Then, she paced.
Keynes hadn’t been lying. The paperwork for this kind of incident would be something else. D.D. was required to remain on scene to answer preliminary questions from independent investigators regarding her use of deadly force. As a restricted duty detective, not even cleared to carry a firearm, she would face further scrutiny, perhaps even disciplinary action.
Maybe Phil would yell at her again. For behaving recklessly. For not trusting her team. For once more walking into a darkened building, whether it was a good idea or not.
She should feel anxious. Stressed. Contrite?
But she didn’t.
She’d called for backup. She’d organized a team of officers to assist. She had approached the situation with the goal of containment, not confrontation, as befitted a supervisor. Then, when the situation had escalated to the point of immediate action . . .
She’d performed as she’d been trained. Regardless of her injured left shoulder and physical limitations, she’d eliminated the clearly visible threat and saved a victim’s life.
She felt . . . strong. Capable. Self-sufficient.
She felt, for the first time in months, like herself again.
She called home. It was 3:00 A.M., but Alex was familiar with middle-of-the-night conversations. Truth was, she needed to hear his voice. After a night like this, she wanted to feel at least that close to him.
“I’m okay,” she started the call.
“Good. Where are you?”
“I killed her. Jacob’s daughter, Natalie. I shot and killed her in the line of duty.”
A pause. “I’m sorry.”
“Me too. She pointed her gun right at me, I had no choice.”
“You had a weapon?” Alex had always been a smart one.
“I borrowed one, to enter the property. We heard shots fired. We went in prepared.”
He didn’t say anything, because going in prepared wasn’t the same as going in cleared for duty and they both knew it.
“I was scared,” she whispered. “I’ve never been scared before. It’s always been just part of the job. But this time . . . All I could think about was my stupid shoulder. Could I aim fast enough, would I be strong enough . . . I did what I had to do, but I was scared.”
“Cal Horgan—”
“Is going to ream me a new one.”
“With good reason?”
“I don’t want to be scared. And sitting at a desk, that feels like hiding to me. Being on restricted duty, that’s being frightened. I want to be cleared. I want to be the detective I used to be.”
“Honey, your injury—”
“I did what I had to do. A suspect leveled a firearm at me in a life-and-death situation and I performed under pressure. I won’t be scared again, Alex. And I won’t stay chained to a desk.”
“So, you’re not calling home to tell me I can get out the bubble wrap, roll you up, and keep you safe with me forever?”
“I’m going to face disciplinary actions.”
“Probably.”
“I’m going to need your support.”
“You have it.”
“Then . . . I want to pass my physical. I want to be cleared for full duty.”
“Is it okay if I’m scared? Because this call right now, my wife just faced an armed gunman, not my favorite middle-of-the-night conversation.”
“I want to be the detective I used to be.”
“D.D., I fell in love with the detective you used to be. I married the detective you used to be. You don’t have to change for me, or for Jack. We know the detective you used to be.”
“Okay.”
“Are you crying?”
“Detectives don’t cry.”
“But a restricted duty supervisor . . .”
“Maybe.”
“Thank you for still being alive.”
“Thank you for having my back.”
“Did you find the missing girls?”
“Both Stacey Summers and Flora Dane.”
“That’s great! Are they all right?”
D.D. told him the truth: “We don’t know yet.”
*
I WAKE UP TO BRIGHT LIGHTS. I’m staring at white ceiling panels high overhead, a scratchy sheet tucked tight around my chest, metal bed rail clearly visible. I turn my head just enough to see Samuel sitting slumped in the chair, head in his hands. No suit this time, but a jet-black dress shirt and dark jeans that would be more appropriate for a nightclub than a hospital room.
My mom is on a plane, I find myself thinking, then have to catch myself.
I’m not in Georgia. I’m in Boston. And I haven’t just escaped from Jacob; I’ve escaped from Jacob’s daughter. For a moment . . . there are so many thoughts in my head. So many memories, emotions. I’m not sure where the past ends and the present begins. I’m not sure who I was, and who I will ever be again.
I’m in limbo.
It’s not the worst feeling in the world. All the promise of a fresh start without the pain of actually attempting it.
My shoulder aches. My head is fuzzy. My mouth is dry.
Lindy with her gun. Me with my broken glass and plastic straw. She pulled the trigger. So did the detective. And we all fell down.
She’s dead. I don’t have to ask to know. Lindy must be dead. It’s the only way to explain me being alive.
I got out. I’m free.
And just the thought makes me start to laugh, though it’s not a happy sound coming from my throat.
Samuel appears immediately at my side. Offers me water, fusses with the edge of the blanket. I don’t see my mom yet, but she must be in the hospital somewhere. Even if she hates me, is heartbroken, furious, devastated, she’s not the type to back down from a fight. I guess I get that from her.
I’m laughing again. Or crying. Because here I am, except who am I? A killer? A woman only comfortable in the dark?
A woman with no promises left to keep. Except who is that exactly?
I wish I could scrub my brain. I wish I could bleach my eyes. I wish I could take my entire body and empty it out. No more memories of coffin-shaped boxes, or Jacob’s tobacco-stained teeth, or exactly how it smells when human flesh bursts into flame.
I would give it all up. Remember nothing. Know nothing.
I would be simply a girl running through the woods of Maine, sneaking pieces of cheese to the foxes.
Samuel is holding my left hand, as my right shoulder is heavily bandaged.
“You’re a survivor,” he’s saying. “You’re strong. You can do this. You are a survivor.”
“Stacey Summers?” I hear myself whisper.
“Thanks to you, we found her and got her to the hospital in time. You did it, Flora. You did it.”
I find myself smiling, but again, not the happiest look. Because I know better than anyone that this moment, right now, is the only easy one. This one second, where Stacey gets to wake up, finally free, with her parents by her side. And they cry, and she cries, and everyone is so relieved. Their wildest dream has just come true.
And the other moments? Tomorrow, the next day, the one after that?
She will need help, I think.
And then . . .
She will have it. From me, from Samuel, from my mother. We all started this journey together, each in our own way. I would finish it. If Stacey would let me, I would be there for her. I’ve fought enough alone in the dark. It might be nice to try working together with someone to find the light.
The next question I ask Samuel with my eyes because I can’t say the words out loud.
“She died at the scene,” he offers simply. “It appears she and Devon Goulding kidnapped at least three girls together. Kristy Kilker died. But you, Stacey Summers. You two made it.”
“I didn’t know Lindy was even in town,” I murmured. “I went to Tonic Friday night because Stacey’s friends said they went there on occasion. Lindy . . . Jacob’s daughter. I never knew she was in Boston. Never even suspected.”
“You met her when you were with Jacob.”
I understand the question he’s really asking. Why didn’t I ever talk about her, alert authorities? I tell him the truth: “No one wants to be a monster.”
“You’re not a monster, Flora. You’re a survivor.”
“It’s not enough. You think it will be. But it’s not.”
“You saved a girl’s life.”