MEMORY IS A FUNNY THING. There are moments that sear into our minds. If we’re lucky, it’s because we’re happy—first kiss, wedding day, birth of a child. The kind of experience where you both have it and stand outside of it because your brain recognizes this is something so special that you’re going to want to relive it.
I have some of those memories. Being asked to prom by the cutest boy in high school, practically floating home to share the news with my mom. The first time I got a baby fox to eat a piece of hot dog out of my hand. A particular bedtime ritual my mom used to have when I couldn’t get to sleep. And the nights my brother and I turned it on her, giggling hysterically as we pretended to tuck her into bed, but really ended up in a giant mosh pile of limbs in the middle of her mattress, a tangle of family.
I have other memories, too.
The moment I woke up in a coffin-sized box. The sound the first woman made, when Jacob stuck in the knife, followed by the look in her eyes as she stared right into me, knowing he was killing her, knowing she was dying, knowing I was doing nothing to stop him.
Now I have to face the fact there could be six more of her out there, six more girls who never made it home. Maybe Jacob made good on his promise and fed them to the gators. Maybe they’re buried on his property, if I could just help figure out where that is.
Memory. Such a fickle tool. And for better or worse, the best option I have left.
I DON’T SLEEP. After leaving Keith Edgar’s house, I return to Cambridge, then pace my tiny apartment until my elderly landlords politely knock on the door and ask me if I’m all right. After assuring them I’m just dandy, I give up on walking continuous circles and debate calling Sarah. She’s a fellow survivor who once held off a murderer by using the severed arm of her just-butchered roommate. She’s also the closest thing I have to a friend.
She understood bad nights. How the brain could spin for days, weeks, months at a time, an endless cycle of remembered traumas from falling off your bike at seven to being attacked by a knife-wielding maniac at twenty. Trying to sort out the experiences, Samuel had explained to me once. It felt like my brain was racing wildly, but really, it was searching for patterns, matches, order. Something that would give it context, so my mind could go, Aha—that’s what happened. Then, presumably, people like Sarah and me would sleep again. Except some experiences defied definition. So our brains kept spinning long after the horror had ended.
If not Sarah, then I could call Samuel, who most likely was expecting to hear from me after this afternoon’s discussion. Or my mother, who would be simultaneously honored and stricken to have me finally open up about what it’s like to be me.
But I don’t feel like talking. I pick up the clothes in my bedroom. I wipe down kitchen counters. I rearrange the four things I have in the fridge. Then, in a burst of inspiration, I try on my own to recall the original place Jacob had held me. The first coffin-sized box in a dingy basement of some house. Small windows, up high. Shit-brown carpet that I used to comb through with my fingers, marveling at how many shades of brown it took to make carpet the same color as dirt. I jot down notes. Ugly carpet. Moldy sofa. Stairs leading up. Pine trees. When he finally led me out of the house, I remember pine trees.
But my mind keeps ping-ponging, until I can’t be sure anymore if I was remembering the first place, or that second motel, or what about that place in Florida? I grow light-headed, can feel the edges of the panic attack start to build, when it’s been years since I’ve been humbled by such a thing.
Four A.M., sweaty, panting, and borderline feral, I opt for a different memory. The day I was rescued, an image that should be higher on the happiness scale. I force myself to sit calmly on the floor of my apartment, recall exactly the crash of the motel window. The canister of tear gas bouncing into the room, then releasing an ominous hiss. My eyes welling, my nose running. Then the front door blowing open, and a horde of heavily armored men pouring into the tiny room. They scream at me, yell at Jacob. Scream louder when I pick up the gun. Fall silent when I’ve done what I had to do.
Then, Kimberly Quincy. The fed. She’d been the first to greet me outside the room, her arm around my shoulders, telling me over and over again I’d be all right. Everything was okay now. I was safe.
I remember her voice clearly. Clipped, firm, in control. The kind of voice that inspired confidence.
But what does SSA Kimberly Quincy look like? For some reason, that piece of the puzzle keeps escaping from me. I work on it for an hour. The sound of her voice. The feel of her arm around my shoulders. Me, turning my head, looking straight at her.
I had to have seen her. My eyes had been red and swollen, my nose a snotty mess, but still . . . No matter how much I try, I still can’t bring her face to mind. She remains a voice in the dark. Clipped. Firm. In control.
The kind of woman I’m going to need for the day ahead.
Five A.M., I give up on sleep completely and go for a run in the ice-cold dark, neon vest glowing, headlamp beaming. Then shower. Bagel. Black coffee. Still hours to kill.
I boot up my computer, check in on my new friend Keith Edgar, who, interestingly enough, has posted nothing from yesterday on his true-crime blog site. Trying to impress me with his restraint? Or just waiting for something more significant to share?
I decide not to worry about it for now. Instead, I cycle back to where I’d started my evening. Memory. Such a fickle tool.
I read anything and everything about how to handle traumatized minds, from EMDR to virtual reality simulations to old-fashioned hypnosis. Ten A.M., my phone finally rings. That familiar clipped voice: “My plane has landed.”
I’m not nervous anymore. I’m ready.
ARRIVING AT BPD headquarters, I spot Keith first. He is standing awkwardly to the side, gazing up at the glass structure as if he’s not sure its existence is such a good idea. When he sees me walking toward him, his face immediately brightens and I feel an unexpected tug inside my chest.
He’s dressed upscale metrosexual. Open dark wool coat. Black skinny jeans topped with a deep purple sweater over a lavender-and-pink-checked shirt. He looks like an Abercrombie model. Which is to say, an updated Ted Bundy. I wonder what SSA Kimberly Quincy will make of him.
