by Lisa Gardner
He also appeared grim.
“When did you arrive?” he asked.
“Thirty minutes ago. When you dropped Flora off yesterday, did you go inside?”
“No. Her mom was already here. I spotted her truck parked down the street. Flora headed upstairs to see her.”
“Has Flora contacted you since? Phone, text, Facebook post?”
He shook his head. “Sign of forced entry?” He headed up the stairs, already on his way to the third-story unit.
“Negative. Fire escape also appears clear, but get this: That door is also unlocked. The bolt’s been undone. Same with all the windows. Each and every one of them may still be closed, but they’re unsecured.”
“Sounds like a message.” He was frowning.
“My thought exactly. But from her, or about her?”
Topping the stairs, Keynes strode straight inside the apartment, clearly familiar with the layout. He glanced around only briefly, then stated, “Definitely, her mother was here.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Rosa cleans when under stress. The kitchen—that’s her doing.”
“And Florence?”
“More relaxed in her housekeeping standards, prone to clutter.”
“So you dropped her off yesterday. She came upstairs to her mother. And then?”
Keynes produced his phone from his coat pocket. He hit a number while still walking around the gray-lit space.
“Rosa. Dr. Keynes. How are you? I’m fine, thanks for asking. You spent some time with Flora yesterday, didn’t you? I thought I saw your truck parked down the street. Exactly. I understand. I know. Her behavior does appear to be escalating. Yes, thank heavens she was all right. Her staying at the farm is an old argument, Rosa. You know I can’t intervene, not that it would make a difference with Florence anyway. Did you speak to Flora again last night? Maybe before bedtime? You called, but she didn’t answer. Thank you. I’ll do my best to follow up with her today. But of course. Pleasure to speak with you again. ’Bye.”
Keynes pocketed his phone, once again frowned. “Florence’s mother left her shortly after one yesterday. She hasn’t heard from Flora since.”
“That unusual?”
“Not necessarily. But the unlocked apartment is.” He walked into the bedroom, glanced at the plastered walls but didn’t seem surprised by the onslaught of articles. Instead, he headed for Flora’s phone.
“Password protected,” he observed. “So no way of checking the messages immediately. It’s possible she headed out to meet someone.”
“And left her front door open behind her?”
“No sign of forced entrance. Or signs of a struggle. Given Flora’s training, if someone had tried to grab her, she wouldn’t have gone down without a fight.”
“Unless she was ambushed. Maybe while she was sleeping.” D.D. gestured to the bed, which bore the only signs of disturbance in the whole place.
“But how would the attacker gain entrance? Flora would’ve definitely checked the locks before heading to bed.”
D.D. sighed. That was the piece of the puzzle that kept stumping her as well. She’d only just met Florence Dane yesterday, but she already knew enough to know the girl was hardly foolish about these things.
“Let’s check with the landlords,” Keynes decided. “Maybe they heard something.”
The landlords turned out to be an elderly couple, Mary and James Reichter, who’d owned the residence for the past fifty-two years and lived in the first-floor unit. They recognized Keynes from other visits, and greeted D.D. with beaming smiles that made her feel like she should’ve come bearing some kind of housewarming gift.
She and Keynes politely declined their offer of coffee, but still found themselves ushered into the front parlor, which bore an antique love seat and enough original oak trim to make D.D. salivate.
She perched tentatively on the edge of the delicate sofa, letting Keynes take the lead with the questions as he seemed to know the couple.
It took some loud, if not downright shouted, inquiries to determine the Reichters had seen Flora return home yesterday, sometime around midmorning. Her mother had already arrived by then, showing up again after lunch with some blueberry muffins to share. Excellent, excellent muffins. Rosa was an exquisite baker.
Oh yes, Flora. No, they did not remember seeing her again. But then, they’d been watching their shows in the back of the unit. So she could’ve gone out. Possible. Was anything wrong? Something they should know?
