THE INSIDE OF KEITH EDGAR’S brownstone is as surprising as the man himself. An open floor plan that yawns way back. Miles of dark wood flooring beneath a stark-white tray ceiling. A slate-covered fireplace that rises like a granite column in the middle of the distinctly modern space. The fireplace boasts gas flames, which dance across highly polished stones. In front of that sits a low-slung turquoise sofa, bookended by orange chairs. Some kind of shag rug covered in bright splashes of color gets the hard job of tying it all together, while above the fireplace, a massive flat-screen TV belches out the evening news, including an update on the fire at the Carters’ house. I already caught some details on my phone. Yet more questions about a shooting, a couple, a man, I have yet to understand.
I remain rooted in the entryway of the brownstone, my back to a wall. Now that I’m in the house, actually face-to-face with Keith, I’m not sure what to do.
Keith springs to life first. He darts forward, grabs a remote from the glass coffee table, and turns off the TV. “Sorry, just catching up on the news. Can I get you something? Water? Coffee?” He glances at his watch, notes the hour. “A glass of wine?”
To judge by the furniture, I would’ve pegged him for a dry martini. And lots of hours spent viewing Mad Men. In between his time on the true-crime boards.
“Have a seat,” Keith tries now. He gestures to one of the orange chairs. “Umm, welcome, thanks for coming. Is this because of the last letter I sent? I didn’t actually think you’d respond. I mean, it’s not like the other notes worked. But you can’t blame a guy for trying.”
He smiles, blushes slightly, and for a moment looks as self-conscious as I feel. I can’t decide if this guy is for real or if he’s already the most accomplished psychopath I’ve ever met.
“Is this your place?” I ask at last, moving toward the chair.
He nods.
“Wife? Kids?”
He shakes his head.
“What do you do?”
“I’m a computer analyst. Most of the time I work from home. And don’t look anything like this.” Again, the charming tinge of color to his cheeks as he gestures to his upscale wardrobe. “But I happened to have a meeting with a client today. You’re lucky that I’d just returned home. Or I’m lucky. Something like that.”
“I’ll take that glass of water now.”
He turns immediately, striding past the fireplace and heading to the rear of the house, which must contain the kitchen. I take the moment to compose myself, reassess the space. Front door behind me. Most likely patio doors straight back. An open-bannister staircase to the left. A door at the base of the stairs. Coat closet, most likely. Another door directly across from that. Downstairs powder room.
Otherwise, a very open, expansive space, decorated like a page out of a West Elm catalogue. But in my second survey, I catch what I missed the first time around. No photos. No wall art. Nothing of any personal nature at all.
According to Keith Edgar, he not only owns this house, but also works out of it. And yet this space might as well be a showroom. Perfectly appointed and completely devoid of personality.
We all wear masks. And the more we have to hide, the more accomplished the veneer.
Keith returns with a tall glass of water. I take it from him carefully, not standing too close, making sure our fingers don’t touch. Then I do take a seat. My inventory has restored my sense of paranoia. I have all my survivor’s instincts kicking in now.
Meaning I’m relaxed for the first time since I knocked on the door.
“Why true crime?” I ask him. I hold my water glass but don’t sip it. I notice the glass coffee table has a perfectly clear top. Not a single spec of dust or water ring. I wonder if he cleans it obsessively, or pays someone to do it for him.
“I’ve always been fascinated by puzzles.” He takes the orange chair across from me, leaving the table between us, as if he understands I need the barrier. He leans slightly forward, arms resting loosely on each leg. He’s still smiling, clearly delighted by my unexpected presence in his house. I decide then and there that if he takes a selfie, I will kick him in the balls.
“Doesn’t explain true crime.”
“I particularly enjoy puzzles that haven’t been solved. True crime one-oh-one. You start with Jack the Ripper, then the Black Dahlia, and next thing you know, you’re reading everything about every notorious homicide, because the only way to get fresh insight into the unsolved murders is to learn from the killers who did get arrested. Why did they do what they did? And how can they be caught?”
“What’s the nature of evil?” I ask dryly.
He shrugs slightly. “Most people debate whether evil is born or made. Nature versus nurture. Based on my research, I think of it more as a spectrum. All of the above, but with some predators leaning more one way or another. For example, Ted Bundy—”
“By all means, Ted Bundy.”
