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.
As if he really is that much in control.
With all the time in the world . . .
My own breathing hitches. I don’t mean to. Hate to give him the satisfaction. But the steady, even beat is getting to me. No one breathes that regularly. No one, in this situation, can possibly keep that calm.
Then, suddenly . . . a dawning realization. A slowly shuddering fear.
No, I don’t want. Please not . . .
I can’t help myself. Having had the thought, now I must know. Shuffling forward. One step, two, three, four.
My toe hits it first. I stop. Freeze in my tracks and focus my ears once again.
Breathing. Much closer now. But just as steady. In. Out. In. Out.
I extend my arms. Order myself to be strong. Remind myself I’ve already been through the worst; I can handle anything.
Still, as my fingers encounter the first wooden edge of the coffin-shaped box . . .
While from inside comes the continued sound of the occupant’s steady breath. In. Out. In. Out. Sleeping, because what else is there to do when trapped in a dark wooden box?
I close my eyes. It doesn’t help. I can still hear her breathing. My fellow abductee, his prior victim. In. Out. In. Out.
Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no.
“I am not afraid,” I hear myself whisper.
But in my mind, I can see Jacob, and he is laughing again.
Chapter 17
NEWBIE DETECTIVE CAROL MANLEY was the first to arrive at Flora’s apartment. But if she seemed surprised to discover her supervisor actually on site, she did a good job of disguising it. Phil and Neil followed shortly after, and then the party really got started.
District detectives were assigned to canvass the neighborhood and interview available residents for any possible witnesses to Flora Dane’s recent comings and goings, while a sketch artist would be sent to visit the landlords. Carol volunteered to pull security video from the corner store, as well as peruse local traffic cams for any sighting of Flora. Given the volume of footage, however, they needed to narrow down the timeline of Flora’s disappearance in order to be more efficient.
Phil did the honors of searching her computer, while Neil placed a call to the girl’s cellular provider and credit card companies. Unfortunately, Flora’s network browser didn’t show any activity for the past thirty-six hours—since shortly before she headed out for her ill-fated adventure with the predatory bartender. Her cell registered only a single call from her mom the evening before, while her credit card hadn’t been used in a week. Frugal of her, but not helpful for moments like this.
D.D. prowled the tiny apartment, feeling restless. Keynes was tucked in a corner, mobile phone pressed against his ear. He’d agreed to fill in the mom, not a job D.D. envied.
Like most major cities, Boston had electronic eyes everywhere. From business cams to traffic cams to ATM cams, every street, every corner, yielded possible surveillance opportunities. In theory, this should produce a bonanza of information for investigators. Except that was exactly the problem. There was too much footage, and much of it low-quality resolution. Meaning security footage worked best when used backward—first formulate what you think there is to see, at what time it most likely happened, and then go look for it.
So what exactly went down in this security-tight apartment? Yesterday, late morning, Dr. Keynes dropped off Flora outside. Her mother was already upstairs, had made muffins. She fed them to her daughter; they caught up briefly. So, Mom, about last night . . . How did such a conversation go? And what did Rosa Dane think of her daughter’s late-night escapades?
D.D. stood in the kitchen. She pictured herself as the mom, baking muffins. She pictured Flora walking through the door, clad in secondhand Boston PD sweats and covered in garbage. She remembered the smell that had coated her own skin from the crime scene, then, with a short nod, headed for the bathroom.
Sure enough, on the back of the door hung a bath towel, still damp. She removed the lid from the wicker clothes hamper tucked in the corner and immediately wrinkled her nose at the stench. Garbage-scented Boston PD sweats. Check.
So among Flora’s first order of business upon returning home would’ve been to clean up. And then?
Girl had been up twenty-four hours at that point. She would’ve been tired, as well as hungry. According to witness statements, she’d been drinking at the bar, not eating.
D.D. was biased on the subject, but given a choice between eating and sleeping, she’d go with eating any day of the week. Especially given that Flora’s mother would’ve been waiting for her in the kitchen, with the scent of homemade muffins wafting in the air.
Following that instinct, D.D. returned to the kitchen. This time, she discovered a gallon-size freezer bag tucked in the corner containing six blueberry muffins. The leftovers, she would guess. And they still looked delicious.
Next, she checked the refrigerator, where she discovered a brand-new jug of orange juice and bowl of recently cut-up fruit. Edges of the apples were just starting to brown, so she was willing to bet they came from yesterday’s snack with the mom as well.
As for other contents . . . She pulled out some takeout containers, sniffed experimentally, recoiled. Best she could tell, Flora had one edible meal in her whole kitchen, and that was the food supplied by Mom. Which meant?
“She never ate dinner,” D.D. stated out loud.
“Pardon?” Dr. Keynes had come up behind her. He still wore his coat, though it was now unbuttoned. How he didn’t sweat, given the stuffy confines of the small space, she’d never know.
“Yesterday. Flora returned home, showered, ate with her mom a late breakfast, early lunch—”
“Brunch?”
“Sure. Muffins and fruit. Brunch. But that was it. I mean unless she went out. Which, given the lack of credit card activity, let alone her own state of mind . . .”
“She would’ve rested. Post–adrenaline crash.”
“Okay. But she ate with her mom, what, one or two in the afternoon?”
“Rosa confirmed she left shortly after one.”
“So most likely she would’ve lain down for a nap. Too early in the day to go to bed, bed.”
Keynes shrugged one shoulder. “Given the large windows, the overall brightness of the space, I suspect she would retire to her room to rest.”
“You mean the shrine to kidnapping victims everywhere?”
Another elegant shrug. He turned and headed for Flora’s bedroom. D.D. followed behind him.
Like the rest of the apartment, the room was small. The newspaper articles plastered all over the walls offered its main distinction. Otherwise just the modest desk and the rumpled bed, which definitely appeared to have been slept in.