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“Thanks, Emily.” I sigh out loud with gratitude for everything she has done for me.
FOUR
AVA
Five women were found in my small town in six months, in a town where nothing ever happened like this. There was little crime, and drugs were the biggest problem. Sometimes a theft occurred but was usually tied to druggies or a transient looking for things to pawn for more drugs.
Never murder.
Never rape.
Never torture.
Taken. Raped. Tortured. Mutilated. Killed. Discarded.
My mind drifted back to Cindy Downs. Petite. Dark brown hair.
Just like me.
Just like the others.
She had not shown up for her 3 a.m. showtime one morning. Her obituary described her as someone who was always early and never missed work. She loved her job and her teacup yorkie Olive. She was involved in local charities and was a kind person.
I read the article over and over again, going through the similarities. Burning into my mind, the description of her wounds.
Everything was exact, except one thing.
There was no mention of the brandheleft on all his victims.
The local police were convinced that the murders were committed by a copycat--a fanatical follower of The Skinner.
I knew better than that. I never truly believed David Commons was The Skinner. But at 19, when I escaped, I was broken.
Hehad broken me.
Inch-by-inch, he shattered me.
After him, I could be easily manipulated by others. He had taken my voice. He had taken the carefree girl I was before. The one that saw the light in every situation. The one that gave everyone the benefit of the doubt. The trusting girl.
The girl I used to be was long gone.
The day I escaped, Grace, my guardian angel, dropped me off at the hospital, and I passed out in the lobby.
The hospital room I woke up in seemed more like a sterile holding cell than a place of healing. The walls were painted a light gray-green color that reminded me of spoiled milk. The only decoration was a clock with aggressively loud ticking and a framed print of water lilies on the wall in front of me. There were two uncomfortable plastic chairs with thinly padded seats and metal legs that wobbled. The bed was an old metal frame with a thin mattress that had indentations from the previous patients. The sheets and blankets wrapped around me were stiffly starched and smelled faintly of bleach.
The fluorescent lights on the ceiling were harsh and unforgiving, making the room feel even more cold and unwelcoming. There was a small window, but the view was of a brick wall on the adjacent building. I saw a tray table next to the bed, and the IV pole behind me stood like a sentinel while the machines around me beeped as they monitored my vital signs.
Hell, I would have agreed to anything to escape from that small shithole hospital room that day.
All I could think was how I had to get out of that place. He would find me. I was sure of it. I had to escape him and get as far away as possible.
So, I did what I had to do to survive, and it still haunts me every day.
Not long after I woke up, I wasgracedwith the presence of Dale Shriner, an agent with the FBI. Dale was the kind of FBI agent that didn’t fit the stereotypical image. His portly frame strained against his ill-fitting suit; the tie was perpetually askew. His jowls jiggled with every step, and he constantly wiped the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief.
“Ms. Thompson, I am Agent Dale Shriner with the FBI. This is my colleague, Thomas Beck. I am sorry to question you so soon.”
Liar.