That quick grin, proving he knows just how much he resembles one of the nation’s most feared super-predators. “I think he’s an example of evil that’s born. Bundy claimed that he was affected by his unconventional upbringing—being raised by his grandparents as his mother’s younger brother, versus being acknowledged as her illegitimate child. But I think we can all agree that as traumas go, that doesn’t quite rise to the level of spending your adult life hunting and killing young women—particularly given evidence he was playing with knives by the time he was three. Him, Dahmer, they were always going to be killers. Just a matter of when.”
I say nothing.
He clasps his hands, continues quickly. “Then you have Edmund Kemper the third. Raised by an abusive, alcoholic mother who was severely critical of him. Forced to live in the basement because she didn’t want him near his sisters. Then sent as a teenager to live with his grandparents, whom he hated.”
I can’t help myself: “He was sent to live with his grandparents because he’d already murdered the family cats.”
I earn a quick nod of approval. Whatever game we’re playing, I’m at least living up to expectations. Or was just stupid enough to take the bait.
“But here’s the deal with Kemper,” Keith says now, totally serious. “He shot and killed his grandparents when he was fifteen. That got him sent away to a facility for youthful offenders where he was diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia. So, sure, you could argue brain chemistry, born bad—”
“He shot his grandmother just to see what it felt like.”
“Exactly.” Another earnest nod. “And upon getting released, he murdered six young women, even liked to drive by police stations with their bodies stuffed in the trunk of his car. But this is what makes Kemper so fascinating: He was also incredibly intelligent and reflective. Smart enough, he realized one day that the person he really wanted to kill was his mother. So he did. He went to her house, murdered her—”
“Stuck her larynx down the garbage disposal so he’d never have to listen to her again.”
“And then he turned himself in. That was it. His mother had tormented him most of his life. He’d finally addressed the issue. Then he was done. Compare that to Bundy, who broke out of prison, what—two, three times? Swore each time he’d clean up his act, only to devolve into larger and more horrific crime sprees. Bundy was born evil. Kemper had some of the necessary starting ingredients, don’t get me wrong, but his upbringing at the hands of his mother was the deciding factor. So again, there’s not one answer to the question of what’s the nature of evil, just as there’s no one answer that defines anything about human behavior. Evil is a spectrum. And different predators fall in different places along the scale.”
“No one wants to be a monster,” I murmur.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You have questions,” he says abruptly. He’s not smiling anymore. His expression is serious. He steeples his hands, rests his fingertips against his chin. “You didn’t come to talk. If you were going to do that, you would’ve contacted me in advance, made arrangements to meet the group. Asked about the speaker’s fee.”
“Cashed the check?”
Another nod. “This isn’t about what you have to offer us. It’s about what we can offer you.”
I don’t answer right away. I study the glass of water. The way the condensation has beaded up, heated by the flames from the gas fireplace.
“Why don’t you have any personal photos in this room?”
“This isn’t just my home, it’s also a professional space. I don’t care to give that much away to clients.”
“Your reading has made you that paranoid?”
His turn to fall silent. I know then what I should’ve suspected from the beginning.
“How old were you?” I ask.
“Six. And it wasn’t me who was victimized, but my older cousin in New York. They never caught who killed him; it’s one of those open cases. But the details of his murder match four other unsolved homicides from the same time period. My aunt and uncle . . . They’ve never quite recovered. You grow up seeing the impact such a crime has on a person, a family, a community, it leaves a mark.”
“You work his case?”
“I have for the past twenty years. I’m no closer to solving it than the police are.”
“A string of related murders that simply ended?” I raise a brow.
“Exactly. Predators don’t stop on their own. But sometimes, they get arrested for other crimes. Or change jurisdiction. In this day and age of nationwide law enforcement databases, it’s harder for that trick to work. But international travel . . .”
“A killer with means.”
“My cousin was strangled with a silk tie. There was evidence of sexual intercourse, but not necessarily assault. He’d told some friends he’d recently met an older, wealthy gentleman. He was excited about the potential for the relationship.”
“You think he was seduced, then murdered?”
He nodded.
“I’m sorry,” I say at last.
“I was too young to understand the nuances of his death. Later, when I was fifteen, I happened to look it up. Imagine my surprise to find my cousin’s murder linked to a series of strangulations on various websites. But it was the true-crime sites, groups like the one I run now, that captured my attention. They’d given it serious thought and in many cases done some real work. We’re not all just armchair detectives. Some of our members are retired police, medical professionals, even a coroner.”