Then I see her. Stepping out of an Uber vehicle. Long camel-colored coat to fight off New England temps that must feel shocking after Atlanta. A dark leather shoulder bag slung across her body. Nice brown boots, currently getting ruined by the wintry mix of salt and sludge.
I don’t even have to hear her voice to know it’s her. Something about the line of her body as she leans down to retrieve a smaller overnight bag. Then she straightens, turns.
And I realize why I blocked her face from my mind. Because for all intents and purposes, SSA Quincy looks almost exactly like me. Same lean profile, gray-blue eyes, dusty-blond hair, hard stare. Except she’s a slightly older, wiser version of myself. No dark shadows under her eyes. Real muscle mass lining her frame. A woman who sleeps at night, eats three to five healthy meals a day, and knows exactly who she is and where she’s going.
“Damn,” Keith says, taking in the two of us, and I realize I’m not ready for the day after all.
KEITH AND I let Quincy take the lead. She shakes my hand, then his. If she wonders about his presence, she doesn’t say anything. Maybe she thinks he’s my boyfriend. Maybe I don’t mind that impression.
She leads us into BPD, slaps down her credentials to announce her arrival, and crisply requests to see Sergeant D. D. Warren. Keith is looking all around the vast glass and steel lobby. I can already feel myself shrinking inside my down coat. As I’m a woman who’d once been confined to a box, you’d think I’d like large open spaces. But this kind of space makes me nervous.
A redheaded detective appears. I’ve met him before, Neil something or other. He chirps about do we need breakfast, coffee, anything? Quincy stares at him. He stops talking, leads the way up to the homicide unit.
Along the way, we pass an older man in a suit and a woman I recognize instantly from the news—Conrad Carter’s wife. The woman who supposedly shot and killed her husband. My feet slow on instinct. I open my mouth, feel like I should say something, anything. How well did you know your husband? Would it surprise you to know he was hanging out with a known rapist in a honky-tonk in the South? But Keith suddenly has a grip on my arm. He drives me forward, till she’s gone, and I’m left with a last impression of a woman who’s as anxious and exhausted as I am.
D.D. greets us with her normal chipper self. “What the hell?”
Quincy smiles. “Sergeant Warren. Nice to speak with you again. Shall we?” Quincy gestures to the conference room behind D.D. D.D. looks like she’s on the verge of arguing, probably on principle, but Quincy smiles again, says, “Not in front of the children,” and that does the trick.
The two female investigators enter the conference room, closing the door firmly behind them. Keith and I remain in the hallway, still in the company of the redhead, who’s fidgeting.
“Coffee?” he asks again. Most likely to have something to do.
Keith and I exchange a glance. “No,” we state in unison. Which makes me feel warm all over.
From inside the room: “A Boston shooting is a Boston case!”
“I’m not interested in your murder. I’m interested in the victim’s possible connection to Jacob Ness.”
“This has nothing to do with Ness. We’ve already charged the wife in the shooting.”
“Then my angle of inquiry won’t conflict with your own.”
“Like hell! You start digging in Conrad’s past, raise the specter of some serial killer bestie, and you’ve just handed the defense reasonable doubt. Evie Carter didn’t kill her husband. Clearly the ghost of Jacob Ness did it.”
“Do you know for sure someone else didn’t do it? Because a man who was known to go on frequent business trips, and at least spent part of them in the company of a serial rapist . . . As an investigator, these are questions I’d like to answer.”
“Me too. Which brings us back to the wife. Who in addition to shooting her husband, plugged even more bullets into his computer.”
“Anything recoverable?”
“Not yet.”
“The FBI forensic techs are the best in the industry—”
“Bite me.”
“Sergeant Warren, your case intersects with an ongoing FBI investigation. Period. You can invite me to assist gracefully. Or I can commandeer your case forcefully.”
“What ongoing investigation?”
“The disappearance of six women believed to be additional victims of Jacob Ness. With his death, we’ve lacked investigative avenues. However, this new information, that he might have met with other predators, could prove promising.”
“Conrad Carter can’t help you, he’s dead. And so is his computer.”
“Jacob Ness’s computer isn’t.”
For the first time, quiet. A long pause, where Keith and I lean forward. The redheaded detective as well.
“You have Ness’s computer?” D.D. asks.
“In all its mysterious glory.”
“What does that mean?”
“Invite me to play and I’ll be happy to share.”
“And Flora?” D.D. asks abruptly. “Why is she here?”
“She’s also agreed to help.”
“How?”
“A trip down memory lane. We’ve never found the house where Jacob originally held her. We have reason to believe it might be more significant than he let on. And that he took steps to mask its location.”
“You think Jacob Ness still has property out there? A personal cabin, residence?”
“I think finding such a thing could provide a great deal of information regarding six missing women, and, who knows, one recently deceased husband. Do you have all the answers for your case, Sergeant Warren?”
“No.”
“Neither do I. So, shall we?”
Heavy sigh. “You did help me with Charlene Grant.”
“And you did keep her alive.”
A change in tone. “How are the girls?”
“Amazing. Ten and seven. Ready to take over the world. Yours?”
“Jack is five. Has a new dog. They spring around the house going ‘roo, roo, roo.’”
“Never a dull moment.”
“Wouldn’t change it for the world.”
“Me neither.”
“Fine. You want in. Let’s do this. But I’m telling you now, there’s more about this case that doesn’t make sense than does.”
“My favorite kind.”
Just like that, the deal is struck, the hunt is on.
Quincy turns back toward us, motioning through the window for us to enter.
“Holy shit,” Keith whispers under his breath.
I don’t stop. I don’t think. I simply squeeze his hand.
Then we enter the conference room and the real work begins.