Find Her (Detective D.D. Warren #8)(56)

Later, when he woke up, and declared once again that a man had needs, I didn’t shy away. I kept my eyes open, staring at him, wondering who Lindy was and what she’d done that gave her such power over him.

And what I could learn from her.

More days. More nights.

Till one afternoon, he pulled into a truck stop. Went inside to grab coffee and, without thinking about it, left me sitting there. Hands bound, left ankle shackled to yet another metal ring on the floor, but still, sitting in plain sight.

A state police cruiser pulled in, parked beside me. Door swung open. A tall man in uniform stepped out. He spotted me, nodded once, fingers on the brim of his cap, and I . . .

I sat with my hands fisted on my lap. I said nothing. I did nothing.

While my heart accelerated madly in my chest and for a moment . . .

I had a memory. Like a tickle in the back of my throat. My mom. I could picture her perfectly. Her arms outstretched, waiting for me. She was saying a name. Molly. Except that wasn’t quite right. Was it?

I wanted to raise my bound hands. I wanted to bang on the window, show my tied wrists. I wanted to yell, my name is . . . My name is . . .

I wanted to beg, please just take me home.

The state trooper staring right at me. Myself, hands on my lap, staring right back.

And then, in the next instant, I could see what he saw. A skinny, white trash girl with cheap clothes, lifeless eyes, and hacked-off blond hair. I saw Molly. Sitting in a big rig. Waiting for her wife-beating man to return to her.

And I didn’t feel like a bird about to burst out of its cage. I didn’t feel like a girl about to go home.

I felt ashamed. Like the shit-brown carpet, so many shades of nasty.

I wiped my mother’s image from my mind. I replaced her face with a bluebird sky. And I focused my gaze dead ahead.

The state trooper walked away.

Fake Everett returned. He spotted the cruiser. Jerked open the cab door, already appearing panicked. Then he saw me, just sitting there, eyes locked forward.

He got in, buckled up, drove away.

Neither of us said a word.

That night, when he was done, he didn’t put me back in the box. He let me stay out. Night after night. Day after day. No more coffin-size box.

Because Flora didn’t exist anymore, and we both knew it.

I wrote another postcard to my mom.

Dear Mom, I wrote. Having the best time, touring the country with the man of my dreams.





Chapter 24


UPON WAKING, I reach immediately for the water bottle, discovering it still tucked in the curve of my body. Good.

Lights remain out, the room its usual soul-sucking black. It doesn’t frighten me as much as it makes me impatient. Sooner or later, he’s going to flash on the lights. Not even monsters want to spend all their time in the dark.

For now, I orient myself, concentrating on the thin plastic of the water bottle, the lacy edge of my ridiculous nightie, and the welted edge of my mattress. And moisture, I realize belatedly. On my cheeks. Along with the taste of salt.

I’ve been crying in my sleep.

I dreamed of Jacob.

I lift my bound hands and quickly wipe the tears from my face. I don’t think about it; I don’t dwell on it. Survivors should never second-guess. If I hadn’t done what I did, I’d never be here today.

Once again kidnapped, dealing with cheap pine coffins.

I make a barking noise that might be laughter. Hard to tell. My throat’s dry. I decide to risk a small sip of water. It’s an important resource. A person can survive weeks without food, but only days without water. I know these things now. I deliberately researched them.

Which makes me angry at the impenetrable dark again. I didn’t study and train all these years just to be locked away like a pair of old shoes. Where the hell is my captor anyway? Doesn’t he want to gloat? Punish me? Assert his sexual superiority? What kind of freak goes to all this trouble, then never shows his face?

I sit up, swing my legs over the edge of the thin mattress.

An old pro by now, I sniff the air first, trying to detect any new scents that might indicate another meal delivery, even the smell of soap, shampoo, body odor, to signal someone else’s presence in the room.

I get nothing.

Next up, as long as I’m playing blindman’s bluff: sound. More carefully modulated breathing? Or the distant hum of traffic beyond the blacked-out windows, muffled thumps or thuds from other rooms in the house?

Once again, nothing.

I start crawling. Bump against the plastic bucket, veer right. I continue through the room to where there should be the remnants of the pine coffin. Except this time, when I find nothing, it actually means something.

He’s removed the shards. Realized they could be utilized as weapons and quickly carted them away? Which, of course, makes me immediately wonder about the ones I stashed inside the seam of my mattress. But I don’t dare double back to check, not when he could be watching.

Instead, I sit back on my heels, considering.

How is he doing this? Entering and exiting the room so quietly? It’s one thing for him to observe through the viewing window, then make his move once he thinks I’m asleep. Except I’m an extremely light sleeper. The odds of him dragging entire coffin-shaped boxes in and out without me ever stirring . . .

He must be drugging me. Sneaking in and placing more chloroform over my mouth? Except, contrary to popular belief, it’s not that easy to instantly knock someone out with a chloroform-soaked rag. Meaning I should’ve woken up fighting or, even now, detected remnants of the odor in the air.