When You See Me (Detective D.D. Warren #11)(80)

“I don’t have colored markers.”

D.D. sighed heavily. Made a show of wiggling her right thumb.

“I have crayons. For kids. Activity packs.”

“How extraordinarily kind of you.”

More shuffling around on the desk. A small pack of five crayons was tossed on the counter. Then the man swiveled his chair toward the printer behind him and extracted the tray to grab paper.

D.D. picked up the crayons. She knew these packs from her own family’s attempts at dining out. When Jack was two, he used to eat the green crayon. Only the green. She and Alex had never figured out why. Now at the age of six, Jack had more self-restraint when it came to munching on wax. He wasn’t much into coloring, though, being on the active side. He did, however, enjoy a rousing game of tic-tac-toe while they waited for their food to arrive.

Again, she felt a pang of homesickness. Was she growing soft in her old age? Or maybe it was just that she was standing in a deserted motel, across from a man who’d already made it clear they weren’t welcome here anymore, and she had no idea if any establishment would accept them, or who in this small town they could trust.

They were outsiders. Cops always felt that way. But after a day at a mass grave followed by an early morning at a woman’s hanging, and now this . . .

Bonita hadn’t drawn a man. She’d drawn a demon.

D.D. didn’t like it.

The owner returned with a meager stack of paper. Maybe five sheets. She gave him a look.

“Passive-aggressive much?” D.D. asked.

“Please,” the man said.

And the way he said it caught her attention.

The owner licked his lips, glancing around the empty lobby. “Please, whatever you are doing. Just get it done. And leave. Just leave. It’s better that way.”

“Better?” D.D. pushed. “Or safer?”

The man just stared at her. “Please,” he repeated softly.

And if D.D. hadn’t been spooked before, she was now.



* * *



—

RETURNING TO THE ROOM—AND making sure she worked the bolt lock behind her—she discovered Bonita standing next to the bed, her long black hair dripping down D.D.’s T-shirt. Bonita had rolled up the sweatpants at the waist and the ankles. They were still big on her, though D.D. herself was hardly huge.

The girl trembled slightly when D.D. first appeared. She had her arms wrapped tightly around her torso, as if for comfort. Immediately, D.D. felt terrible. She should’ve told Bonita where she was going. She should’ve . . . Many thoughts ran through her head. She barely knew how to parent Jack, let alone take on a frightened, damaged teen. She was going to have to proceed with more care.

“I ordered us some pizza. It will be delivered here. Are you hungry?”

Bonita shrugged.

“I also got us some supplies.” D.D. held up her hard-fought treasures. “Paper and crayons.”

Bonita’s whole face brightened. She stepped forward, taking the crayons from D.D.’s hand with near reverence. For the first time, D.D. could see the girl’s exposed forearms. One held an intricate pattern of scars. As if she’d thrust her fist through plate glass and cut herself in a dozen places. Except her hand was completely unblemished. Just her forearm.

It was a pattern, D.D. realized at last. Like lacework. A pattern that had been purposefully carved into the girl’s skin.

Bonita caught her staring. She quickly covered the scars with her other hand, still clutching the crayons.

“Do you like to draw?” D.D. asked at last, to break the ice.

Quick nod.

“I have paper, too. Not a lot, but I can get more.” D.D. crossed to the empty space on the TV console and set down the sheets of paper. There was no desk in the room. D.D. usually sat with her laptop in the middle of the bed. But Bonita didn’t seem to mind. She kneeled down in front of the console, a bit awkwardly with her right leg, then opened up the crayon pack.

She took out the crayons one by one, running her fingers up and down the entire length, exploring the paper wrapping, the sharpened tip. The girl liked to feel things, D.D. was starting to realize. Maybe because she couldn’t speak, she had become more tactile instead?

“Can you draw me a picture?” D.D. asked. “Anything you like.”

Bonita turned and regarded her for a long moment. Again, those dark eyes, like vast pools and impossible to penetrate. The girl was beautiful, D.D. thought. Even with the thickly ridged scar burrowing into her hairline and the droop of her mouth. Her delicate features and smooth almond skin stood out in contrast to the jagged scar. The mark didn’t make her less, but proved she was more. Stronger, tougher. A survivor, like Flora. If D.D. could break down the communication barrier, perhaps Flora could reach out to her. She ran a support group of sorts back in Boston. From surviving to thriving, Flora liked to quote.

Bonita looked like someone who’d learned the hard way how to survive. She did not know yet, though, how to thrive.

The girl turned her attention back to the first piece of paper. She picked up a crayon and got to work.

Her strokes were sure and fast. Definitely, the girl had experience sketching. Maybe the mayor and his wife had granted her art supplies as a reward for good behavior? Or she had secreted away crayons when no one was looking?

D.D. took a seat in the nearby chair. She let the girl have at it, using the time to check messages on her phone and wonder how the debriefing was going.