

No, I don’t want. Please not . . .

I can’t help myself. Having had the thought, now I must know. Shuffling forward. One step, two, three, four.

My toe hits it first. I stop. Freeze in my tracks and focus my ears once again.

Breathing. Much closer now. But just as steady. In. Out. In. Out.

I extend my arms. Order myself to be strong. Remind myself I’ve already been through the worst; I can handle anything.

Still, as my fingers encounter the first wooden edge of the coffin-shaped box . . .

While from inside comes the continued sound of the occupant’s steady breath. In. Out. In. Out. Sleeping, because what else is there to do when trapped in a dark wooden box?

I close my eyes. It doesn’t help. I can still hear her breathing. My fellow abductee, his prior victim. In. Out. In. Out.

Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no.

“I am not afraid,” I hear myself whisper.

But in my mind, I can see Jacob, and he is laughing again.





Chapter 17


NEWBIE DETECTIVE CAROL MANLEY was the first to arrive at Flora’s apartment. But if she seemed surprised to discover her supervisor actually on site, she did a good job of disguising it. Phil and Neil followed shortly after, and then the party really got started.

District detectives were assigned to canvass the neighborhood and interview available residents for any possible witnesses to Flora Dane’s recent comings and goings, while a sketch artist would be sent to visit the landlords. Carol volunteered to pull security video from the corner store, as well as peruse local traffic cams for any sighting of Flora. Given the volume of footage, however, they needed to narrow down the timeline of Flora’s disappearance in order to be more efficient.

Phil did the honors of searching her computer, while Neil placed a call to the girl’s cellular provider and credit card companies. Unfortunately, Flora’s network browser didn’t show any activity for the past thirty-six hours—since shortly before she headed out for her ill-fated adventure with the predatory bartender. Her cell registered only a single call from her mom the evening before, while her credit card hadn’t been used in a week. Frugal of her, but not helpful for moments like this.

D.D. prowled the tiny apartment, feeling restless. Keynes was tucked in a corner, mobile phone pressed against his ear. He’d agreed to fill in the mom, not a job D.D. envied.

Like most major cities, Boston had electronic eyes everywhere. From business cams to traffic cams to ATM cams, every street, every corner, yielded possible surveillance opportunities. In theory, this should produce a bonanza of information for investigators. Except that was exactly the problem. There was too much footage, and much of it low-quality resolution. Meaning security footage worked best when used backward—first formulate what you think there is to see, at what time it most likely happened, and then go look for it.