Лиза Гарднер - Never Tell - A Novel (A D.D. Warren and Flora Dane Novel)

“Some predators talk,” I say now. “In chat rooms, on super-encrypted sites, predators have been known to share tips.”

Samuel nods.

“So maybe this Conrad guy was another monster. He and Jacob connected somehow—Jacob had his laptop in the rig. And in some chat room, they made arrangements for the evening. Jacob promised me to Conrad. In return for what, I don’t know. Drugs, a fresh girl of his own.”

“But you didn’t go home with Conrad.”

“No. I ate and drank till I vomited. That put a damper on the evening.”

“You made yourself sick intentionally?”

“Yes.”

“Because to directly disobey Jacob would mean punishment, if not death. And to have sex with Conrad would mean punishment, if not death?”

I hadn’t thought of it that bluntly, but now I nod.

“You read the situation. You trusted your instincts. You survived.”

I sigh, whack the back of the chair. “Samuel! I’m not here for a fucking pep talk. I want the file. You’re FBI. The FBI loves files. Give me my fucking file!”

Samuel smiles. It’s a devastating look on him. Good luck to my mom, I think, because no man this beautiful can be easy to manage.

“No,” he says.

“What do you mean—”

“No. Big n. Little o. No. I will not give you the file.”

“That’s total bullshit—”

“That’s FBI policy. You’re neither an agent nor a member of law enforcement—”

“I’m a CI, working with the Boston police!”

He continues, “You have no right to the file.”

“Bullshit! You wouldn’t even have Jacob Ness if it weren’t for me. Half that file is my life story. Mine!”

“Technically, we wouldn’t have Jacob Ness if it weren’t for SSA Kimberly Quincy, who tracked him to the motel where he was holed up with you. She put together the data in the file. She organized the SWAT team that rescued you.”

I remember her. Not well. Those first few moments, hours, after the hotel room door blew in … I think I stood outside my body. I watched it all as a movie, happening to someone else. When she first approached me, asked me my name, I stared at her blankly. My name? It took a shockingly long time to answer that question.

Later, I read accounts of other survivors going through the same thing. First thing any captor does is take away your identity; Jacob forced me to go by Molly. Meaning SSA Quincy wasn’t just asking me a question; she was making me take the first step toward the person I used to be.

And have never been again.

“It’s my file,” I say, and there’s a tone of pleading in my voice. I realize I’m on the edge of tears. Me, who never cries. I don’t know what’s wrong. Since waking up this morning, since turning on the news, seeing the dead man’s face … I’m not myself. I don’t know who I am. I churn, I churn, I churn.

“Flora,” Samuel says at last, “please sit down.”

This time, I do. I collapse in one of the leather chairs. They’re hard and slippery and I hate them. Yet having sat, I feel like I’ll never get up again.

This is why D.D. couldn’t come. This is what she still doesn’t know.

I’m not always Flora Dane.

Sometimes, even all these years later, I’m still Jacob’s victim. Now I put my head in my hands and I don’t look at Samuel, because I don’t want him to see me like this either. Like I’ve been undone. Turned inside out. And there’s no me again, just this terrified girl, desperate Jacob will return at any second, even more terrified he won’t and that will be it. I’ll die alone in a coffin-sized box and my mom will never find my body.

The way my mom looked on TV. In clothes that weren’t her clothes. But her voice, never breaking. So strong. The silver fox charm resting in the hollow of her throat. A fox to show me, hundreds or thousands of miles away, how much she still loved me.

I’m rocking back and forth. Not making a sound, because I can’t afford to wake up Jacob. Except he’s dead. Except he’s still in my head. Except I want it to be over. Except I want it never to have happened. Except I’ll never get over him.

Samuel sits down. I’m aware vaguely of his movements. Most likely, he has his elegant fingers steepled in front of him. His position of patience. If I’m a void of darkness, then he has a well of serenity. I hate him for it. But then, I hate everyone right now. Myself most of all.

“There are other victims,” I whisper at last, still not looking up.

“Yes.”

“Their information, it’s in Jacob’s file.”

“Yes.”

“You don’t want me to know. You think I’ll use it to torture myself more each night.”

“Yes.”

“How many?”

He won’t answer.

“Could I have made a difference? If I’d escaped earlier? Cooperated more with this Quincy agent?” My voice is nearly breaking.

“No.”

“Then let me see the file.”

“No.” He unsteeples his fingers, leans forward. “Because me knowing you couldn’t make a difference isn’t the same as you believing you couldn’t have made a difference.”

I know what he means. Survivor’s guilt. The toughest affliction for people like me.

“I should’ve told her about Conrad. SSA Quincy. I should’ve mentioned some of the times Jacob took me out to bars.”

“When did he take you out?”

“Nighttime.”

“Day, week, month?”

“I don’t know. Winter. Someplace in the South.”

“What bars? Do you have a list of names?”

I shake my head.

“And the men. Did you know Conrad Carter’s name?”

I frown. “I think … maybe he mentioned his first name.”

“And the others?”

“I don’t … I don’t know.”

“So sometimes Jacob took you to some bars in some places to meet some men. Does that about summarize it?”

I flush. “I could’ve warned her that he was networking with others. She should check his computer.”

“You didn’t know that much about predators then, Flora. That kind of criminal psychology you only learned after you came home, as part of your coping mechanism. SSA Quincy, on the other hand, happens to be the daughter of one of the FBI’s most legendary profilers. She did check Jacob’s computer, I assure you.”

“What did she find?”

“I don’t know. I’m a victim specialist, not a special agent. Her job was to save you then. My job is to save you now.”

“Bite me.”

He smiles again, and maybe it’s just my imagination, but he appears relieved at my returning rancor.

“Flora, what’s the biggest enemy for survivors?”

“The coulda, woulda, shouldas,” I mumble. We’ve had this conversation before.

“Whatever happened, happened. You won. Jacob lost. Don’t replay the game.”

“You’re not going to give me the file.”

“No.”

“But you also know I won’t just walk away.”

“It’s possible I’ve met you before.”

He smiles again, but now it’s somber. He and I both know I’ll pursue this. I understand that in his professional opinion, this is a bad choice for me. I understand that in his personal opinion, it’s also not good for me. Or, for that matter, for my mother. And yet …

“I’m sorry,” I say. We both know what I’m apologizing for.

Maybe he thinks I’ll personally call up SSA Kimberly Quincy. I haven’t spoken to her since that day. I barely remember her face. And yet, saving me was probably one of the highlights of her career, meaning she’ll more than likely take my call. Maybe even give me a few kernels of information.

But I’ve spent a lot of time researching both criminals and law enforcement in the years I’ve been home. The FBI is a stodgy, conservative, rigid institution, where talking out of school is one of the quickest ways to get fired. Whatever SSA Quincy tells me won’t be enough for me, while still potentially damaging for her.