Which made no sense at all. A woman who made studying criminal behavior her bread and butter leaving her apartment unsecured in downtown Boston? No way. Something was up. But what?
Slowly, keeping her back to the wall, D.D. made the rounds. Except, in the end, there wasn’t much to see. The kitchen appeared immaculate, the modest seating area untouched. She used her toe to push in the bathroom door, taking in a pedestal sink, toilet, and standing-room-only shower. Nothing.
Finally, the single bedroom. Again, using her foot to open the door wider, careful not to touch anything. She spied a double bed, covers pulled back and obviously recently slept in. Next to it was a single nightstand table bearing a lamp and a charging iPhone. Which gave her pause. Because in this day and age, who stepped out for even the briefest errand without first grabbing her cell phone?
Next, D.D. eyed a rickety old desk, which bore a state-of-the-art Mac laptop. Finally, she let her gaze take in the room’s main attraction: Newspaper articles. Photographs. Dozens of them plastered across all four walls. It took her only a moment to deduce the theme. Missing persons cases. Each and every one. Thirty, forty, fifty people, male and female, who’d stepped outside one day, never to be seen again. Including Stacey Summers, the Boston Globe article announcing her disappearance posted in a place of honor right above Flora’s bed.
Definitely, Flora had been following the case. And now?
D.D. circled in place, taking in the full weight of one survivor’s obsession. And she suddenly had a very bad feeling about things.
Chapter 14
WHEN I WAS LITTLE, I had a hard time falling asleep. I would spend my days running wild across the fields of my family’s farm and through the dark Maine woods. And yet no matter how often my mom ordered me outside to “burn it off,” come nightfall I’d lie in bed with a spinning brain and twitchy legs.
My mother developed an elaborate bedtime ritual to help wind me down. First, she’d place both hands on the top of my head. She’d gently stroke my hair: “This is Flora’s head.”
Then she’d move her fingers down, trace the shape of my eyebrow, the curve of my ears, the line of my jaw. “These are Flora’s eyes, cheeks, ears, face. This is Flora’s face.”
Next, she’d squeeze both my shoulders, not too hard, but firm. “These are Flora’s shoulders.”
More squeezing, of both elbows, my wrists, all five fingers of each hand. Compression, I later learned. My mother was practicing a basic therapy often used for hyperactive children. Basically, a joint-by-joint bear hug, as she squeezed my ribs, pressed against the sockets of my hips, then finished with my knees, ankles, feet.
“This is Flora’s leg, Flora’s knee, Flora’s ankle. This is Flora’s foot. And now, it’s time for all of Flora to GET SOME SLEEP.”
When I was little, I would giggle at the end. And of course, I would beg her to do it again. Sometimes she would. But mostly, I got a peck on a cheek, maybe an affectionate tousle of my hair. Then my mother was up and out, a busy single mom with many worries to tend and chores to complete.
By the time I turned ten, eleven, twelve, the ritual died a natural death. Another stage from childhood passed through. Sometimes, when I was sick or feeling blue, my mother would return again. A quicker, abbreviated version, but just as comforting.
Once I hit high school, my mother teased it was now my turn to tuck her into bed. Being someone who regularly started her day at five, she certainly didn’t stay up much past nine or ten. Sometimes, if I was feeling mischievous, or maybe just missed her, I would show up and make a big production of it. This is Mom’s hair, this is Mom’s eye. Oh my God, what happened to Mom’s face?
If my brother was home, he might even join us. Holy crap, is that really Mom’s hand?
Before long, the three of us would have collapsed with a fit of giggles, my mother at the bottom of the pile, shaking her head. Moments of a family. The kind of thing that somewhere in your heart you know is special, and yet you can’t help but take for granted.
After I was found, my mother arrived at the Atlanta hospital. That first night, she touched my hair. Traced the line of my brow. Followed the curve of my ear. “This is Flora’s face,” she whispered to me.
I didn’t look at her. I kept my eyes open, my gaze fixed on the ceiling. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that her hands felt like sandpaper against my skin. And that, far from soothing me, I wished desperately, with every fiber in my being, that she’d just stop.
And yet in the weeks and months to come, on the very bad nights when I woke up screaming again and again, and my brother hovered uncomfortably in the doorway, my mother would take her place on the edge of my bed. She’d once again trace my cheekbones, squeeze my shoulders, compress the joint of my elbows, wrists, all five fingers of each hand.
Slowly but surely, my patient mother would help me find slumber again.
I am asleep now.
But it is wrong, bad.
I need to wake up. I have a sense of urgency, dread. A bad dream. I’m having a bad dream and I need to wake up now. Scream, yell, thrash. Then my eyes will pop open. I will find myself back in my own bed. My mother will be beside me, rubbing my temples even as I flinch. I’m moving. I shouldn’t be moving.
Wake up, Flora. Wake up!
I try. I will my eyelids to roll up. I order my limbs to jerk to life.
Nothing happens. I can’t move, I can’t see. I can’t find my way back to the safety of my locked apartment or my childhood bed.
A mist. I feel it, cool against my cheeks. I inhale instinctively, wrinkling my nose at the smell.
And then . . .
I am rushing away into the dark. My mother disappears from view, and even if her touch feels like sandpaper, even if I’m the one who constantly pushes her away, I still wish I could call her back.
I need to tell her something.
I need to say I’m sorry.
Wake up, Flora. Wake up!
But I can’t.
I’m moving.
I shouldn’t be moving.
I am in trouble.
Chapter 15
FLORA’S CELL PHONE WAS PASSWORD PROTECTED. No surprises there. Instead, D.D. used her own phone to make the call. Boston FBI field office. Requesting one Dr. Samuel Keynes. It took another three minutes for the operator to take her seriously enough to track down a federal employee on a Sunday. One more minute for Keynes to return her call. From there, however, the rest was a matter of seconds. Yes, he’d returned Flora to her apartment on Saturday. And no, she would never leave her apartment unlocked. He’d be right over.
Which didn’t surprise D.D. at all. She didn’t know much about victim specialists and their interactions with their charges, but it already had struck her that Keynes and Flora had an unusually close relationship.
D.D. had just finished conducting a visual tour of the outside of the apartment, as well as an inspection of the fire escape, when Keynes pulled up.
Keynes was wearing the same knee-length, double-breasted cashmere coat as the day before. How he’d gotten it dry-cleaned so fast, she’d never know, but it didn’t contain the faintest whiff of human barbecue or rancid garbage. Maybe he’d simply willed the odor away. Walking up to the building now, shoulders set, gaze direct, he had that look about him: the kind of guy who could take over the world through sheer presence alone.
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.