“And your skills?”
“I’m a computer nerd. Trust me, you want to do any kind of meaningful research these days, and you’re going to need a geek.”
“Why Jacob Ness?”
“Local case. Received a lot of coverage when you were recovered.” He pauses slightly and I can tell he’s trying to figure out if he should’ve used such clinical terms. Then he shrugs. It is what is, and we both know it.
“But Jacob’s crime is known,” I say. “Well documented. Where’s the riddle?”
Keith cocks his head to the side. “Do you really call him Jacob?”
“I just did.”
“When you were together?”
“Well, ‘Rat Bastard’ had a tendency to earn me negative consequences.”
“You still think about him.”
“You’re the expert, you tell me.”
He shakes his head. “I only know the perpetrators. I don’t know . . .”
“Me? Other survivors? The ones who, unlike your cousin, got away?” My words are harsh. Unnecessarily so. I can’t seem to help myself. I still can’t figure out if this guy is for real. Successful computer analyst by day, brilliant true-crime solver by night. Or something darker, more sinister. Does he study predators because he wants to stop them, or because like always calls to like?
Across from me, Keith has carefully reset his features. He taps his steepled fingertips against his chin, once, twice. Then: “I think Jacob Ness remains an unsolved riddle. I think we know about a crime—his abduction of you. But the sophistication of his operation, the box, the sensory deprivation, the brainwashing techniques—”
“I don’t need a recap.”
“You couldn’t have been his first victim. These guys, by definition, they escalate. They build to the kind of premeditated, well-planned, sustainable operation that was your abduction.”
“The FBI looked into it. I’m told they couldn’t find evidence of other crimes.”
Keith regards me intently. “That’s not correct, strictly speaking. They found other evidence. Just not enough to build additional cases.”
I can’t speak. I study my water glass again. I get the distinction he’s making. After all my years with Samuel, I know how the FBI thinks. Of course they would make a distinction, and Samuel would split those hairs in delivering that news to me. We aren’t looking at additional cases at this time. Not because there wasn’t any evidence. Just not enough.
I can’t look at Keith. “How many?” My voice is quiet.
“The group . . . We have been looking at six unsolved missing persons cases. All young women. None of them ever seen again. All during the time Jacob had his truck route in the South. We’ve been trying to see if we can establish a firm connection. For three of the women, we have been able to place Jacob in the same town as them at the time of their disappearance. The police, of course, want more.”
I inhale. Exhale. Six women. I’m waiting for the news to surprise me, but it doesn’t. I’ve always known I couldn’t have been Jacob’s first. He talked about at least assaulting others. But had he actually kidnapped them? Eventually killed them? I hadn’t allowed myself to consider it. That maybe there had been others in the coffin-sized box before me.
“The police would have forensic evidence,” I say at last. “From his rig. He had a special compartment. They could study it for DNA.”
“The police recovered multiple strands of hair and fibers, as well as additional DNA evidence from Jacob’s truck. Most of it, however, was connected to various prostitutes, including two that were murdered in Florida. Gutted after walking off with a beautiful young woman.”
I don’t say a word.
“With dark hair,” he adds.
I still say nothing.
“But there’s also evidence that the box where he held you in the truck was new. A recent insert, probably prepared especially for you. Meaning . . .”
“He could’ve had other inserts for previous girls.”
“In your statement, you talked about being held in a basement of some cabin in Georgia. Jacob told you he had to vacate it because the owner died, so he allowed you to join him in his truck.”
I shrug. I know this already.
“The police have never been able to locate the cabin. Which is stranger than you might think. While the mountains of Georgia are vast, the number of cabins whose owners died the year you were abducted isn’t that big. From there, it’s simply a matter of visiting the local community, floating pictures of Jacob and his vehicle, as well as checking Jacob’s financials for gas receipts—anything. The FBI should’ve found a connection between him and one of the towns or cabins easily enough. But they didn’t. Haven’t. Ever.”
I frown. Rub my right thumb along the water glass’s condensation. “You think I was wrong? I lied to the police?”
“Actually, I think Jacob lied. To you. He wanted to keep your initial location secret. Even from you. That way, if you did escape, you couldn’t give it away.”
