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CHAPTER 2
FLORA
IDATED ONCE. PJN. PRE Jacob Ness. I remember brushing out my sun-streaked hair till it glowed California gold. Then I’d line my lashes in deep purple and go heavy on the mascara to bring out the gray depths of my eyes. A wisp of a dress. Thin spaghetti straps, a hem that barely brushed mid-thigh. Why not? I’d spent my childhood running around the wilds of Maine and I had long, graceful legs to show for it.
In those days, I was a girl on fire. I didn’t just enter a bar, I sauntered: bright, shiny, the life of the party. I was young and arrogant. And stupid. Dear God, so stupid. Even now, eight years later, I wish I could go back and have twenty seconds alone with my younger, stupider self.
But no such luck. So instead, bright, shiny me headed to Florida on spring break. And like tons of pretty college coeds, I donned my wisp of a dress and headed out with my bestest buds, all almost as golden and giggly as me, ready to rock the palm trees. We downed tequila shots. We shimmied across peanut-strewn floors. We spurned good-looking guys for downright sexy ones.
Then...
I danced myself away from the protection of the bar lights. Into the shadows of the sparsely populated beach, listening to some song only I could hear in my tequila-soaked head.
And Jacob Ness, who later told me he’d been watching me for hours, snatched me off that beach. Yanked me right out of my life, my pretty girl bluster, my young and glorious ways. He came. I disappeared. And for the next four hundred and seventy-two days, I learned about an entirely different kind of existence. One involving a coffin-sized box and the whims of a vicious predator who’d always wanted his own personal sex slave.
Again, if I could just have twenty seconds alone with younger, stupider me... But there are some mistakes you never get to take back. And there are some experiences there is no returning from.
There is what was. And now there is what is.
But I still miss that girl sometimes. Especially on a night like this one.
—
WE MEET AT THERESTAURANT. Keith knows better than to ask to pick me up at my apartment. It’s silly, really. The guy is such a computer nerd he can probably hack the DOD. No doubt he has my address. Hell, probably a blueprint of the entire town house, for that matter.
But I need my illusions, and at this phase of our “relationship” he’s willing to give them to me. Tonight’s attempt at dating will take place at a popular rib joint in Boston. The kind of place known for its huge portions and sketchy neighborhood. Hipsters need not apply. Tourists definitely wouldn’t survive. My kind of place.
Last time I agreed to dinner, Keith took me to some establishment that was clearly five-star pretentious with starched white table linens and twenty-nine pieces of silverware. Even wearing my nice hoodie, I didn’t exactly blend in.
Keith did the requisite, “You’re beautiful anywhere you go, in anything you wear.”
I debated how much damage I could inflict with the four available knives, particularly the fish knife, which was a new and interesting implement. Not terribly sharp, but then again, you didn’t need a razor’s edge when targeting eyeballs. For that matter, the butter knife had a heavy silver handle, perfect for bludgeoning. Then there were the crystal glasses that could be smashed into jagged edges, or fine china plates which could be hurled as deadly Frisbees...
We left shortly after that.
I adhere to a certain style. I call it urban disenfranchised. Basically, steel-toed boots and dark-colored cargo pants topped by any number of hoodies. Some of my sweatshirts have words on them—a logo or print. All have been washed so many times they can no longer be read.
I don’t spend money on clothes, not party dresses or even new hoodies. I did recently invest in a new butterfly blade. The steel handles, when folded together like a closed fan—or wings of a butterfly—are etched with the most amazing dragon design. Flick of a wrist, the handles flip open and back, the blade appears, murder and mayhem ensue. I love my new blade, spend hours at night, flicking, unflicking, tracing the amazing craftsmanship, then flicking, unflicking, all over again. Tonight, the butterfly knife is wedged in the top of my boot. It’s one of the main reasons I came out. I wanted to see how walking around with the concealed weapon would feel.
Because dating... A girl like me, with a guy like him...
Keith Edgar is a self-employed computer analyst. He’s also a true-crime enthusiast who considers himself to be one of the foremost experts on Jacob Ness. I met him in December, only because I needed some information on the life Jacob led before he found me.
At the time, I’d assumed Keith would be some basement-dwelling dweeb who drooled over crime scene photos the way others drool over porn. He’d be bat-blind, moonfaced, and with a fetish for Doritos and energy drinks.
Instead...
He’s tall, with a lean athletic build, thick dark hair, and impossibly blue eyes. He favors Tom Ford suits and—in the middle of the night, when I’m thinking about things I don’t want to think about—I’m guessing Calvin Klein briefs. He’s incredibly smart and can analyze a police report or a predator profile almost as quickly as I can.
My current theory is that he’s either the first good thing to happen in my life in a very long time. Or he’s a serial killer.
Which is one of the many problems with nights like tonight. I honestly can’t decide. And I don’t know if that already tells me something about him, or yet more things I don’t want to know about me.
Now, sitting at the table at the edge of the crowded rib joint, I count the exits. Front, back, kitchen door, which probably also has a rear egress. Three. I would prefer five.
Across from me, Keith watches me tap my fingers against the sticky wood tabletop and shakes his head. “Four,” he corrects, having already deduced my line of thinking. “The men’s room, at least, has a window large enough for escape. You’ll have to check out the ladies’ room on your own.”
He nods in the direction of the restrooms. They are located on the opposite side of the bar, which is positioned like a circular bull’s-eye in the middle of the floor. Annoying layout if you ask me. Six steps to dart left, half a dozen to escape right, given the obstacle smack-dab in the middle. Still, more exits are more exits.
