When You See Me (Detective D.D. Warren #11)(82)

“She died.”

Nod.

“You saw.”

Double nod.

“The demon did it?”

Head shake.

“Mrs. Counsel, Mayor Howard?” Head shake, head shake. “The cook?” Head shake.

D.D. pursed her lips, running out of ideas. Good God, how many killers were they talking about in this community? “But you saw her die?”

Nod.

“Recently?”

Vigorous nod.

“Past few days?” D.D. attempted.

Definite nod.

D.D. paused again. So they had another murder. This time of a maid from the B&B. But before Martha Counsel. So first a maid, then the owner. All in the past few days—meaning, right after the taskforce arrived.

She held this picture on her lap. She traced the blue form as gently as Bonita had traced the shadows.

If these pictures were to be believed, this town was a graveyard of young women. How many bodies now dotted these woods?

And how many killers? How deep did this kind of coercion run?

“Thank you, Bonita,” D.D. said softly. “I think now . . . I’ll check on our pizza. Then both of us need to sleep.”





CHAPTER 32





FLORA





KEITH AND I DON’T TALK on the way back to the motel.

Kimberly is behind the steering wheel. Night has fallen thick and dark, but staring out the window, I swear I see the outline of towering trees. The woods scream at night, Walt had said. I wonder if he knows more than he realizes. Or if he’s playing us completely with his crazed loner act and barn full of greens. Jacob had always been scarily clever; there’s no reason to think his father is any different.

Kimberly parks, and we walk inside the motel. Sitting at the front desk, the owner eyes us sullenly but doesn’t try to kick us out again. Which means Keith and I do have a room for the night. The same room, now, thanks to D.D.

Kimberly nods at us in departure, arriving at her door first. Her expression is distracted, her thoughts clearly a million miles away. Trying to find the missing maid, trying to make sense of two, possibly three graves—and oh yes, some dark, dangerous UNSUB, as the FBI liked to say, on the loose around town.

Maybe the motel owner wasn’t bowing to local pressure when he tried to evict us. Maybe he was simply trying to keep us safe.

Keith arrives at the door first. He unlocks it. We both step inside. Before the taskforce meeting, we’d just had time to pack up our stuff and throw it in this room. No sign of the promised cot, which doesn’t surprise either of us. Now we are confronted by a single queen-sized bed with two bags sitting on top. Keith’s is the silvery hard-case spinner that looks like it belongs on the space shuttle. Mine is a simple black duffel bag that’s clearly seen better days.

We are nothing alike. Keith has his upscale, sixties-retro-meets-cutting-edge-modern town house. I live in a third-floor walk-up high on old-world charm, short on space, and covered in bolt locks. He always dresses like he stepped out of a men’s clothing catalogue. I look like something a homeless person threw up.

Keith crosses to the bed. He lifts off both bags, sets them neatly on the floor.

“You must be exhausted,” he says.

I gaze at him. He’s steady. He’s solid. I don’t know that I can live in his world, but he has proven that he can hold his own in mine. Is that enough for a relationship? Do I even want a relationship?

“I’ll take the floor,” he says.

I don’t answer.

“Not a problem. You need your sleep the most.”

I don’t answer.

He clasps and unclasps his hands. I realize for the first time that he’s nervous.

“Sometimes,” I hear myself whisper, “I feel my entire life is about Jacob.”

Keith stills. “No. You were a person before him—”

“I don’t remember that girl.”

“You’re a survivor after him.”

“I am what he made me.”

“No, Flora. That’s the point. He tried to break you. Who you are now, you made yourself. You didn’t give up. That’s all you. Not one single bit of that is him.”

“Will you kiss me?” I whisper.

“Okay.” But he doesn’t move and neither do I.

“I don’t know what I will do. How I’ll respond.”

“You haven’t . . . since your return?”

“No. Others do. Others get over it. I . . . I can’t even stand my mother’s hugs.”

He nods, clearly thinking. He is always thinking. Do I love or hate that about him? I can’t decide.

He takes a step forward. Then another. A final stride and he’s right in front of me. Close, but not touching. I can feel the heat of him. Smell the soap of his quick shower before the meeting. I can see the faint lines bracketing his rich blue eyes, anticipate the silky feel of his hair.

He’s staring at me like I’m the only thing he’s ever wanted. No one has ever looked at me like that. As if I matter that much. As if I am that worthy.

He’s not going to kiss me, I realize. He’s waiting for me to kiss him. Another act of thoughtfulness, I suppose. Let me set the pace. Put me in control.

I place both hands on his thin blue shirt. It feels cool to the touch and forms perfectly to his long, sculpted torso. This space-age fabric probably cost more than my monthly rent, I think, but then I’m happy he bought it, because it feels good beneath my fingertips, as if I’m already touching bare skin.