Find Her (Detective D.D. Warren #8)(54)

D.D.’s turn to arch a brow, but never argue with a grieving father.

“How much did you pay her?” she asked in clipped tones.

“Nothing.”

But D.D. caught the edge. “Nothing . . . yet?” She sat back. “Reward. You offered her a reward if she helped find your daughter.”

“We’re already offering a public reward. Nothing wrong with that.”

“I disagree. Flora Dane may talk the talk, but at the end of the day, she is just a young woman. A past victim. You took advantage of her obsessions.”

“She offered. Given how little progress the professionals have made, I didn’t feel inclined to argue. But no money has changed hands and you can’t prove anything.”

“Did she bring you word of your daughter?”

“No. Actually, I hadn’t heard anything more from her. But I figured it would take time for her to work her channels, as she called it. Then, Saturday, when I turned on the news and heard about that bartender . . . I knew. I knew it had to be Flora, searching for my daughter.”

“Except Devon Goulding didn’t kidnap your daughter.”

“Shouldn’t you be asking Flora about that?”

“We can’t. Flora’s gone missing. In fact, we have reason to believe she was abducted from her apartment sometime late yesterday. Perhaps by the same man who took Stacey. I guess you can say we do have a new lead in your daughter’s case, Mr. Summers. We’re no longer looking for one missing girl, we’re now looking for at least two.”





Chapter 23


NO ONE WANTS TO BE A MONSTER.

Fake Everett told me this time and again. It wasn’t his fault he was the way he was. He didn’t ask to have sex fantasies every minute of every waking hour. To be turned on by pictures of big-boobed girls bound and gagged. To be aroused by the sound of metal chains snaking across the floor.

He once read a news story about a peeping tom discovered in the honey bucket of some state park’s composting toilet.

The peeping tom made up some tale of having lost his wedding ring, had to go in after it. But the police discovered the guy had a whole history of being caught in port-a-johns, outhouses, all that crap—fake Everett would laugh as he said the word crap, pleased with himself.

Anyway, some expert claimed the guy had a potty fetish. He was aroused by standing in poo, spying on strange women doing doody.

Not making this up, fake Everett would say, taking his hands off the steering wheel of his big rig, as if to prove his point.

Now, who in his right mind would choose to be turned on by crap? Everett would continue. It was a sickness, clearly, an obsession he probably wished he didn’t have. Imagine a life sneaking around looking for public potties? Covered in stench?

Well, kidnapping me, raping me, assaulting me, that wasn’t his fault either—fake Everett was very earnest on this subject.

For as long as he’d had memory, he’d been filled with thoughts of sex. Even as a little boy, before he knew what sex was, he’d stare at boobs and wish he could touch ’em. His mom’s, his grandma’s, total strangers. It didn’t matter. He knew there was something out there he wanted, had to have. Just took him a bit to understand what it all meant, and then . . .

He’d tried to be normal, he’d whine. Have a girlfriend, stick to missionary, tell himself he could be satisfied with three times a night. He’d even gotten himself a wife. Surely that would work.

Except he didn’t want plain-Jane sex. He didn’t want some dutiful wife lying like a cold fish beneath him. He was a man; he had needs. And obsessions. Deep hardwired fantasies and thoughts he couldn’t let go, even if no one understood but him.

He’d beat up his first wife. Pounded her to a bloody pulp so bad he’d had to call an ambulance. The docs in the ER had ratted him out, and the police had arrested him while his wife was still unconscious and couldn’t explain it was all her fault—a good wife should never say no.

He’d had to serve time, which had been a lesson in and of itself. Plenty of sex behind bars—don’t get him started—but none of it was his kind of deal. Definitely no place for a man with his needs.

In prison, he’d had to attend group sessions. For rage management. Impulse control. Even learned about sex addiction. First time he’d ever heard there was something abnormal about wanting so much sex all the time. Something unhealthy.

He decided when he got out he’d try to quit. Like an alcoholic, he’d go cold turkey. No sex, no terrible hungers, no fits of rage, no more time in jail. Good deal.

Except people can live without alcohol. But no man can live without sex.

Which is how he ended up attacking a fourteen-year-old girl.

Not his fault. He didn’t ask to be born this way.

No one wants to be a monster.

His mama wasn’t bad. His father, well, yeah, he was a real asshole. But he was never around. Nah, fake Everett was raised by his mama, who worked two jobs, chain-smoking in between. When he was real little, he’d shuttled between her and his grandma’s house. When he was older, six or seven, he stayed home alone. He’d watch TV shows where the women were super skinny with massive chests and clingy tops. Then he found his father’s stash of skin mags. After that, he couldn’t wait for his mother’s work shifts. He spent hour after hour flipping through pages, staring at the pictures.