Never Tell (Detective D.D. Warren #10) - Lisa Gardner Page 0,22
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.”