Find Her (Detective D.D. Warren #8)(62)

“I don’t know. You’d have to contact FBI agent Kimberly Quincy out of Atlanta. She’s the one who located Jacob and led the raid to rescue my daughter.”

D.D. glanced at Samuel, who nodded.

“Were you there?” she asked him.

“No.”

“But you know what happened.”

“Only from hearsay. And as for anything Flora might have told me . . . We struck a deal that first day. She told me her story once. I repeated it for the official record. And now, we both keep her focused on the future.”

She turned her attention to Rosa. “You’ve mentioned a brother—”

“Darwin.”

“Are he and Flora close? Would she have spoken to him about what she was up to?”

“Darwin is in London,” Rosa said.

D.D. shrugged. “Which is why there’s texting, e-mail, Skype?”

She kept her gaze on Rosa, who was clearly hesitating.

Interestingly enough, it was Keynes who spoke next, except not to D.D., but to Rosa. “Have you told him?”

“No.”

“Wait,” D.D. spoke up. “You mean you haven’t told Darwin his sister is missing?”

Keynes continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “Are you going to tell him?”

Again, that hesitation. “He’s just getting his life back. If you could’ve seen him, what this did to him the first time she disappeared. The helplessness, the hopelessness. He gave up college, halted his entire life. And then she came back. Our own happily-ever-after. Except . . . she wasn’t happy. The mood swings, the night terrors. The feeling that some imposter had taken her body. This wasn’t my daughter, his sister. This couldn’t be our Flora.”

Rosa looked up. “He’s just now getting himself together. How do I call and spring this on him? Again. So, what, he can drop everything? Again. Feel helpless and hopeless. Again. Even if he did come back, to do what? No postcards this time. At least not yet. In fact, best I can tell, you have no leads at all.”

“So are you going to tell him?” D.D. repeated Keynes’s question, because she thought it was a good one.

“He can’t help you,” Rosa said. “Darwin has been away for years. He’s doing his own thing, being his own person. Whatever Flora was up to, she wouldn’t have told him. She’s hurt him enough already, and she knows it. Now if you don’t mind, it’s getting late. I’m tired. I need a place to stay, and I’d like to use my daughter’s apartment, if that’s possible.”

“You’re not heading back to Maine?” Keynes asked.

“No.”

D.D. had to glance at her watch, get her bearings. Sunday, 7:00 P.M. Where had the day gone? Just this morning she was working a dead rapist case, and now . . . She had to think about it.

D.D. said, “Apartment is off-limits for tonight; we’re still processing. How long do you plan to stay?”

“How long will it take you to find my daughter?”

D.D. didn’t have an answer for that one.

“I’ll do my best to stay out of your way, Detective.” Rosa Dane gathered up her things. “But don’t expect me to remain on the sidelines. My daughter isn’t the only one who learned some hard lessons seven years ago. You have your job. And now, I’m going to do mine.”

Rosa swept out the door, Samuel Keynes following close behind.

“Hang on,” D.D. tried to say.

But neither one of them turned around.





Chapter 26


THE GIRL IS CRYING.

I can’t see her, only hear her in the pitch black. I should do something. Move, talk, assist. I can’t. I just . . . can’t. Somehow, I’ve retreated to the far wall, sitting on the mattress with as much distance from the girl as I can get, knees curled to my chest, bound arms looped around my knees. I’m too stunned to react. I know how to take care of myself. Are you in pain? Are you hungry? Are you thirsty? Are you uncomfortable? No? Then you’re all right.

I’m uncomfortable, I think wildly. I have training and preparation and experience. But I never saw this coming. I’m supposed to take care of myself, fight to save myself. Not . . . this.

Her cries are quiet. More whimpers than sobs. The kind of crying done when you’re exhausted and dehydrated. When you’ve already used up your supply of real tears and this is all you have left.

I recognize this kind of crying. I’ve done it myself.

Water. Somewhere along the way, I dropped the water bottle. I should crawl forward and find it. I should crawl forward and . . . help.

It’s not easy to do. In fact, it’s excruciatingly difficult. Why? I’m the one who collects images of lost people. I’m the one who assigned myself as personal savior of Stacey Summers. So now, faced with the opportunity to really, truly lend a hand . . .

I don’t want her to be her.

I don’t want her thinking I can actually save her.

I don’t want her, I don’t want anyone, depending on me.

She’s a resource. Is that a cold thought, a callous thought? But it comes to me. She’s a resource. Her clothing, items she might have in her pocket, clips from her hair. Who knows? And if she’s been allowed more freedom and privileges, say, a belt buckle—oh, the possibilities.