Our initial meeting involved me standing bound and naked over a would-be rapist I’d just annihilated with chemical fire. D.D. wanted to discuss my questionable approach to crime fighting. I wanted the record to show that he’d started it.
I wouldn’t describe our relationship as an easy one, but a year ago she asked me to serve as her confidential informant. I think she’s slowly but surely trying to convert me to her side of law and order. Honestly, her job involves way too much paperwork. I argue it’s only a matter of time before she joins me in the world of vigilantism. We may both have a point.
I don’t have many friends. Like a lot of survivors battling PTSD, I don’t do trust, sharing, or confidence in others. But I would count D.D. as at least a respected associate. And there are times, as cranky as she can be, that I think she almost likes me. A little bit.
Nine months ago, we worked together to solve a domestic homicide. D.D. had recognized the shooter—the pregnant wife—from a case she’d worked sixteen years prior. I’d recognized the victim—the husband—as he’d once hung out in a bar with my kidnapper, Jacob Ness. Both D.D. and I had questions we needed answered.
Along the way, I learned some uncomfortable truths.
Fact one: Jacob Ness, who I’d killed with my own hands, was a suspect in six other missing persons cases, investigations that would most likely never be closed due to the fact he was no longer around to provide information.
Fact two: Jacob Ness, who I’d officially refused to discuss with law enforcement agents upon my rescue, had probably led a much fuller life of evil deeds than even I’d suspected. This life involved networking on the dark web, utilizing computer skills Jacob had no obvious way of knowing. He’d also had access to some kind of cabin where he’d held me in the beginning of my captivity and maybe had kept others, as well. And yet, the FBI could never identify where this location might be—we took to calling it the monster’s lair—which once again suggested a level of forensic sophistication out of line with his background.
Fact three: I’d thought I knew everything there was to know about the evil, awful terrible man who’d held total control over every breath I took for four hundred and seventy-two days. I was wrong.
Enter Keith Edgar. Given his computer skills and self-proclaimed expertise in the subject of Jacob Ness, he’d been a logical source to contact for more information regarding Jacob’s larger criminal history. That Keith happened to look like Ted Bundy was purely a coincidence, or so I told myself.
Working with Sergeant Warren and FBI SSA Kimberly Quincy, Keith and I had been able to finally determine Jacob’s username and password for the dark web. This enabled Keith to start tracing some of Jacob’s online activities from eight years ago and even solve a murder. The FBI had shown their gratitude by taking away the computer. SSA Quincy had mumbled some trite apologies at the time—FBI policy, FBI forensic techs, FBI blah, blah, blah.
I’d been extremely annoyed. Keith had been devastated. But not too much, which made me wonder how much information he’d copied/memorized/mapped before Quincy had snatched his toy away. Computer geeks can be very resourceful, and definitely aren’t ones to bother themselves overmuch with federal statutes.
In the months since, I’ve never directly asked Keith what he did. I figured he wouldn’t tell me, being the protective sort. While at the same time, if he did make a bombshell discovery, I’m sure I’d be the first to know; he’d just never mention his source.
We work together well. Which is what I keep telling myself, as the Uber driver drops us off at BPD headquarters. Even this time of night, the glass monstrosity is ablaze with lights.
Keith and I don’t speak. We head inside where D. D. Warren is standing in the lobby, already waiting for us. By her side is a small travel bag.
In that moment, I know.
Beside me, Keith knows, too.
“They’ve found something,” he breathes.
“They’ve found someone,” I correct.
And whoever she is, I’m already very sad and very sorry for this poor woman whom I never met but with whom I will forever share a bond.
Both of us once met Jacob Ness.
And neither one of us ever truly came home again.
CHAPTER 3
D.D.
BOSTON SERGEANT DETECTIVE D. D. WARREN was in love.
She’d never meant for it to happen. In fact, once upon a time her life had fallen into three carefully planned phases: work, work, and work. She indulged in the occasional all-you-can-eat buffet, because a girl needed a hobby. Or maybe that was her shoe fetish. But either way, she’d spent the majority of her adult life happily kicking ass and taking names. Some of her fellow investigators found her obsessive, if not prickly. Not her problem. Following an on-the-job injury, she’d become a supervisor of homicide—technically a step up, though the truth was that D.D. was happier in the field than behind a desk. Her former squad mates, Phil and Neil (and now petite, perky, pain-in-the-ass Carol), had finally gotten used to her hands-on ways.
Today’s phone call from SSA Kimberly Quincy—inviting D.D. to join a major taskforce that was re-opening several cold cases attached to an infamous predator—was the stuff of policing legend. D.D. should be thrilled, giddy, dancing in her brand-new smooth-as-butter black leather boots. Except, of course, she’d fallen in love.
She’d had to return home. Alex, her crime analyst husband who taught at the police academy, totally understood the demands of her job. He’d been the same way once. Now, at this phase of life, he could afford to slow down, admire her zeal, and smile at her in such a way that stated I told you so without him ever having to utter the words.
What had brought her low? Totally captured her heart, then ripped it from her chest, so that every day she had to leave it behind? They had a son. Six-year-old, hyper, adorable Jack. Who raced around the house in Avengers pajamas with his favorite canine sidekick, Kiko. Jack jumped, their spotted rescue pup jumped higher. Jack sprinted across their fenced-in yard, Kiko ran faster. Jack wasn’t into shoes, but Kiko certainly loved to gnaw on an expensive pair of heels, which Jack then quickly hid under beds and behind sofas, anything to cover for his partner in crime.
Jack was silly, wild, and way too charming for D.D.’s or Alex’s mental health.
Which made it so hard to stand in the family room and state, “Mommy has to go away for a few days. Probably a week.”
Jack approached it smartly: no immediate waterworks. Instead, he’d played the brave young man. Head up, shoulders back.
“Okay, Mommy. If that’s what you have to do to catch the bad guys . . .”
While his lower lip trembled. Then, suddenly flinging himself sideways, he wrapped his skinny body around Kiko’s seated form.