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SERGEANT D. D. WARRENIS A Boston homicide detective. She has short, curly blond hair, crystalline blue eyes, and a razor-sharp jaw. No one would call her beautiful, but she’s striking in a cool, slightly dangerous sort of way. The first time I met her, she struck me as a woman who suffered no fools and took no prisoners. She hasn’t disappointed me yet.
Even though I was a Boston college student when I was abducted, D.D. never handled my case. My kidnapping fell under FBI jurisdiction. Instead, I met D.D. five years after my safe return, when I’d given up sleeping and moved to Boston to hunt predators.
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.
