“Where’d you two . . . hang out?” Keynes asked.
“Well, during work hours, in the break room. But after hours, we might go out, grab a drink, that sort of thing.”
“Favorite places?” D.D. asked.
“Birches. Hashtag. There’s lots of bars around here. We’d wander.”
“Devon ever join you?” D.D. kept her gaze on Ethier, determined to catch some sign of jealousy, rage.
“Sure. Devon liked Natalie. Anyone could see that. She was gorgeous, of course. But she could be edgy, you know? She played him. Would offer a smile one second, then cut him down the next. She called him her puppy dog. Definitely didn’t take him seriously. But as for him . . . I think he thought it was all very serious. And the more she rebuffed him, the more determined he became.”
“He wanted her. She didn’t want him,” D.D. filled in, still watching Ethier. The manager appeared bored. Nothing here she didn’t already know? Or she was that good at wearing a mask?
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. I came upon Natalie with Devon a couple of times in the supply closet. Natalie might have liked to look down her nose at him in public, but behind closed doors, apparently even the Buff Bot would do.”
Ethier had turned her attention to the computer screen, was frowning at something on the monitor. So far, details of Devon Goulding’s affair with another woman seemed to mean nothing to her.
“How long did they know each other?” Keynes asked Larissa.
“Not sure. I mean, most of the time Natalie worked here, Devon was chasing her. But . . . she didn’t stay that long. Couple of months? Like I said, she was just passing through.”
“What brought Natalie to Boston?” D.D. asked.
“Change of pace. She said she was tired of Florida. Though how you can tire of sun and sand . . .”
“Florida? I thought she was from Alabama?”
Larissa shook her head. “I never heard her mention Alabama. And while she did have a bit of an accent . . . Not Alabama. Nothing as heavy as Alabama.”
“Is that how you knew her then?” D.D. asked abruptly, attention zeroing in on Ethier. “Natalie came here looking for you, didn’t she? She felt comfortable asking for a job after her time working for you in Florida.”
Ethier looked up from the monitor, blinked her eyes. “What?”
“Florida. You worked in Florida before moving here. Why didn’t you mention that before?”
“You never asked.”
“What brought you to Boston?”
“A promotion. This is a better job.”
“Did you read about Flora Dane?” Keynes now, piling on. “Her story was in all the papers. Her return home to Maine. At least in the beginning, the talk of her returning to school in Boston.”
“I have no idea—”
“That must’ve rankled.” D.D. now, pulling the manager’s attention away, keeping her disoriented. “She kills your father, and everyone hails her as a hero. Strong, brave girl who saved herself.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
Larissa shrunk back, clearly wanting out of this sudden change in conversation but having no place to go.
“When did you first sleep with Devon? Big hunky guy like that. Must’ve felt good to wrap him around your little finger. Until, of course, Natalie showed up. Took his attention away from you. Is that when you decided she must pay? And to make your revenge that much sweeter, you forced Devon to help.”
“Wait a second—”
“She didn’t sleep with Devon.” Larissa, suddenly speaking up.
D.D. and Keynes both paused, stared at her. The blonde flushed, fiddled with the hem of her skirt.
“Jocelyne was never involved with Devon, if that’s what you’re asking. She was involved with me. At least, when Natalie first arrived, Jocelyne and I were together. I’m the one—” The girl paused, looked down. “I’m the one who messed everything up. Not Natalie. Not Devon. They had nothing to do with our breakup. That was my fault. All my fault.”
D.D. frowned, studied the manager, who was now bright red with embarrassment.
“Management is not supposed to get involved with staff,” Ethier said tightly. “If my bosses found out . . .”
“You were never involved with Devon Goulding?” D.D. asked.
“Needless to say, not my type.”
“And Natalie Draga?”
“Well, more my type, but to be honest”—Ethier glanced at Larissa—“I prefer blondes.”
“How old are you?” Keynes asked abruptly.
“Thirty-four.”
“And your parents?”
“Roger and Denise Ethier. Live in Tampa. Do you want to call them?”
D.D. looked over at Keynes. “I don’t think she’s the one.”
“No,” he agreed.
“And yet all roads lead back to this bar. The victims, Devon Goulding.” She stared at Ethier, stared at Larissa, willing them to help her. “What aren’t you telling us? For the sake of Natalie, Stacey, and Flora, what are we still missing?”
Chapter 45
GLASS SHARD. I still have it in my hand. I wipe my palm on my bare leg, then tighten my grip. Studying the door, calculating which way it will open.
The lights. I’ve turned them on in all the bedrooms to aid with my search. Now I jog quickly down the corridor, snapping off switches before they can give me away.
Stacey is muttering, twitching. No time to hide her.
But maybe her presence in the hall isn’t a bad thing. The noise will distract our captor. While he peers down the hall, trying to figure out who’s moaning, what’s going on, I can make my move. Attack, then evade. It’s as good a plan as any.
I’m ready.
I focus on the door, breath held, ears tuned for more footsteps. My efforts are soon rewarded: A floorboard creaks right on the other side of the door. He has reached the landing.