“His lair,” I say the words softly. “That cabin. It was his monster’s lair, and he didn’t want to give it up.”
“I think if we could find it, we’d learn a lot more about Jacob Ness. Maybe even find a link to the other missing girls.”
“He’s dead. If he did own such a cabin, it would’ve gone on the auction block by now. Foreclosure, repossessed by the IRS, whatever.”
“I tried that. The property can’t be in Jacob’s name, or listed under any of his known associates because, again, the FBI would’ve found it already. So periodically, I run a list of all properties up for auction in northern Georgia, with a basement. Unfortunately, that list is longer than I’d like.”
“You’re serious about this.”
“Yes.”
“You’ve been working these other missing girls’ cases, for what, six years already?”
“Samantha Mathers, Elaine Waters, Lilah Abenito, Daphne Passero, Rachel Englert, Brenda Solomon.”
“Do the police assist you?”
A small pause. “Officially, no. But some of the group’s members . . . have connections.”
“With the FBI?”
“Not as good as yours,” he says bluntly.
“And this is why you wanted to talk to me?”
“Not necessarily. You’re a victim. We’re the hunters. We don’t expect—”
I hold up a hand. “Never call me a victim again. I’m a survivor. There’s a difference.”
He nods.
“I killed him,” I say shortly. The words are hot and fierce. I won’t take them back. “Does your group know that?”
“Yes.”
“Do you blame me? If I’d let him live, you’d have your answers. These missing girls, their families, they’d have closure.”
“Did you ever hear Jacob talk about other girls?”
“Specifically, no. But he was a sex addict, wife beater, and serial rapist. I already knew I wasn’t his first. But I assumed that I was the first he’d taken such great lengths to keep.”
“Why?”
“Fuck you.”
Keith falls silent again.
I can’t take it. I’m too agitated. I smack the glass of water on the coffee table. I like the sharp sounds it makes, as brittle as I feel. Water rings. I can already see them forming, and watch as Keith glances helplessly at the growing mess on his precious, shiny table. It gives me a perverse pleasure. Then I’m up, moving, walking, wishing I could shed my own skin.
I don’t want to be me anymore. Not today. Not seven years ago. Never every single moment of the four hundred and seventy-two days Jacob kept me his prisoner. I hate to think of him. I loathe remembering what it was like to feel so helpless, so weak.
But I’m further disoriented to be here, in this place, with this man. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I get it. In this room, the two Floras collide.
The teenage girl I used to be. The beautiful blonde who could make any boy look twice. That Flora would’ve been impressed by Keith Edgar. His dark good looks, a swanky Boston town house. She would’ve been scintillated to hear of his murdered cousin, his heroic cause to catch other killers out there. She would’ve been thinking about kissing him.
Then there’s the woman I am. Who looks at a handsome, charming man and thinks instantly of Ted Bundy. Who is too skinny and too hard and too tired after seven years without a single good night’s sleep. Who doesn’t think about dating, or men, or kissing . . . anyone.
I don’t have romantic dreams or aspirations anymore. Some survivors do. They figure out how to compartmentalize, that was then, this is now. I can’t. I live in a state of lockdown. I spent so long separating my mind from my body in order to survive another day, I can’t get it back. My body is merely a tool. Jacob used it for sex. I use it for revenge. Neither of us respects the package.
And now I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to talk to Keith Edgar. I don’t want to think of other missing girls. Whom Jacob might have kidnapped and held in his big rig. Did he keep some longer than me? Did he enjoy their company more? Dear God, is it possible to be jealous of such a thing?
“Flora?” Keith asks quietly. He hasn’t moved.
“Did Jacob have a partner?” I say. “In your research, is there any evidence he knew other predators, maybe connected with them online?”
“I’m not sure.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I’m not the FBI. I don’t have access to his laptop the way they do. Jacob was a loner. Yet, the amount he traveled, his ability to so completely cover his tracks . . . I wouldn’t be surprised if he had some friends, associates helping him out. Why are you here, Flora? Why are you asking these questions now?”
“You said you don’t have access to the FBI.”
“No.”
I finally look at him. “I do.”
He regards me evenly. “Why here, why now?” he repeats. “What happened?”
“I need to know everything about Jacob Ness before I met him. Help me answer those questions, and eventually, I’ll answer yours.”
He doesn’t even blink. “When do you want to start?”
“Right now. Get your computer. We’re going to make a call.”