Never Tell (Detective D.D. Warren #10)(40)

I frown. Rub my right thumb along the water glass’s condensation. “You think I was wrong? I lied to the police?”

“Actually, I think Jacob lied. To you. He wanted to keep your initial location secret. Even from you. That way, if you did escape, you couldn’t give it away.”

“His lair,” I say the words softly. “That cabin. It was his monster’s lair, and he didn’t want to give it up.”

“I think if we could find it, we’d learn a lot more about Jacob Ness. Maybe even find a link to the other missing girls.”

“He’s dead. If he did own such a cabin, it would’ve gone on the auction block by now. Foreclosure, repossessed by the IRS, whatever.”

“I tried that. The property can’t be in Jacob’s name, or listed under any of his known associates, because again, the FBI would’ve found it already. So periodically, I run a list of all properties up for auction in northern Georgia, with a basement. Unfortunately, that list is longer than I’d like.”

“You’re serious about this.”

“Yes.”

“You’ve been working these other missing girls’ cases, for what, six years already?”

“Samantha Mathers, Elaine Waters, Lilah Abenito, Daphne Passero, Rachel Englert, Brenda Solomon.”

“Do the police assist you?”

A small pause. “Officially, no. But some of the group’s members … have connections.”

“With the FBI?”

“Not as good as yours,” he says bluntly.

“And this is why you wanted to talk to me?”

“Not necessarily. You’re a victim. We’re the hunters. We don’t expect—”

I hold up a hand. “Never call me a victim again. I’m a survivor. There’s a difference.”

He nods.

“I killed him,” I say shortly. The words are hot and fierce. I won’t take them back. “Does your group know that?”

“Yes.”

“Do you blame me? If I’d let him live, you’d have your answers. These missing girls, their families, they’d have closure.”

“Did you ever hear Jacob talk about other girls?”

“Specifically, no. But he was a sex addict, wife beater, and serial rapist. I already knew I wasn’t his first. But I assumed that I was the first he’d taken such great lengths to keep.”

“Why?”

“Fuck you.”

Keith falls silent again.

I can’t take it. I’m too agitated. I smack the glass of water on the coffee table. I like the sharp sounds it makes, as brittle as I feel. Water rings. I can already see them forming, and watch as Keith glances helplessly at the growing mess on his precious, shiny table. It gives me a perverse pleasure. Then I’m up, moving, walking, wishing I could shed my own skin.

I don’t want to be me anymore. Not today. Not seven years ago. Never every single moment of the four hundred and seventy-two days Jacob kept me his prisoner. I hate to think of him. I loathe remembering what it was like to feel so helpless, so weak.

But I’m further disoriented to be here, in this place, with this man. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I get it. In this room, the two Floras collide.

The teenage girl I used to be. The beautiful blonde who could make any boy look twice. That Flora would’ve been impressed by Keith Edgar. His dark good looks, swanky Boston town house. She would’ve been scintillated to hear of his murdered cousin, his heroic cause to catch other killers out there. She would’ve been thinking about kissing him.

Then there’s the woman I am. Who looks at a handsome, charming man and thinks instantly of Ted Bundy. Who is too skinny and too hard and too tired after seven years without a single good night’s sleep. Who doesn’t think about dating, or men, or kissing … anyone.

I don’t have romantic dreams or aspirations anymore. Some survivors do. They figure out how to compartmentalize, that was then, this is now. I can’t. I live in a state of lockdown. I spent so long separating my mind from my body in order to survive another day, I can’t get it back. My body is merely a tool. Jacob used it for sex. I use it for revenge. Neither of us respects the package.

And now I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to talk to Keith Edgar. I don’t want to think of other missing girls. Whom Jacob might have kidnapped and held in his big rig. Did he keep some longer than me? Did he enjoy their company more? Dear God, is it possible to be jealous of such a thing?

“Flora?” Keith asks quietly. He hasn’t moved.

“Did Jacob have a partner?” I say. “In your research, is there any evidence he knew other predators, maybe connected with them online?”

“I’m not sure.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I’m not the FBI. I don’t have access to his laptop the way they do. Jacob was a loner. Yet, the amount he traveled, his ability to so completely cover his tracks … I wouldn’t be surprised if he had some friends, associates helping him out. Why are you here, Flora? Why are you asking these questions now?”

“You said you didn’t have access to the FBI.”

“No.”

I finally look at him. “I do.”

He regards me evenly. “Why here, why now?” he repeats. “What happened?”