Keynes trod carefully. He had a delicate touch with the couple, D.D. observed. More neighborly than official, and yet at the same time keeping just enough reserve to have them striving to answer his questions.
Had they seen anyone else enter the building yesterday? Say, a stranger, someone they didn’t recognize?
No.
What about sounds, or commotions? Maybe a disturbance in the middle of the night?
No, sir. And they would be woken up by such a thing. Didn’t sleep so well these days.
What about new friends or acquaintances they’d recently seen with Flora? Or any inquiries about her apartment?
Well, except for the building inspector . . .
D.D. and Keynes both drew up, exchanged a glance.
“Building inspector?” D.D. spoke up.
“Day before. Or maybe the day before the day before. Time gets a little confusing,” James began, looking at his wife.
“Tuesday,” his wife provided. “The building inspector came on Tuesday. Said our place was overdue for review. All private rental units have to be inspected by the city every five years, you know. Why, it’s been ages since anyone’s visited us. Guess we really do lose track of time!”
“You showed him around the entire building? All the units?” Keynes asked.
“James showed him around the outside, the fire escape. But inside the units, well, navigating the stairs at our age . . .” Mary smiled apologetically. “We gave him keys to the units. Asked him to please knock first to alert the renters. He wasn’t gone long at all. Did his thing, then came down to tell us all looked well. We’d get our updated certificate shortly.”
“Wait,” D.D. interjected. “You have keys to all the units? Even Flora Dane’s apartment?”
James seemed insulted by her tone. “Of course. This is still our house. We are entitled to access. Plus, for the sake of maintenance or, heaven forbid, something like a fire. Our renters, they’re very busy. It’s easier if we can just go in, do what needs to be done when it needs to be done. We’ve never had any complaints or problems, not even from Flora. We respect her privacy, of course. We understand.”
The way he said the last word implied enough. That they knew Flora’s history, and were familiar with why she felt a need for extra security.
“Was Flora home for the building inspection?” D.D. asked.
“I don’t know, dear,” Mary answered.
“Did you tell her about the inspection? Mention it when you saw her again?”
“No, I don’t believe we’ve run into her since it happened.”
“What did the building inspector look like?” Keynes asked.
“Oh, he was a nice-looking young man. Dressed a little casual for my tastes—tan slacks, a blue dress shirt, but then no one wears suits anymore. He had ID. I’m not naive, you know. I did make him show it.”
“What about his size?” D.D. spoke up more softly. “Big guy? Small? Young, old?”
“Oh, he was very official-looking. Clean-shaven. Short dark hair. And big. Strong. Like a fireman. He looked like a very capable young man.” Mary smiled brightly.
A big man. A strong man. Who’d been handed over the keys to Flora’s apartment by her well-intentioned landlords. D.D. looked over at Keynes. Could tell from the expression on his face he’d just connected the same dots she had.
Such as, all the best locks in the world couldn’t offer protection against a man with a key. Flora took pride in her preparations. And yet, if their suspicions were correct, her attacker had already been one step ahead.
Keynes rose to standing, offering his hand, finalizing their departure.
Out in the foyer, phone in hand, it only took D.D. a matter of minutes to confirm what both she and Keynes already knew: Boston’s Inspectional Services Department hadn’t sent anyone to this building in the past few days, let alone had anything scheduled for anytime soon. The building-inspector guise had been a ruse, a very effective means of gaining access to Flora’s keys in order to make a master copy.
“I’ll call the crime scene techs,” D.D. said quietly.
They headed back upstairs to wait in silence.
Chapter 16
I’M AWAKE.
My head jerks up, my eyes pop open, but I’m immediately disoriented by the fact I can’t see. Black. Thick and impenetrable. I feel a sense of urgency. Fight or flight. I gotta fight. Except . . .
I can’t see. Not at all. Up, down, left, right, I have no idea. I bulge my eyes as if that will make a difference.
Then it comes to me.
