Look For Me (Detective D.D. Warren #9)(27)

“If you fear you’re being followed, I recommend going someplace public. With plenty of witnesses.”

D.D. growled low in her throat.

“Roxanna is a big reader. You might consider the library.”

Less of a growl.

“I don’t know what’s going on here,” Flora said. “I really don’t. But I’m worried for her. I doubt Roxy’s a killer. I think she’s a victim.”

“Based on quality time together in a chat room that no longer exists?”

“Yes.”

“You know what I get from all of this?” D.D. lifted the transcript pages. “I get I have a missing sixteen-year-old girl who’s been asking questions about firearms. Which makes me believe that somewhere in that backpack of hers, she may very well have a gun. And has done her research on how to use it.”

Flora leaned forward. “She took care of her dogs. Tied them under a tree, in the shade, with plenty of water. Does a heartless girl do that? A stone-cold killer? She made every effort to keep them safe. Maybe, if she’d been home when the killer came, she would’ve kept her family safe, too.”

“Because that’s what you’d do? She’s not you, Flora. In fact, we don’t know who she is at all. Once again, if she contacts you . . .”

“I’ll be the first to help her.”

“So help me God—”

But Flora was already pushing away from the table. Once more D.D.’s gaze went to the bloody bandage on her left hand.

“You do what you need to do, Detective, and I’ll do what I need to do. And maybe if we’re both lucky, Roxanna Baez will turn up safe and sound. Then you can catch the person who murdered her family while I help her with the aftermath.”

“It’s not gonna be that simple.”

“It’s never simple.”

“Flora—”

“If I learn anything interesting, I’ll let you know. Which is a good deal, because we both know you won’t do the same.”

Flora turned, walked away. D.D. and Phil watched till she disappeared into the crowd.

“Don’t trust that girl,” Phil said.

“You think?”

He picked up the copies of the transcript.

“Anything there you can use?” D.D. asked, as Phil was their squad’s self-appointed geek.

“There’s always something. Just don’t know what yet.”

“But you have an idea?” D.D. asked hopefully.

Phil nodded slowly. “Flora might have sanitized things from her end, but we have Roxy’s computer, remember? And the thing about computers is that they love data. Even stuff a user thinks she’s deleted, it’s all stashed on the hard drive somewhere. I say give the transcripts to the real experts and let them go fishing. If they can match these lines with anything in the computer’s browser history, temporary download file, especially, say, if Roxy copied anything from the group’s forum for future reference . . .”

“Great idea! And thank God. Because, Phil . . .”

“We’re running out of time,” he finished for her.

“Yeah. And with a sixteen-year-old girl running around Brighton, possibly with a handgun in her backpack . . .”

“Was the shooting this morning the end or just the beginning?”

“Exactly.”





Chapter 11


UNDER STRESS, MY MOTHER BAKES. Blueberry muffins, chocolate chip brownies, strawberry-jam cupcakes. Most of my childhood memories were of myself sitting in an overheated kitchen while my mom bustled around, mixing this, pouring that. And the smells. I associated mornings with seared-edged blueberry pancakes and trickling rivers of warmed maple syrup. After school was fresh bread or, if my brother and I were really lucky, cinnamon-sugar-dusted snickerdoodles.

I was told that during the four hundred and seventy-two days I was gone, the entire community grew fat on all the cookies, cupcakes, breads, and brownies my mother churned out of the kitchen. I bet she needed the focus. The soothing rhythm of stir this, add that. The simple equation of these seven ingredients yielding this sheet of goodies, time after time.

Baking, my mother is in control of what will happen next. There’s not much in life that offers that.

When I returned home after my abduction, she concentrated on making all my favorite foods. Fattening me up, she was probably thinking, but never said the words out loud. Jacob wasn’t a big fan of feeding his captives. I’d starve for days; then he’d show up suddenly with bags and bags of junk food. Whatever craving struck his fancy—fried chicken, biscuits and gravy, French fries and milkshakes. He was a very impulsive man, driven to satisfy his immediate appetites, and he had the swollen gut and stick-figure limbs to prove it.

My first day at home, sitting in my mother’s kitchen again, slowly biting into one of her blueberry muffins . . .

I cried. I ate it with tears rolling down my cheeks. She sat beside me. Held my hand. My brother was still around. Standing in the doorway. I remember him watching us. I remember being embarrassed and grateful and overwhelmed. I remember thinking, I’m home.

This is what home tastes like.

I think I was happy at that moment. I didn’t understand yet how fleeting that emotion would be. That my mother’s baking days were far from over. That my brother’s role standing on the outside and looking in would eventually drive him to leave us completely.