“Which would make him all-powerful.”
“So here’s the issue: Flora absolutely, positively shows signs of trauma bonding. Which, we know from other cases, makes victims stay even when they could run.”
“Flora had opportunities to escape but didn’t take them.”
“We learned that, by the end, Flora accompanied Jacob everywhere of her own free will. He could leave her sitting alone in restaurants or waiting for him in hotel rooms. She stayed, which to outsiders makes her appear complacent, a willing victim. Anyone who has experienced trauma bonding, however, will tell you that in those moments, she was just as physically restrained as if he’d wrapped her in chains. Such is the power of the bond.”
“Okay.” D.D. was familiar with trauma bonding, though it was hard for her to associate the Flora she had met forty-eight hours ago, the woman who’d burned Devon Goulding alive, with that level of submission.
“Trauma bonding can also lead to someone committing acts they wouldn’t normally have done otherwise.”
“Patty Hearst, wielding the M1 carbine.”
“Exactly. There are many well-documented cases of victims that, over time and torture, have become accomplices to their own attackers. In this case . . . we found more than Flora’s DNA in that pine box. In fact, we found DNA from several different unidentified girls.”
“Oh.” D.D. didn’t know what else to say. The FBI agent was right: Especially in cases where the victim was held for a long period of time, many reached a point where they assisted in ambushing others. It was tempting to lay blame, though psychologists would frown upon such things. Kimberly had been right: The trauma bond coerced the victim into compliance as powerfully as physical force. “You think Jacob Ness might have grabbed additional girls.”
“I think I would’ve liked to ask him that question. In fact, the more we dug into his life, the more suspicions we had. Unfortunately, we’ll never know exactly what he did. How many women he might have raped and even murdered.”
“What does Flora say?”
“She doesn’t. She’s never talked about what happened to her. In the beginning, we gave her time and space, based, frankly, on the advice of Dr. Keynes. But later . . . We know that box held girls other than Flora. We can’t, however, say when the evidence got there. For example, maybe the DNA from other victims occurred before he kidnapped Flora versus during the same time period. Given that, we don’t have grounds to subpoena her. If she doesn’t want to talk, she doesn’t have to.”
“You think she’s covering for herself? For what she might have done, under duress or not?”
“I think there are questions I’d like to ask that Flora’s gone out of her way not to answer. Not to mention . . .” Kimberly paused again. “Between agent and investigator? Because in this day and age, when we’re never supposed to blame the victim . . .”
“By all means.”
“As I was leading Flora out of the hotel room, she paused for one moment, looked back at Jacob’s body. She’d lost the towel by then. I could see her face. And just for a second, her eyes sparked. It was like watching a machine come to life. She appeared . . . triumphant.”
“Having just shot her own kidnapper?” D.D. guessed.
“Or, maybe, having just killed the only other person who knew exactly what she’d been up to over the past year. I can tell you one thing: Dozens, if not hundreds, of law enforcement officers were involved in the search for Flora Dane. And yet, for all of us, four hundred and seventy-two days of that woman’s life remain a complete mystery.”
Chapter 29
I’M NOT OKAY.
I want to be. I want to be strong, in control, resolved. Not hungry, not thirsty, not hot, not cold, not in pain, not terrified. I am the new and improved Flora Dane, the kind of woman who will never be a victim again.
I’m shaking uncontrollably.
The name. Why does this girl call herself Molly? She’s not Molly. I know she’s not Molly because I knew a Molly once. I was a Molly once. That can’t be a coincidence, right? And the pine coffins. The endless procession of cheap pine coffins . . .
What the hell is going on here?
He’s dead. Jacob’s dead. I have to tell myself this. I’m huddled in a corner, bound arms looped tight around my knees. Jacob’s dead and I know Jacob’s dead because I pulled the trigger. I felt his blood, bits of his skull, blow back into my face. I left that room, finally free after four hundred and seventy-two days, with Jacob’s brain matter stuck in my hair.
He’s dead. He’s dead. He’s dead.
I have tears streaming down my cheeks. I hate myself for the weakness.
And I hate even more that small, miserable, pathetic part of me that still misses him.
I am not okay.
The girl is on the mattress. I think. She crawled there on her own. She’s sleeping now. Or has fallen unconscious. Or is dying. Probably, I should check on her. But she said her name is Molly, and now I can’t stand her.
That FBI agent, staring straight at me: “Flora, Flora, Flora.” Myself, no idea who she’s talking about: “My name is Molly.”
Victims and captors form a bond. You don’t have to like it. You don’t have to understand it. That’s just the way it is. Dr. Keynes explained this to me many times. I couldn’t help forming a relationship with Jacob any more than I couldn’t help being hungry, thirsty, and tired. Human beings are social creatures. We aren’t meant to live in a vacuum. Or, more specifically, locked away in a coffin-size box.
Jacob might have been evil, but he was also very smart. He knew what he was doing every time he stuck me in that box and denied me light, food, water, companionship. And he knew exactly what he was doing each time he took me back out. Becoming my hero. Becoming the all-powerful father figure I never had. Of course, I listened and obeyed. You don’t piss off the all-powerful father figure. And you don’t leave him either, not even when you might suddenly, unexpectedly have the chance. Because he is all-powerful. And if he says he knows where your mother lives, and your brother, and your den of favorite foxes, and he can track them down and kill them anytime he wants, you believe him.
When he says you’re his favorite, and he never meant to keep you alive this long, but somehow you’ve grown on him. You’re special. Worthy. Maybe even the one woman who could finally make him happy . . .
You believe that too.
And this girl? Huddled away across the room from me in the dark. Has she also been shut up in a box? Has she also endured hours, if not days, on end of her own pathetic company? Until she too would’ve sold her very soul just to get out.
I can’t trust her. That’s the problem with girls who were once trapped in coffin-size boxes.
Just ask Jacob. You can’t trust any of us.
I scrub at my face with my bound hands. I can’t keep doing this, I think, rocking back and forth. I was stupid for trying to find Stacey Summers, for arrogantly thinking I could take on the big bads of the world. I was misguided. I was . . . I don’t know. Everything my mom and Samuel accused me of. And now, I see the light. I repent. I just want out of this godforsaken pitch-black room. I just want to return to my apartment and resume normal life again.
Except, of course, I’ve never figured out how to do normal. How to settle for everyday routine.
I’m not okay. I’m not okay, I’m not okay, I’m not okay.
“Why?”
The girl speaks. The sound of her voice, so unexpected in the dark, shocks me into paying attention. I wait, ears attuned.
“Why?” she whispers again. “Why, why, why?”
I wonder if what she means to ask is, why me?
I unloop my arms from my knees. One last scrub of my cheeks. One last sniff.
I pull myself together.