It takes me several tries. In this case, it doesn’t matter that I can’t see because I’ve practiced enough times with my hands behind my back; I’m used to going by feel, not by sight. I’m accustomed to the key being smaller, however, not fixed in place, and that takes some getting used to.
But handcuffs aren’t the most sophisticated locks in the world. And I am a girl who’s really, really practiced.
With a click, the first bracelet releases. Faster this time, I undo the second. And then, for the first time in I don’t know how long, my hands are my own. I lift them up, massage my wrists. It feels wonderfully strange to separate my arms, move them independently.
I can feel the girl watching me in the dark. I know she can’t see my movements, but must surely hear something. Or maybe simply sense the wonder of this small improvement in our circumstance.
“Would you like your hands free?” I ask.
“Wh-wh-what?”
“Would you like your cuffs removed? I can take them off.”
“What do I have to do?”
“Crawl over here.”
“That’s . . . that’s . . . it?”
“Just move toward the sound of my voice. I’ll help you.”
She hesitates. She fears me. With good reason? I don’t know. I can’t make sense out of all this. There are things I don’t get. How did I go from my apartment to here? Was there really an intruder in my doorway? And how did I end up trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey, putting up no resistance, no fight, not even awareness, as someone opened the door to this room and delivered not one but two pine coffins?
How did someone as smart as me become that stupid?
The girl moves toward me in the dark. I can hear her, slow and shuffling. I catch her sharp hiss of breath as she moves wrong, aggravating her injury. The one I gave to her.
Then she arrives, so close to me I can feel her breath. I reach out, take her hands, feel the line of her metal cuffs with my thumbs.
“Just hold still,” I tell her. I adjust her wrists over the hooked coil and, closing my eyes for concentration, work on guiding my makeshift lock pick into the tiny holes on each metal cuff.
It’s not smooth or simple or brilliant. But eventually, I get the job done.
The handcuffs fall away. I can feel her lifting her hands, twisting her arms this way and that.
It’s true, what I’d suspected. You don’t need eyes to experience wonder. You can feel it, even in the dark.
“Why?” she asks, her favorite question of the day.
I tell her the truth. “Because we’re getting out of here.”
Chapter 34
I’M GOING TO VISIT TONIC this afternoon. Samuel said I should tell you.”
“Excuse me?” Sitting at her desk, D.D. adjusted the phone against her ear, certain she’d heard wrong.
Rosa Dane continued: “That’s the last place my daughter went. I would like to see it.”
“Did you find something in her apartment? Some lead we missed involving her search for Stacey Summers?”
“No. But I spoke to Colin this morning. He admitted Flora had taken a personal interest in his daughter’s case. Given that . . . There has to be a reason Flora went to Tonic on Friday night. My daughter wouldn’t have just gone out to a bar.”
D.D. took a deep breath, forced herself to process. She didn’t disagree with Rosa Dane; Tonic was definitely a place of interest, as just discussed by the task force. Having said that, cops didn’t like civilians meddling in their investigations. Especially not a case as red-hot as this one, and with so many moving parts. D.D. had returned from the lunch meeting to find a report from the lab on her desk. The stain in Devon Goulding’s garage had tested positive for human blood. Furthermore, it matched Kristy Kilker’s blood type.
Conclusive, no. That would take DNA testing. But getting more and more interesting. Goulding almost certainly had something to do with at least one woman’s, if not two women’s, disappearance. Given that Flora was actively looking for Stacey Summers, how coincidental could it be that she’d ended up in his garage herself?
Which brought D.D. back to why civilians shouldn’t be involved in police investigations: Flora’s actions Friday night had led to Goulding’s death, eliminating the police’s best source of answers. Detectives knew better than to burn a person of interest alive. Apparently, vigilantes didn’t.
“Tonic is a nightclub, I doubt it’s even open this afternoon,” D.D. hedged, while she tried to decide if Rosa’s proposed visit was the best or worst idea she’d ever heard.
“I spoke to the manager. She’s agreed to meet me there at four.”
Rosa had called the bar’s manager. But of course. “And you reviewed this plan with Dr. Keynes?”
“I asked him to come with me. He has insight into my daughter that I value.”
Sure, insight into the daughter, D.D. thought cynically. Except the moment she thought that, she found herself uncomfortable again. Keynes had feelings for Rosa, D.D. was positive. Spoken, unspoken, returned, unreturned, who knew. But did that alone explain his level of involvement?
“Samuel recommended that I contact you as well,” Rosa was saying over the phone. “Something about how territorial local detectives can be. How you might not view my actions as helpful but threatening. He advised me to be respectful. I’m going with honest.”
“Apparently.”
D.D. frowned, glanced again at the lab report on her desk. “Fine,” she said abruptly. Rosa wanted to visit Tonic. Well, so did D.D. So why not kill two birds with one stone? Visit the nightclub Flora had been investigating while also spending more time with the girl’s mother.
“I’ll meet you there at four. Bring Dr. Keynes as well. He can offer more of his professional insights.”
Rosa didn’t say good-bye or thank you. She simply hung up. As she’d said, not ready for respectful but at least being honest.
D.D. grabbed her jacket, headed out.
*
D.D. HAD NEVER BEEN a nightclub sort of girl. A good Irish bar she appreciated. But blackout surfaces, strobe lights, loud music, not really her style even when she’d been young and, supposedly, hip.
It was always interesting, she thought, to visit such places by the bright light of day. Sort of like catching a movie star without her makeup on. At night, with the lighting just so and the floor crammed with writhing bodies and the stage dominated by the next up-and-coming band, the place probably felt electric.
Four P.M. on a Monday, it reminded her more of a college student with a hangover. The floor was sticky and covered in shredded cocktail napkins. The dark-painted walls were scratched and dinged, the bar area tired. The place looked like it could use a refurbishment, or at least a break from its high-risk lifestyle.
Rosa and Keynes had arrived first, and were already talking to a woman near the back. They made quite a trio. Rosa in her usual yoga grunge, Keynes in his classic gray suit, and the manager in nightclub black-on-black.
Currently, the dark-haired manager had her eyes locked on Keynes. He wasn’t even talking, and she still stared at him, entranced. Apparently, Keynes’s cheekbones worked even on a woman surrounded by pretty and even prettier staff.
D.D. walked up. She flashed her credentials, purely to establish dominance. Because, yes, she was that petty.
No dice. The manager kept her attention fixed on Keynes. On the other hand, Keynes smiled slightly, as if he knew exactly what D.D. was doing and appreciated the effort.
“Sergeant Detective D. D. Warren,” D.D. spoke up crisply, never one to back down from a fight.
The manager finally dragged her attention away. “Jocelyne. Jocelyne Ethier.”
“You’re the manager?”
“Yes. I’ve worked here five years.”
“Were you here Friday night?”
“Yes. I split my time between the back office and, of course, making frequent tours of the floor, just to make sure things are going smoothly. I, um, I recognize the picture of her daughter.” She flickered a sad, nervous glance at Rosa. “I noticed her at the end of the night, when things were winding down. She was out on the floor, still dancing.”
“Did you happen to see who she was with?” D.D. asked.
The manager shrugged. “There was some guy holding a beer, watching her. I assumed they were together. She was out of his league, I can tell you that, but . . .” She shrugged again.