He was bullied mercilessly at school, but still preferred it to being at home, where Mom—crippled by an anxiety disorder and left to raise two kids alone—cut Bram’s hair with a paring knife and forbade him from brushing his teeth. Once, he got up the courage to go looking for his estranged father at the manufacturing company where he worked, only to be told his dad had quit and left town. Bram dragged his cousin along on that adventure, and when he got home again his mother hit him with a jug of expired milk. For eight days I was Bram’s captive and his confidante. I hoarded those glimpses into his past and prayed I’d live long enough to use them against him.
“I read about that case,” Tim said, his voice flat as farmland. “It made the news here. Everywhere, I guess.”
“The NYPD petitioned to keep me anonymous. The articles never used my name.”
“Did he . . . hurt you?”
I shook my head. “Not like you think.”
His eyes traveled to my scar.
“No,” I said. “That was something else. A long time ago.”
I saw the bewilderment in Tim’s face and knew what he was thinking. Eight days was a long time. Bram killed those other girls within hours of taking them. Why didn’t he do the same to me? Mercifully he didn’t ask. Instead, he said, “I remember a cop found you. That’s how you got out?”
I nodded. “A rookie who shouldn’t have been there. One day a tenant wandered downstairs looking for Bram to help her unclog a sink—Bram worked in the building, that’s how he had access to the cellar. She heard him talking to me, and between his new hair color and his evasiveness, she got suspicious and grabbed the first cop she could find on the street. Jay Lopez was his name. His partner was getting them coffees. Lopez went into the basement alone.
“I’m sure he didn’t expect to find anything down there. Must have been the shock of his life to round the corner and see Bram closing the door on a stunned, unwashed woman crouching on the floor. Lopez tried to draw his weapon, but Bram was faster. He took the guy down. There was a struggle. Then I heard the shots.”
Tim swallowed, and I went on. “Lopez took two bullets to the stomach at close range from his own Glock 17. He had a wife and three kids at home, was up for a promotion. He shouldn’t have been down there, but he was. Because of me.”
Tim’s anger surprised me. “You didn’t ask to be taken. Nothing about this is your fault.”
“There’s a lot of stuff those news stories left out, Tim. Like that after Bram shot Lopez and made sure he was dead, right before he realized he was screwed and had no choice but to leave me, he came back into my cell. Like the fact that I held his bloody hands in mine.”
“What?”
“He put the gun down right next to me.” I splayed the fingers of my good hand and swiped at the air. “It was right there.”
“You were traumatized, out of your mind. I’m sure—”
“I could have ended it. That man killed three women and a cop. I could have restrained him, and I didn’t.” I felt queasy, but I needed to finish. Get it all out. “Stockholm syndrome. Terror-bonding. Whatever you want to call it, that was the diagnosis.” God, how I hated those terms. They were go-tos for the press, just what the reporters who covered my story needed to romanticize my trauma and turn nightmares into content that sells online ads. “He could have killed me, but day after day he let me live. I guess some part of me was grateful for that.
“At first, it was just about staying on his good side,” I said. “He could have easily left me there to starve. I depended on him to keep me alive, so I had to behave. But I also kept track of the hours and looked for patterns in his behavior and actions—anything I could use to my advantage when the time was right. Sometimes he showed up sweaty and smelling like synthetic lemons. I figured out Bram was the building’s janitor, and that he only worked part-time. He had less patience for me on the days he smelled, and I learned to be cautious when he jangled with keys. I’m sure he knew I was reading him. Once he asked if I was enjoying myself, trying to get inside his head. I told him I monitored his moods because I wanted him to be happy. I oozed obedience. Out in the world my precinct was killing themselves trying to find me, but I wasn’t holding my breath. There was the bartender’s eyewitness account and video footage of Bram, but nobody had his real name. He paid with cash the night he took me, and without a criminal record, his picture wasn’t in the database. If I wanted to live, I couldn’t count on anyone but myself.
“After a while I stopped thinking of Bram as the killer we were looking for. We were both from the same town. There was no defense for what he did. But my emotions took over, and not a day goes by that I don’t hate myself for that. The bottom line is I let him go. And someone else is going to die because of it.”
“You don’t know that.”
“No, Tim, I do. Bram had his reasons for what he did to those women, and for taking me. He wanted something from me that he didn’t get.”
“But, Shana—”
“I made a choice. I wasn’t in my right mind, but I made it all the same.” I laughed a little. “You aren’t the first person to say this isn’t my fault. When the diagnosis came in, the NYPD absolved me of responsibility. There was no investigation into my conduct in that basement, but I resigned from the force anyway. I shouldn’t be here, Tim. This is the last place I should be.”
We both fell silent. There it is. Take it. I’m done.
He searched my eyes. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”
“McIntyre’s the only one who does.” I thought of all the conversations I’d had with her over the past few months, including our talk that day. “She’s been pushing me to tell you. She’s convinced that would make a difference somehow.” I paused. “I took a psych screening when I applied for this job. I want you to know that.”
“I’m sure Mac just wanted to make sure you were okay to work.”
“I didn’t do it for her. There’s a standard protocol for PTSD. It’s minimal—a debriefing, a mental health screening, and you’re done. I kept up with therapy way longer than I needed to. Technically, I was cleared to go back to work months ago. I wanted to take the test. Mac said it wasn’t necessary, but I insisted. I wanted to make sure. But I worry that deep down she’s still scared I’m going to lose it. I’m scared of that possibility, too. I have no business being here right now. What you saw before?” I said. “That was the memories rearing up. The fear. How do I know I’ll be able to tell the good guys from the bad? You saw what I did to Flynn. What if I hurt an innocent person because for a split second I look at them and see Bram? When flashbacks happen, I react. I don’t know if I can control it.”