When You See Me (Detective D.D. Warren #11)(23)

SSA Quincy had met us at the budget lodge, where we had to wait our turn behind the proverbial family of four. The father already appeared frazzled as he searched through his wallet for the right credit card, while the harried mom was frantically trying to herd two small children who had no intention of standing still. The older girl kept dashing behind the check-in counter, making the clerk yelp. I caught the boy, age five or six, eyeing my right boot as if he already knew about the butterfly blade.

I pegged him as a future serial killer, but then, I’ve never been good with kids.

When we finally stepped up to the counter, Kimberly flashed her FBI creds and the motel attendant regarded us even more suspiciously than the evil kids. Every time I looked at him, I wanted to reach for my butterfly blade.

Play well with the locals, Kimberly had told me. I swear that woman sees everything.

Over dinner, she’d reviewed process for the morning. Dogs would go first, then humans. We’d be assigned a search grid and a dozen little orange flags. Work our area, stay hydrated, check in frequently.

It sounded simple, the way she said it. Yet, I already understand there is nothing simple about the day ahead.

I want to be in the woods already, tapping some hollow tree and magically producing Lilah Abenito’s fingers, ribs, vertebrae. Or maybe a femur, with the hand-carved message Jacob Ness was here. I want answers, even as I understand there’s never going to be anything adequate enough to explain what happened to Lilah. To me. We exist in rarified company—two girls who one day met a real live monster. Except I survived.

Now I’m back in Georgia, waiting for something to feel familiar. To turn a corner of the road, or walk into a restaurant and experience a sense of déjà vu. I feel I should know something. I need to know something. Or once again, Jacob wins.

I hear a noise from the room next to me. The sound of a door opening, then closing. Footsteps in the hall. Soft. Discreet. The steps of a person who doesn’t want to call attention.

I cross to my door immediately, on high alert. I have the chain fastened, as well as the dead bolt deployed, but compared to my system at home, this is nothing. Cheap locks for a cheap room.

I pull out my butterfly blade from the waistband at the small of my back. I’d had to check my luggage to bring it and the rest of my toys to Atlanta. D.D. had scowled at me. She’d known why I couldn’t carry on my tiny bag. You’ll be surrounded at all times by armed members of law enforcement, she’d muttered tightly. But we both knew I wasn’t going to budge on the subject. I’d checked my bag. And upon arrival, unpacked my knife, flipped it open, shut, open, shut, open, then folded it up neatly, like closing a fan, and slipped it in my pocket.

Now, I flick open the blade as twin shadows appear in the beam of light beneath my door. The shadows pause. Solidify.

Someone is standing outside my door.

Keith. Who, given tomorrow’s adventure, probably also can’t sleep. Who swore he knew everything about me, including my insomnia. Who claimed he cared, maybe enough to offer . . . what? Conversation? Solace? Distraction in the middle of the night? Or maybe more, some kind of physical interlude to keep our minds off more serious matters?

I could open my door. Reach forward, unfasten the chain, release the bolt, swing open the door until there was nothing between us. He would enter my room.

And then?

This is what other girls did. Other people. Take comfort where they could find it. A few moments of oblivion to balance out their turbulent lives.

Was sex oblivion to me? I didn’t know anymore. Once I’d been an active, healthy teenager. I certainly hadn’t gone off to college a virgin. But those days, that girl . . . She feels so long ago. Not even a memory of my life, but a film reel from someone else’s. Surely I never flirted shamelessly. Never coyly tossed back my hair. Never dug my fingers into a man’s shoulders and urged him closer, faster, harder.

My breathing accelerates. Maybe I’m not as immune as I think.

The twin shadows remain. The person in the hallway clearly working as hard on his courage as I am on mine.

I raise my hand. I place it against the hard plane of the cheap wooden door, moving slowly, careful not to make a sound. I close my eyes. And for a moment, I let myself imagine:

Keith’s hand, splayed on the other side. Keith’s palm connecting with mine. Our fingers touching.

Deep breath in, deep breath out.

Then I take my hand away, and walk back to the bed, where I lie on my side, and stare at the light limning the doorframe until the twin shadows finally shift, then fade away.



* * *



—

I HIT THE MOTEL LOBBY thirty minutes early. Keith is already there, looking like an advertisement for Jogger’s Monthly. Black running tights, topped by some wicking shirt in electric blue, further covered by a long windbreaker with a million zippers, snaps, and light reflecting strips. His tennis shoes complete the ensemble, base black with swishes of silver and blue.

Clad in my uniform of bulky cargo pants, a faded cotton T-shirt, and worn Gap sweatshirt, I look like I’m about to board a subway, while he looks like he’s about to hit the start line of the Boston Marathon.

Which makes my lip twitch. I giggle, then snort. Because honest to God, neither of us looks like any kind of search and rescue volunteer. Keith must’ve gotten it, too, because a moment later, he starts chuckling, as well.

“Welcome to the dream team,” he says, crossing over. “Coffee?”