When she stepped into the WCF building, she was surprised that the place wasn’t packed. Fran was in the conference room by herself, checking the fund-raiser name tags against her master list.
“Where is everyone?” Lucy asked.
“I had lunch brought in and we finished everything we needed to, and since they’re all working on Saturday, I gave them the afternoon off.”
“You’re really done?”
“Just last minute details left. I’m triple-checking the guest list. The last thing I need is a major donor with a misspelling.”
Lucy tried not to show her relief.
Fran looked up from the list and frowned. “You look tired.”
“I didn’t sleep well last night.” Lucy considered telling Fran about Roger Morton. Fran knew about her past, and was one of only a few who Lucy could talk to about what happened. Fran was one of the most steadfast, loyal people Lucy knew—and she didn’t treat Lucy like a victim. If anything, she pushed her harder, knowing that hard work gave Lucy intense pride.
But with the fund-raiser on Fran’s mind, Lucy decided to wait until next week. Morton would still be dead, and maybe a few days was what Lucy needed to redistance herself from her past. Right now, it felt too raw, too real—and she didn’t want to talk about it anymore.
She was already embarrassed about crying all over Sean Rogan last night. Except … she wasn’t. He hadn’t talked much, but what he did say had calmed her. Then, he’d stood up to Kate when she tried to bully him into letting her take Lucy home. He’d agreed that Lucy needed an attorney before talking to the FBI, but he’d also said he trusted her to make the right choice for herself. That kind of support—that deep faith in her decisions—was surprising, especially from someone she hadn’t known for long. In the month she’d known Sean, he’d been more fun than serious, but last night she’d seen another side of him.
“I didn’t hear from Cody,” Lucy said instead, taking the name tags that Fran had verified and sorting them into alphabetical order. “Did Prenter go up in front of a judge this morning? Did they send him back to Hagerstown?”
Fran stopped her chore and frowned at Lucy. “I thought Cody would have told you—Prenter didn’t show.”
“He didn’t?”
“He could have suspected a setup. Sex predators have a sixth sense about cops. It wouldn’t be the first time, and it won’t be the last. But we have far more successes than most organizations doing what we do.”
“But Prenter believed me.”
“Maybe he pegged Cody. Lorenzo looks like a cop.”
“But Cody’s done this dozens of times! He knows the drill. And if Prenter had pegged either me or Cody, he would have contacted ‘Tanya’ to gloat or taunt or threaten. He wouldn’t just be quiet about it. It’s not in his personality—his mouth got him in big trouble at the trial.”
“Lucy, just because you have a psychology degree doesn’t make you a criminal psychiatrist,” Fran said. Lucy blinked, surprised by Fran’s comment. Fran immediately backtracked. “I didn’t mean that to sound so harsh. You know I think your predator tracking program is the best I’ve seen—it’s going to give law enforcement amazing tools to find these guys when they go to ground. 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 Lucy was 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. I will forget no betrayals. They will all be disciplined in turn. They will all be nothing, not even a speck of DNA. Which seems appropriate since they are merely females; worse, females who do not obey.
But Lucy Kincaid is by far the most disobedient woman I have come across. I need to act wisely or else I should disappear.