I crouch low, glass shard in hand. I keep my eyes peeled on the barely visible doorknob, a slight silver gleam in the now darkened hall.
The door will open toward me, into the corridor. Plan A, trip up my attacker and dart through, yanking the door shut behind me and leaving my captor as trapped as I had once been. From there, I’d have smooth sailing down the stairs, out into the free world, where I could flag down help.
Plan B, fight like hell. I have surprise, training, and a shard of glass on my side. Wars had been won with less.
The door rattles slightly. I hear the rasp of a metal bolt being pulled back. Unlocking the door from the outside. And now . . .
The handle turns. I will myself to be lower, smaller, invisible in the dark.
As the door pushes open. One inch, two, three. Enough that I could get a foot in to block it.
The door opens. A figure fills the void. And then . . .
I spring forward, clutching the glass dagger close to my chest as I lash out with my foot. An oomph as the person falls, not forward into the corridor as I’d hoped but backward onto the equally dark landing.
No time to think, no time to redirect. The heavy metal door is already swinging shut as I suck in my stomach and slide through. A dark void to my left. Stairs, I think, twisting toward them.
Just as a hand snaps around my ankle.
A woman’s voice sings out. “Molly! It’s been so long.”
Stacey Summers has been telling the truth all along. Outside our locked rooms, things are much, much worse.
* * *
“TELL US ABOUT NATALIE DRAGA,” D.D. said at last. “She was the first victim, and the one Devon kept the most photos of. You were her friend.” She turned to Larissa. “What should we know about her?”
“I don’t know. She was pretty. But kind of dark, really. Her sense of humor, it could be cutting. Honestly, I thought that was one of the things Devon liked about her.
She was one of those women who even when you had her, you didn’t know where you stood. She’d say something awful to him one minute, then throw her arms around him the next.”
“She talk about her personal life? Time in Florida?”
“No.”
“Mother, father, brothers, sisters, family?”
“Never.”
“I have her file,” Ethier spoke up. “But to be honest, there’s not much in here either.”
D.D. reached across the desk for it, discovering inside the required government paperwork, a sheet of personal information, and a check dated nearly nine months ago, confirming that Natalie Draga had left her job one day, never to return.
As the manager had warned, the sheet of personal info was scant in its contents. The top of the page contained Natalie’s full name, in looping script. After that: emergency contact, which was blank; then a phone number, which, according to Ethier, was disconnected; followed by a physical address that took D.D. only a moment to place as the official location of the Massachusetts State House in downtown Boston. She glanced up at Ethier, who shrugged.
“We’re only required to ask for an employee’s information, not to verify it. Around here, lots of people are new to the city or just passing through. As long as they show up on time and work hard, it’s good enough for me.”
D.D. went back to the file, the top of the form where Natalie had scrawled her full name. Natalie Molly Draga. Middle name Molly. Which rang a bell. She’d recently heard the name Molly. Who’d she been talking to . . . ?
It came to her. And when it did, D.D.’s gaze went straight to Keynes.
“Molly. That’s the name Jacob Ness gave to Flora,” D.D. stated.
“After Jacob served time for raping a fourteen-year-old girl, Mahlia—Molly to her friends.” Keynes took the file from her. “She could’ve had a child. Certainly, she’d have good reason not to include Jacob’s name on the birth certificate.”
D.D. got out her phone; she dialed Phil first, who was her expert on database searches. Keynes provided Mahlia’s full name. Phil did the honors of searching hospital databases in Florida.
He came back in a matter of minutes. “Mahlia Dragone. Gave birth to a daughter, same year as the sexual assault. Oh, and get this. A year later, I have a record of Mahlia legally changing her last name to Draga. Her mom did as well. How much you wanna bet the whole family was looking for a fresh start?”
After Mahlia gave birth to Jacob Ness’s child. Who at this stage of her life would now be an older, manipulative female. Her father’s daughter. Recently moved to Boston to do some hunting on her own.
D.D. turned to Larissa.
“Tell us. Right now. Where does Natalie live?”
“I don’t know. I never went—”
“She had to have mentioned something. Come on. Think. Where did Natalie go at the end of your ‘wanderings’?”
“The T station. Wait! I can tell you the line. Oh, oh, oh, I know which subway line she took!”
Chapter 46
I DON’T THINK. I move. I hear her voice, Lindy’s voice, for the first time in years, and it triggers an immediate wave of horror, rage, guilt, terror. I don’t have to think about it. I kick hard, connecting with the side of her head.
Her hand loosens around my ankle.
I flee.
No thought. Blind panic. I thunder down the stairs, heart racing, pulse pounding. In the back of my mind, an internal voice is yelling at me. Stop. Take a stand. Fight. This is the moment I’ve dreamed about. Even imagined during every single self-defense or target-shooting class.
Finally coming face-to-face with Lindy again. Except this time, I’d get it right. No more dropping the kitchen knife. No more being pinned to the floor while she sat on my chest and outlined what she was going to do with me.
No, in my wildest fantasies, I slayed the beast. I did what I should’ve done years ago.
A woman with promises left to keep.
Except the truth is, five years of training later, I still haven’t headed to Florida in search of Lindy. Because five years later, she still terrifies me.