I’m in a room. I’m sprawled upon a bare mattress, wearing some kind of silky nightgown. My arms are bare, and cool metal bracelets encircle both my wrists. Handcuffs. I’ve been handcuffed, arms in front, hands at my waist. Furthermore, the manacles appear attached to a lead line of some sort, maybe rope, maybe chain. But I only have to give the slightest tug with my wrists to feel the corresponding resistance. I’m not just bound; I’m tethered to the ceiling, or a high spot on the wall.
As for the dark . . . I blink my eyes. Nothing. I try again. Still nothing. My eyes are open. There’s no blindfold around my head. It’s the room itself. Windowless and, most likely, painted pitch-black, until not a single ray of ambient light can penetrate the gloom.
I wonder if I’m underground, and despite my best intentions, my heart rate accelerates, my breath growing ragged. Not underground. Not buried, please, please, please.
And for a moment, a split instant of time, other images come to me. Scenes from the past, another lifetime, another nightmare ago. I want to yell, scream, and beg. Bang my fists against wooden walls, kick my heels wildly.
Lying on the mattress, shivering uncontrollably, I dig my teeth into my lower lip, then ground myself with the pain. There will be no panic. There will be no pleading. So stuff it.
It takes a few deep breaths. The taste of my own blood against my tongue. But bit by bit, I feel my heart once again settle in my chest. Then, I close my eyes, because whether it’s logical or not, it makes the dark easier to take.
Slowly, it comes to me. My last memory: waking up in my own bedroom, the sinister shadow in the doorway, then a mist in the air.
Chloroform, I’m guessing. Or some other aerosolized sedative. I was drugged and then . . .
A sense of movement. I wanted to wake up, but I couldn’t.
I was brought here. Wherever here is.
Immediately, I’m dismayed. Not for myself. Instead, I see my mother’s face. The mother who baked me muffins and hugged me hard and begged me to take better care of myself. She loves me so much. And now I’ve gone, and broken her heart yet again.
Because I’m already pretty certain that whoever broke through three locks to get into my security-tight apartment—let alone prepared this room, complete with chained manacles—is more than your average bear. This isn’t me versus the arrogant loser I burned to death in his own garage, or even the amateur acts who preceded him. This is . . . something worse. Something more.
Someone to fear.
And I wish, for just one moment, I’d been brave enough to tell Dr. Keynes everything that happened five years ago. But there are secrets all survivors keep. Most likely, I’m about to pay for mine.
Just like Stacey Summers did.
* * *
I FALL ASLEEP. I don’t want to, but I can’t seem to help myself. The residue of the drugs, maybe even habit forged years ago when I also spent hours, days, weeks at a time with nothing better to do. Fight or flight, except, being all trussed up on a bare mattress, I can’t do either. So sleep becomes a flight of sorts, a temporary reprieve for my overworked limbic system, which can’t figure out what else to do. So much adrenaline, stress, and fear with no place to go, nothing to do but wait.
Wait, wait, wait.
Wishing my eyes would grow accustomed to the dark. Wishing for any sort of ease in the relentless tar-black gloom. After a while, I give up on sight and focus on touch instead. Moving tentatively, I dance my fingers across the mattress. Identify its size, standard twin. Feel the welting of the edges, become aware of a faint odor of mildew. It’s thin beneath me. Most likely old and tattered. Maybe even tossed on a street corner, then harvested by my host for just this purpose.
It’s not particularly comfortable or soft or soothing. But I like the mattress. It’s a source of thread and stuffing, maybe even wire coils. It’s a tool, and I’ll take it.
Next, I explore the garment now draped over my body. I’d gone to bed in an old T-shirt and men’s flannel boxers. Now I’m wearing some kind of short satin negligee. Lace trim around the neckline and bottom hem.
He changed my clothes. While I was unconscious, he’d stripped off my comfortable nightwear and replaced it with a more feminine—sexy?—counterpart. I’m tempted to feel insulted and violated by this act, but mostly I’m confused.
