Find Her (Detective D.D. Warren #8)(80)

I climbed off the bed, approached the TV.

A silver fox charm nestled in the hollow of her throat. I touched it, my finger so big against the small screen it obliterated all of the woman’s head. And I felt it again, that sense of déjà vu. Because I’d done this before, seen the woman who looked like my mom talking on TV. But that was months and months ago, eons ago. Way back when I was still a girl who thought I might one day go home.

Now, her picture back on TV caught me off guard. She shouldn’t still be talking about me. She shouldn’t still be missing me.

Jacob said nobody missed me anymore. Jacob said I was already dead. Jacob said my family was better off without me.

Jacob, Jacob, Jacob.

Jacob, who’d left me once again.

He’d screwed up a job. Not that he would admit to such a thing. But last month’s bender had led to last week’s delivery arriving late. Guy hadn’t been happy. Yelling on the loading dock. I don’t know what all was said. I sat inside the cab, the way good girls do, waiting for my man to return to me.

When Jacob finally climbed into the driver’s seat, he was furious, hands fisted on the steering wheel, lips set into a grim line. We’d gone straight from shipping and delivery to a truck stop. He’d parked the rig, ordered me out. Inside the convenience store, he’d loaded up on beer, a carton of smokes, and, on second thought, some chips. Then we’d hoofed it three miles, to a strip motel he’d spotted from the highway.

Once inside, it’d been beer, cigarettes, sex, except not always in that order. Eventually, I got to eat some potato chips, but that was days ago, and now I was hungry.

He’d left first thing this morning. Like he had yesterday, the day before. Where he went, he didn’t talk about. Beer, cigarettes, sex. That was all this room was about.

Did he lose his job? He didn’t seem to be in a hurry to hit the road again. Was he broke? If he didn’t work, how would he cover the cost of the motel rooms, food, cases of beer?

What would become of me?

My mother who didn’t look like my mother. She had tears on her cheeks. She was crying on TV. More than a year later, still pleading for my safe return.

“This is all of Flora, getting some sleep!”

Footsteps outside the window. Quickly, I snapped off the TV, retreated to the bed.

Jacob walked through the door two seconds later. Wearing his usual grease-stained jeans, yellowing T-shirt, open flannel shirt. Beneath one arm, he carried a case of beer. In the other, a brown paper bag. Most likely Four Roses whiskey, which he’d down straight from the bottle.

“What are you looking at?” he asked as he caught me staring. “What? You still in your pajamas? Like it would fucking kill you to clean yourself up while I’m gone.”

I fingered the edge of my black satin nightgown, edged with cream-colored lace at the top and bottom. He’d bought it for me a couple of months ago. I thought he liked it.

He slammed down the beer. The whiskey. I eyed him up and down, desperate for some sign of food.

“What?” he demanded again, shoving a cigarette between his crooked teeth.

“We’re out of chips,” I whispered.

“Chips? That all you care about? Stuffing your face? Jesus, no wonder you’ve gotten fat.”

I didn’t say anything. My hip bones jutted out beneath the shimmer of black satin. I was many things, but probably not fat.

“Bad day?” I asked at last, not sure what to say.

“Are there any others?”

“You, um, you’ve been gone awhile.”

He didn’t say anything.

“Yesterday too. The day before.” I couldn’t look at him while I spoke. I picked at the fabric balls on the worn blue comforter.

“Jealous?” he asked. He ripped open the case of beer. Picked out the first can. “Figuring out the thrill is gone? I’m a man, you know. Ain’t no girl, ’specially not some cheap piece of trash like you, that’s gonna hold my attention for long. Maybe”—he turned, hefted up the can—“maybe I went sightseeing.”

I stilled, feeling my heart accelerate in my chest. He could be lying. He liked to torment me. But the sneer on his face, the hard look in his eyes . . .

I swallowed, pretended my hands weren’t now shaking on the comforter.

“This is all of Flora, getting some sleep.”

But who is Flora? And how could she ever go home again?

There was just me. This room. This man. My life now.

“Take me,” I heard myself say.

“What, wanna meet your replacement?”

“Sure.” I kept my voice level, forced myself to meet his gaze. “I want to see if she’s pretty enough for you.”

I’d caught him off guard. My secret weapon, my one redeeming trait. No matter how much he sought to control me, from time to time I still surprised him. And he liked it. Even now, I could see the spark of interest in his eyes. He set down the beer, gaze lingering on my thin satin slip.

“All right,” he said. “But you don’t get to change.”

I followed him out of the room barefoot, arms crossed self-consciously over my chest. For the first time, I noticed his rig now parked in front of the motel. No attached container, of course, just the sleeper cab, which was noticeable enough. He climbed aboard. Midafternoon. Sun was blazing. Where I had grown up, sun brought people outside to enjoy the weather. But down here, the heat had the opposite effect, driving everyone indoors to the comfort of air-conditioning.