She’s laughing. The sound drifts down the stairs behind me as I round the first landing and keep on trucking. Beneath my hand, the railing is wooden and wobbly, clearly in need of repair. Old home—I was right about that.
I have to find the door. Make it to ground level, locate the front door, and flee into the night.
Leaving Stacey Summers behind with Jacob’s beloved daughter and favorite partner in crime.
I hit the bottom. No more stairs. Just a dark enclosed space. With no lights, it’s hard to get my bearings. I think I’m in a small foyer, not unlike the one in my apartment building. As my eyes adjust further, I can make out an open doorway to my right, where I can peer through to the lighter shadows of other rooms. Then I identify another opening to my left, leading to yet another corridor. This confuses me. I’ve been picturing a traditional triple-decker layout in my head. In that case, the stairs should be at one end of the building, not in the middle. Meaning this probably isn’t a triple-decker. Meaning I have no idea where I am after all or where the front door might be.
Play the odds. Doors have a tendency to lead directly to the stairs, hence straight across from me should be an egress. At least that’s the best place to start.
I approach with my arms outstretched, feeling for a doorknob. Behind me, I hear groaning wood as Lindy begins her descent.
Come on, come on, come on. There must a door. Any kind of exit. Come on!
I feel wood panels, then to my left the thin outline of a hinge. My hands fly to the right, and lo and behold. Knob. I have located the doorknob. I twist, yank, and . . .
Nothing. The door doesn’t open. Doesn’t budge.
It’s locked.
My fingers fly around the knob, searching for latches to twist, bolts to undo. I find one, then two.
A second twist, a second yank.
The door moves, rattles in the frame. But it doesn’t open. Something is still connected, a bolt, a chain, something I haven’t found yet.
I remember the doors of the upstairs rooms, then stretch up, up, up. And sure enough. I find it. Them. Two more bolts latched tight at the top of the door frame.
I whimper. I can’t help myself.
The stairs, creaking right behind me.
I’m running out of time.
And then . . .
She’s here.
* * *
“I GOT A T LINE,” D.D. announced to Neil over the phone. Ethier and Larissa had vacated the office, given D.D. and Keynes space to work. She rattled off the information to Neil, heard the scratching sound of him taking notes. “Combine that with our other requirements, plus frequent destinations on Goulding’s GPS, and give me the address.”
“It doesn’t help,” Neil said.
“What do you mean, it doesn’t help?”
“I mean, nothing makes sense!” Her favorite redheaded detective sounded frustrated. “I’ve been over and over the vehicle’s list of frequent destinations. None of them match our location profile, with or without subway lines included.”
“But that doesn’t make any sense,” D.D. said.
“Told you so!”
“He had to have used his vehicle, right?” She paused, backing up and revisiting their original logic. Across from her, Keynes nodded encouragingly. “The night Goulding abducted Flora, he knocked her out, loaded her in his vehicle, drove her home. Right?”
“He knocked her out,” Neil supplied. “Meaning she didn’t know how he transported her home; she was unconscious.”
“But you can see that trip in his car, right? It would be his last drive.”
“Hang on. Okay, Friday night, car journeyed from downtown Boston to home address.”
“His abduction of Flora. Where, of
course, he used his personal vehicle for transport. It’s not like you can take an unconscious girl on the T, or dump her into a taxi. So he’s gotta be using his vehicle for at least the initial kidnapping.”
“Okay,” Neil agreed.
“Parking garages,” Keynes mouthed across from her.
D.D. nodded, then repeated the words into the phone. “If Devon’s driving someplace all the time, he’d need to park. What about parking garage passes, memberships, something like that?”
A pause. She could hear Neil talking to someone, most likely Carol, on the other end of the phone.
“No monthly payments to a parking garage,” Neil reported shortly.
“Really? But that doesn’t—”
“Make any sense?”
Both she and Neil sighed heavily. They were close. D.D. could feel it. Just one last connection, deduction, and then . . . Flora and Stacey Summers at the mercy of Jacob Ness’s daughter. D.D. shuddered just thinking about it.
“Oh. Oooh,” Neil said suddenly.
“What?”
“Carol has a point. Maybe it’s not separate.”
“What do you mean?”
“The location, maybe it’s not unique. For example, we wouldn’t notice him driving to work, right? Because that’s his job, of course he’s going there.”
“He’s not holding four women in a nightclub,” D.D. said, though her gaze drifted up to the black-painted ceiling.
She shook her head. She was being ridiculous. They’d been here during the day, when the nightclub had shed its blue lights and was a tired but definitely very busy shell. Given the number of people passing through at any time, cleaning up, restocking, prepping, no way three kidnapped girls would go unnoticed.
“So not his job,” Neil was saying, “but another logical destination no one would think to question.”
D.D. got it: “Gym. He’s always working out. And most of those huge twenty-four-hour fitness clubs—”
“Are located in South Boston, near the water,” Neil filled in. “Where in the name of gentrification half of the area is being demolished and the other half rebuilt. I got an address for the gym. Even better, Carol says it’s right by some of the boarded-up tenement houses which are still waiting to be torn down.”