when they go toground. It’s just—I don’t have to explain to you the difference between online communication, where comments can be considered before typed, and face-to-face conversation. These guys are good at hiding their true identity. So maybe you’re right and Prenter would have taunted you if he ID’d Cody as a cop. Or maybe you’re wrong and Prenter wants to disappear and not do anything to get himself tossed back into prison. Maybe his car got a flat tire. For one reason or another, he didn’t show.”
“You’re right. Maybe I should reach out.”
“I don’t think that’s a wise idea. If he does suspect you’re a cop or working with the cops, he could get violent.”
“He doesn’t know who I really am.”
“True, but if he sets up another meet, he may ambush our volunteer cops. If he contacts you, go ahead, keep it going. But don’t initiate contact, okay?”
Lucy reluctantly agreed. She didn’t like being so passive and reactionary.
“I have good news—you remember that case you worked a few months ago? The seven-year-old girl who was exploited by her father on the Internet?”
“In Atlanta? I’ll never forget.”
“He pled out yesterday when confronted with additional evidence the FBI found on his computer and the medical evidence of abuse. Eighteen years.”
“That’s terrific. Did they find her mother?”
“Sadly, no. She’d been a drug addict for years—she could be dead, or she could be so strung out she doesn’t know her name. But they did find her maternal grandmother, who’s overjoyed to take custody of the girl.”
The child would need counseling and love, but Lucywas confident that with enough of both, and a strong will, she would survive and lead a normal, happy life.
Normal
. Was anyone who’d been abused considered normal? Victims never truly forgot their abuse. But they could develop strategies to live with it, to tolerate the pain and the memories—never easy, but essential if any of them were to find even a modicum of peace in the future.
Fran gave Lucy a spontaneous hug. “We need to celebrate our victories. If Prenter contacts you, let me know. Otherwise, I’ll see you tomorrow night, okay? Go home and rest.”
“I will. Thanks.” Lucy gathered her bag. She glanced out the window and noticed the sun was gone and a chill wind tore down the street. She was so tired and drained from her near-sleepless night, she decided to grab a taxi.
The fucking bitch hails a taxi
.
I watch Lucy open the rear door. She pauses and looks across the street, right at me. She doesn’t see me; I am in the deli—the same deli she ate at earlier this afternoon
.
That ignorance angers me, yet somehow I am thrilled. I cannot explain the exhilaration rising in my chest. I despise being ignored, yet she doesn’t truly ignore me, does she?
I know Lucy Kincaid. I know where she lives. I know where she works, where she gets her coffee, where her brother lives, where she runs in the park
.
She gets into the taxi and it drives off. Taking her home? Taking her to dinner? I do not know, but I am patient
.
Her family makes me nervous. A brother who is a private
investigator. A sister-in-law who is an FBI agent. This is why I am cautious—I cannot afford to make a mistake
.
Should I walk away and wash my hands of Lucy Kincaid? I could easily kill her and run, but would they hunt me down? Her family? The organization she works for? Can I defeat them? I want to believe I can, but I’m not an idiot
.
I am patient, but my time is valuable. I keep a log of the time she has cost me. That time will be repaid
.
No one understands the concept of time as I do. I sleep exactly six hours every night. No more, no less. I exercise for twenty-two minutes each morning, followed by four minutes in the shower. And while I understand the need for flexibility, if I am not disciplined, how can I expect my females to be disciplined?
I am the keeper of truth, and I will not forget her betrayal.
“You’re right. Maybe I should reach out.”
“I don’t think that’s a wise idea. If he does suspect you’re a cop or working with the cops, he could get violent.”
“He doesn’t know who I really am.”
“True, but if he sets up another meet, he may ambush our volunteer cops. If he contacts you, go ahead, keep it going. But don’t initiate contact, okay?”
Lucy reluctantly agreed. She didn’t like being so passive and reactionary.
“I have good news—you remember that case you worked a few months ago? The seven-year-old girl who was exploited by her father on the Internet?”
“In Atlanta? I’ll never forget.”
“He pled out yesterday when confronted with additional evidence the FBI found on his computer and the medical evidence of abuse. Eighteen years.”
“That’s terrific. Did they find her mother?”
“Sadly, no. She’d been a drug addict for years—she could be dead, or she could be so strung out she doesn’t know her name. But they did find her maternal grandmother, who’s overjoyed to take custody of the girl.”
The child would need counseling and love, but Lucywas confident that with enough of both, and a strong will, she would survive and lead a normal, happy life.
Normal
. Was anyone who’d been abused considered normal? Victims never truly forgot their abuse. But they could develop strategies to live with it, to tolerate the pain and the memories—never easy, but essential if any of them were to find even a modicum of peace in the future.
Fran gave Lucy a spontaneous hug. “We need to celebrate our victories. If Prenter contacts you, let me know. Otherwise, I’ll see you tomorrow night, okay? Go home and rest.”
“I will. Thanks.” Lucy gathered her bag. She glanced out the window and noticed the sun was gone and a chill wind tore down the street. She was so tired and drained from her near-sleepless night, she decided to grab a taxi.
The fucking bitch hails a taxi
.
I watch Lucy open the rear door. She pauses and looks across the street, right at me. She doesn’t see me; I am in the deli—the same deli she ate at earlier this afternoon
.
That ignorance angers me, yet somehow I am thrilled. I cannot explain the exhilaration rising in my chest. I despise being ignored, yet she doesn’t truly ignore me, does she?
I know Lucy Kincaid. I know where she lives. I know where she works, where she gets her coffee, where her brother lives, where she runs in the park
.
She gets into the taxi and it drives off. Taking her home? Taking her to dinner? I do not know, but I am patient
.
Her family makes me nervous. A brother who is a private
investigator. A sister-in-law who is an FBI agent. This is why I am cautious—I cannot afford to make a mistake
.
Should I walk away and wash my hands of Lucy Kincaid? I could easily kill her and run, but would they hunt me down? Her family? The organization she works for? Can I defeat them? I want to believe I can, but I’m not an idiot
.
I am patient, but my time is valuable. I keep a log of the time she has cost me. That time will be repaid
.
No one understands the concept of time as I do. I sleep exactly six hours every night. No more, no less. I exercise for twenty-two minutes each morning, followed by four minutes in the shower. And while I understand the need for flexibility, if I am not disciplined, how can I expect my females to be disciplined?
I am the keeper of truth, and I will not forget her betrayal.
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