Find Her (Detective D.D. Warren #8)(40)

As for the larger, unpainted glass surface across from them . . .

I’m guessing that’s an internal wall. Which doesn’t make sense for such a large picture window. Unless, of course, it’s not a window at all. A one-way mirror? That’s what I’m thinking. I can’t be certain, of course, but why construct such an elaborate setting for his playthings if not to watch the festivities inside?

I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before the lights come on. Blinding, disorienting. And the UNSUB (ask Samuel; that’s unidentified subject in FBI-speak) will take advantage of the chaos to check in on his charges.

Or maybe he’s watching even now. Military-issued night-vision goggles, anything is possible.

You must understand: Whatever demented thing you’re too scared to consider, that’s exactly what they’re already fantasizing about it. The big bads out there . . . Denial won’t help you. Suppression won’t save you.

Best to meet it head-on. Understand the enemy. Accept their depravities. Then find the void and soldier on.

Breathing. Still so relentlessly even. In. Out. In. Out.

How can she remain asleep? How can she not hear me bumbling around in the dark, tripping over the mattress, stubbing my toe against a wall here, the box there?

I can’t think about the coffin-size box. I can’t consider its possibilities, its contents. If I do, I lose the void. Because I’m good alone. I understand alone. I intended, always, forever, to be alone.

So the box. The fucking Darth Vader wannabe, not part of the equation. A totally unwelcome addition to my plan.

Is she drugged? That’s the only thing that makes sense to me. How else to explain unconsciousness lasting this long? Of course, I’m not sure how long this long has been. I fell asleep early afternoon. I woke up to an intruder in my apartment after dusk. And now?

I hate the damn dark. It’s disorienting.

I center my thoughts. I comb the room. Using sight and sound, which can be more helpful than you think.

Above the larger window—the viewing window?—I identify a high wall-mounted object. Smaller, soft, and foamy to the touch, it’s situated to the left of the smooth-glass mirror. A speaker, I’m guessing. He watches, and then, eventually, he’ll talk. Orders, taunts, whatever.

But sooner or later he’ll make himself known. And when he does, it’ll be all about him asserting control.

Breathing. In. Out. In. Out.

I should use it. Roll it into the void, turn it into part of my separation. Like focusing on the wind in the trees, or utilizing the toll of a bell. I can’t fight it. I can’t change it. I can’t block it. Hence, use it. Make it one with me.

I hate the damn breathing.

I find myself standing over the box. Tracing its shape, noting the roughness of the edges. A crude job. I’d like to say I recognize the craftsmanship. But cheap pine boxes are a dime a dozen. I never learned if Jacob crafted his own or purchased it elsewhere. I never asked the question before, and I certainly can’t ask it now.

She’s dying. I know that, kneeling over the box. Because that’s what happens to girls trapped in coffin-size boxes. Physically, mentally, is there a difference?

This girl, whatever made her her, is ebbing away, leaking into the wood, the floor, the black-painted room. Bit by bit. Inch by inch. Soon, Evil Kidnapper will pop open this lid and she’ll do whatever, say whatever he wants because it won’t matter anymore. The person she was will be gone. Only the shell will remain.

Girl Bot. Ready for programming.

The type of automaton ready to give up her own beloved father’s name.

I hate this girl in the box. As I discover myself slowly but surely shredding my own fingernails, a habit hard broken four years ago.

I fist my hands. Feel the pressure of my nails digging into my palm. And will myself into the void once again.

While she continues to breathe. In. Out. In. Out.

Padlock. Standard issue. That’s what secures the lid.

I have a moment, tracing the metal latch, where once again I’m in a filthy, food-stained, sex-soaked basement, studying my own box from the outside in. The sense of déjà vu unsettles me, makes this whole thing feel way too personal. More like Evil Kidnapper went looking for me than I went looking for him.

Back into the void, back into the void, back into the void. Feel nothing. Analyze everything.

Her breathing. In. Out. In. Out.

Stacey Summers? Could it be possible? Have I found her at last?

Suddenly, the void is gone. I feel only panic instead. I hate her, this girl, Stacey Summers, whoever, I don’t care! She shouldn’t be here. I left behind this fucking box. I dealt with the devil; I bargained my soul; I did what, according to Samuel, survivors do in order to see another day.

So how dare some girl get herself trapped in a box again? How dare she ruin this for me?

In. Out. In. Out. Breathing. Breathing. Breathing.

And just like that, moving before I even know I’m going to move, I fist my bound hands together and smash them against the top of the box. Again. And again and again.

Wake up, wake up, wake up.

Wake the fuck up!

Breathing. In. Out. In. Out.

What the hell? Who can sleep through this? It must be drugs. The only answer.

I bang again. I can’t help myself. I’m furious, at her, at me, at him? I don’t know anymore. The box, I think. I’m furious at the fucking box. It must go. I need it to be gone.