Find Her (Detective D.D. Warren #8)(39)

D.D. shrugged. “Adrenaline rush. Post-traumatic stress. Some God syndrome where she enjoys reveling in her own power after four hundred plus days of feeling powerless.”

“I don’t know,” Keynes said, which surprised her. “I doubt Flora knows why she’s doing what she’s doing either. Or, at least, can put her finger on one particular stressor. Who she reminds me of is a soldier who returns home from her tour of duty, only to re-up again and then again. At the end of the day, real life feels too alien, while knowing the war is still going on, that she has brothers out there still fighting . . .”

“Is that what those articles are?” D.D. asked. “Her brothers-in-arms? The missing people she can’t leave behind?”

“Maybe.”

“Do you think there’s a connection between Flora’s disappearance and Stacey Summers’s kidnapping?”

Keynes didn’t answer as much as he hesitated. D.D. did a little double take, letting the curtain drop and stepping away from the window.

“You do, don’t you?”

“When Flora’s landlady, Mrs. Reichter, described the ‘building inspector,’ my first thought was the Stacey Summers abduction video. Not to mention, three months later, there are no leads, no additional witness statements, no new information in that case. You have to admit, it takes a particular kind of predator to pull that off.”

“You mean such as the kind of guy who would pose as a building inspector to copy a set of keys?”

“The idea crossed my mind. Plus, the front door of Flora’s apartment being left open, all the windows unlocked. It feels to me, whoever did this—he’s showing off. Bragging even. Which would make sense if this isn’t the first time he’s gotten away with something.”

D.D. arched a brow. She didn’t know exactly what to make of Keynes’s suspicions. Even if he was onto something, given how little they knew about Stacey Summers’s disappearance, linking Flora’s case to hers hardly helped them. What they needed was a detailed sketch provided by the elderly landlords downstairs. Then, they needed half a dozen witness statements tracking the perpetrator’s trek through the neighborhood, plus a parking ticket issued to the evildoer’s personal vehicle. Short of that . . .

D.D. turned toward the window again. “Is it possible we have it all wrong? Flora wasn’t kidnapped at all but simply broke under the stress of the past twenty-four hours and ran off?”

“No.”

“Because she wouldn’t leave her cell phone behind, or her personal computer, yada yada yada.”

“No, because she wouldn’t do that to her mother.”

D.D. sighed again. Everything about this case already hurt her, and she had a feeling it was only going to get worse. “I need to talk to Rosa. Both about her daughter, but also her involvement with the Summers family.”

“If I might make a recommendation?”

D.D. shot Keynes a look. “By all means.”

“I don’t think you should question Rosa just yet. If anyone knows about the family dynamics and the latest developments, it’s Pam Mason, the Summerses’ victim advocate. You want insights, speak to her first.”





Chapter 18


WOULD YOU LIKE TO KNOW HOW TO AVOID ABJECT TERROR?

How to fight nighttime chills, the fear of the bogeyman under the bed? How to sleep like an angel? Or walk down dark alleyways with a spring in your step?

Do you want to know how to be me?

First, you find the void. It’s a place everyone has, deep, deep inside themselves. That spot no one can touch. I have it on expert testimony that some find it through meditation or Zen retreats or the diligent pursuit of mindfulness. Let’s just say I discovered the void under different circumstances.

But everyone has it. A place where you stand in silence. A place that permits you to be untouched even in a crowded room. A place where you are utterly, totally, simply, terrifyingly alone.

Once you are there, no one can hurt you. And once no one can hurt you, you never have to be afraid again.


*

IT’S THE DARKNESS THAT GETS TO ME. I keep thinking that my eyes will adjust. That there will be a lessening of the gloom. But no. The pitch-black depths remain absolute. I hold out my bound hands time and time again to test; I still can’t see them.

I’m left in a land of sound and feel. So I put both to good use.

I don’t understand the purpose of the tethering chain connected to the handcuffs around my wrists. Best I can tell, I have full range of the room, so it’s hardly limiting access. Is it to keep me from bounding through a suddenly opened door? Racing toward the light? I don’t know, then force myself to put it from my mind. Motives aren’t worth worrying about yet. Tangibles are.

I explore the room. Nine steps form the width, side to side. Twelve long strides provide the length. Contents appear to be three items: A twin-size mattress, flat on the floor, covered in a simple cotton blanket. A standard-issue plastic bucket sans handle. And a coffin-size box.

I still hear breathing. Slow and even. In and out. In and out. It becomes the background noise for my endeavors. Like the sound of ocean waves, the rhythm of my heartbeat. I already hate it.

Windows. Three of them. With my fingertips, I can make out the trim. Two upon one wall, both modest in size. Singles, I believe you’d call them. Classic New England architecture. The larger window is on the wall across from them. Twice as wide as it is tall, its dimensions remind me more of a mirror. When I run my fingers along it, I feel cool glass. In contrast, the smaller windows across from it are textured and rough, as if painted or otherwise obscured. I try to scratch at the coating with my fingernails but can’t make a dent. So not residential paint, but maybe something more industrial such as powder coating or enamel. These windows must be outer windows, thickly covered. Hence my lack of light.