Never Tell (Detective D.D. Warren #10)(47)

“That’s not right. The guy was a sex addict. His computer should’ve been ninety percent smut.”

Across from me, Keith is nodding. Predator one-oh-one, no level of murder or assault is ever enough for them. They all have to feed their appetites in between, even the ones who travel around the country with their own girls stashed in coffin-sized boxes.

“I’m going to get on a plane in the morning,” Quincy says.

I nod, then realize she can’t see me. “Okay.”

“I want to know everything about Conrad Carter.”

“Be sure to use your nice voice,” I offer weakly, already picturing D.D.’s face when the federal agent shows up at HQ. Maybe I should warn her in advance. Or call Samuel and beg for safe harbor.

“I’m going to use my bright, shiny federal shield.”

Yep, I’m a dead woman. “I want information on the other missing women,” I say, because as long as my time on this earth is limited …

Keith nods adamantly.

“Flora—”

“I have more to offer.”

“Than embroiling me in a pissing match against one of BPD’s toughest detectives?”

“I want to find his lair. We need it. If we could find it, think of the evidence.”

My voice is soft but certain. Keith regards me curiously. I can’t decide if he thinks I’m incredibly brave or truly self-destructive. Quincy must think the same, because she doesn’t answer for a long time.

“We already checked for cabins in Georgia whose owners died the year you were abducted. We didn’t have any luck,” she says at last.

“Maybe it wasn’t Georgia. Maybe the owner didn’t die. Maybe he lied to me, another layer of protection in case I did manage to escape. I mean, if we’re now saying Jacob was clever enough to wipe his laptop, what’s a few lies to a girl he has locked in a box?”

Again the silence. Then, because I can’t help myself: “Was there other forensic evidence in the box? Of, you know, of other girls?”

“We think he built the box for you.”

There’s something in the way she says it that catches my attention. “But it wasn’t his first box,” I fill in slowly. “There were others, for … other girls.”

“An UNSUB doesn’t achieve Ness’s level of organization and sophistication overnight.”

Which is nothing new. Keith had already told me the same. But it’s starting to hit me now. Truly register. I might’ve been Jacob’s last girl. Maybe his longest-surviving girl. But there had been others. Ones who, most likely, had been fed to the gators. Ones who’d screamed and begged and still never made it home. Maybe they’d each slivered their fingers on the crudely bored air holes, then sucked their own blood to have something to do. Maybe they’d recited their favorite stories, the names of their childhood pets. Maybe they’d promised anything, everything, if they could just see their mom, brother, boyfriend, ever again.

Except it never happened.

And I’d failed them. Me, the one who did survive. I killed Jacob Ness. I put a gun to his head and pulled the trigger because it had to be done. Then I came home to my family and left all those poor girls behind. Never asked any questions. Never provided any answers. Simply abandoned them, faceless victims whose bones were moldering God knows where, whose own loved ones would never have the closure at least my mom and brother got.

I don’t feel guilty. I feel ashamed. I can’t look at Keith anymore, because I don’t want him to see my eyes filling with tears.

“There are memory techniques,” Quincy says at last.

“I know.”

“Dr. Keynes,” she begins.

“He’ll help us,” I answer for him.

“And if he recommends against it?”

“He won’t. I’m a survivor. Survivors are tough. If I could endure the real thing, then I can handle the memories.”

“I’ll be on the first flight in the morning,” Quincy says.

I nod. A tear splatters down onto the screen of the smartphone. Keith doesn’t touch me. But he does reach over and gently wipe the moisture away.

I end the call.





CHAPTER 16


    EVIE


THE FIRST THING THAT HITS me when I get out of my lawyer’s car is the smell. Charred wood, slightly smoky, and not unpleasant. It brings to mind Sunday afternoons cozied up before a nice fire, sipping tea, listening to the Pats game on TV.

I have to stand perfectly still before I can fully process that it’s not a barbecue in front of me, but the remains of my home.

Mr. Delaney lets me be. He answered my call in the middle of the night without hesitation. No doubt used to odd hours, given his job as a defense attorney. And no doubt understanding that it took that long for me to finally be free from my mom, who had to complete her nightly martini ritual before turning in for bed.

It’s seven thirty, the sky just starting to lighten given the short days this time of year. The temperature remains below freezing. We are both bundled up in wool coats, hats, and gloves. Half of my neighbors still have their Christmas lights on from the night before, twinkling borders around their roofs, windows, ornamental shrubs.

It gives the whole scene a surreal feel. Merry Christmas! P.S. All that remains of your life is a charred shell of collapsing wreckage.