Most sexual sadist predators keep their victims naked—easy access, further degradation, take your pick. Or they might clad their unwilling prey in various S&M outfits/gadgets that fit their masochistic fantasies. But this, a silk nightie, speaks to something else. It’s . . . attentive in a way I already have a feeling I won’t like.
Jacob rarely gifted me with pretty nightgowns or anything more than practical clothes. I was a possession, and who wastes extra effort on their coffee table?
This man, the newest predator, is a freak. I repeat the word in my head. Try to feel it forcefully. A freak, a mutant, an aberration. Something less than human. Nothing worth worrying about.
But I’m lying to myself. Because already I can feel the metal handcuffs cutting into my skin. And when I tug on my wrists to make my arms more comfortable, I’m terribly aware of the sound of a tethering chain unspooling from above.
Enough. I sit up. Swing my legs over the edge of the mattress on the floor. Remind myself this is already more freedom than I had with Jacob. Wow, a whole room at my disposal. I might just get giddy with the rush.
The dark is still endless, oppressive. I can barely make out the lighter shadow of my bare arms as I take the first tentative step forward. One step, two, three, four. The room is bigger than I expected; I still haven’t come to a wall. Then my foot connects with substance. A rattling sound as a plastic container tips over.
I reach down and explore with my fingers, but I already know what I’ve found. A plastic bucket. The latrine of choice for kidnappers and sadists everywhere. But of course.
Behind the bucket I discover a wall. Drywall. It surprises me. For some reason, I’d been expecting cinder block or maybe cheap wood paneling. But no. The wall is smooth and bare. Drywall, as in a real room of a real house. Which would also explain the thin carpet padding my bare feet.
If I really am in a house . . .
I halt, strain my ears. Trying to get a sense of traffic outside, or maybe the distant sound of footsteps echoing overhead. At first, I hear nothing at all. Soundproofing, to go with the blackout paint job. But then, faintly, steadily, it comes to me.
Breathing. In. Out. In. Out.
There is someone else in the room with me. I’m not alone.
I recoil. I can’t help myself. Then, instinctively, I grab the empty plastic bucket and clutch it to my chest. As what? A hammer or a shi
eld?
I’m not thinking anymore. I want to. But for all my experience, training, and bravado, my heart rate has once again climbed and I’m shaking uncontrollably on my feet.
While across the room, maybe five, six feet from me . . .
Breathing.
In. Out. In. Out.
He’s here. Watching me. Waiting for me to panic, freak out, beg for mercy? Or just enjoying the show?
Just like that, I’m angry. I don’t care what he does or what he thinks he can do to me. Compared to Jacob Ness, Mr. Silky Nightgown, Mr. Breathing Heavy, is nothing but a carnival sideshow. A Freak.
Just because he broke into my triple-locked apartment, ambushed me with drugs, and spirited me away to some blacked-out dungeon . . . I refuse to be afraid of him.
Instead, I’m thinking of my first visit with Samuel, the day after I got out of the hospital:
“Do you remember what you did to survive, Flora? Every rebellion, every submission, every lie, every adaptation?”
My own slow nod.
“Good. Don’t forget. Don’t second-guess. Accept. It may not feel like it right now, but you’re strong, Flora. You survived. Don’t let anyone take that from you. And don’t take it from yourself. You’re a tough girl. Four hundred and seventy-two days later, you saved yourself. Based on that alone, you never need to feel frightened again.”
I set down the bucket. I focus on the sound of his even breathing. Slowly but surely, I match it to my own until I inhale as he inhales, then exhale as he exhales. In. Out. In. Out. We are breath for breath, perfectly pitched.
And I understand already, in this introductory battle of wills, the person who speaks first loses.
He’ll move. I’m certain of it. No one goes to this much trouble just to watch. So I fix my gaze in the direction of his breathing, and I stare as hard and defiantly as I can. Come on, freak. Show me what you got.
In. Out. In. Out. I’ve never heard such even breathing. Without the slightest quickening from excitement, or a missed beat from shock. Just in, out, in, out. As if he really doesn’t care that I’m upright and staring straight at him.