She wore a filthy, loose-fitting floral housedress, the old-fashioned kind that Lucy’s mother sometimes wore when she was flitting around the house. Her face was clean, though streaked with tear stains, and there was blood on the dress.
“You may eat,” the man said.
The woman crawled to the bowl without looking at Lucy and ate, her face close to the bowl, her hands slowly but purposefully scooping up the breakfast and eating.
In all her criminal psychology classes, Lucy had never encountered a situation like this. She didn’t know what to make of it. It was like a slave–master relationship. How long had the woman been held captive?
When the woman was done, she went back to her corner and averted her eyes.
The man smiled at Lucy. “See how well she obeys?”
“Is that what we are to you? Animals?”
“No. You’re females.”
The tone told her he believed women were beneath animals. He was some sort of misogynist? How many women had he hurt? What did he do to them?
He said, “You will obey just like that one.”
“My brothers will hunt you down like an animal, you bastard!”
He lashed out again with the whip, his face red, his eyes narrow. She bit back a cry when the tip came down on her upper shoulder.
He leaned over and said through clenched teeth, “They will never find me. They will never find you.
“Woman!” he shouted at the girl in the corner. “Show the bitch what happens when you disobey.”
The girl pulled up the back of her dress. Her buttocks were red and swollen, more than a dozen welts blistering her skin.
He turned to Lucy with a half-smile. “If you speak again to me in that tone, if you swear at me, if you talk without my permission, you will suffer the same fate. And you will learn, girl. You will obey me.”
He walked up the stairs and turned off the light.
FORTY
Sean had not felt so helpless since he was fourteen and his parents were killed in a plane crash.
He’d fallen asleep at his desk late—four? Five?—and woke at dawn. Dillon was asleep on the small couch in his office, his long legs hanging over the armrest.
Sean went downstairs and made coffee. He was surprised to find Hans Vigo asleep on his couch. The table was littered with files and papers.
They’d been running property searches, talking to the prison warden where Miller had been incarcerated, analyzing the WCF files on Miller—not just here, but everyone at RCK West was working on it, too. They’d had more than a dozen people—smart people—working almost nonstop since seven last night and now, twelve hours later, they still didn’t know where Lucy was.
Sean sat at the table and looked over Hans’s notes. His prison files—Miller was too perfect, a model prisoner. Polite, even-tempered. During his trial, he had been well-mannered and courteous.
Hans had written across a legal tablet in block letters:
Victims were seduced. All virgins between 14 and 16.
Fear of sex—stemming from an obsession with cleanliness, i.e. only has sex with virgins/“clean” girls.
Required victims to address him as “Teacher.”
Taught girls to be submissive. Used reward and punishment system. Competitive—girls wanted to earn rewards for being the most “obedient.”
Became physically violent with one victim. Bruised her—she hid the bruise. Why her and not the others? What made her different?
At trial—refused female lawyer. Called her “unfair.”
From staff interviews at school—Miller was “chauvinist,” “sexist,” “egotistical.” One female teacher said, “Peter once called me ‘female’—like it was my name. I steered clear of him. Some of the staff thought he was just a nerd, but I didn’t like how he looked at me.”
Sean wished he hadn’t read any of it because now he couldn’t rid his mind of Lucy’s face, beaten and bruised. He bit back a cry of frustration.
What was he missing? He should have been able to find this one guy—what good was he if he couldn’t find one man? They knew his name. His parents. His schooling. Noah said they’d have something by morning. Well, it was morning now—7:11 according to the digital clock on the microwave.
Sean picked up a flagged page of the trial transcripts. Hans had underlined key words and phrases.PROSECUTOR: How long were you sexually involved with the defendant?JANE DOE TWO: Four months.PROSECUTOR: Did he force you to have sex?JANE DOE TWO: I don’t know.PROSECUTOR: You don’t know? Did he hurt you?JANE DOE TWO: Yes and no. I didn’t tell him no, if that’s what you mean.PROSECUTOR: Did you believe that it was wrong to have sex with your teacher?JANE DOE TWO: Yes—but I was chosen. That’s what he said. I was chosen to be a perfect woman. At first I liked the idea of being what a man wants. My parents are divorced and fight all the time, and I hated it. Teacher made me feel like I could be different, that if I learned how to be perfect, I’d make my husband happy. I wanted that.PROSECUTOR: Did you always want that? After your sexual relationship began?JANE DOE TWO: No. I got wrapped up in the idea that I could be special. Then after the first time, he humiliated me. I couldn’t talk until he told me I could speak. He didn’t hit me—but I thought he would, so I did everything he said. I just wanted to get it over with.PROSECUTOR: Why didn’t you come forward sooner? Why wait four months before telling your mother?JANE DOE TWO: He told me I was trainable, like a dog. I was scared and didn’t know what to do, but told him one day after school that I wouldn’t go to his house anymore. The next morning my dog was dead. The vet said Sunny ate something poisonous, but I knew Teacher had done it. That’s why I came forward. If he could kill my dog, he could kill me. I don’t want to die.
Hans sat up on the couch. “Sean, maybe you shouldn’t read that.”
“I’m fine,” he snapped. He wasn’t fine. “Miller is a nut job. How could they let him out of prison?”
Hans didn’t respond. He stood and walked over and put his hand on Sean’s shoulder. “We’ll find her.”
“Dammit!” Sean bit back his anger. His fear wasn’t going to find Lucy.
Be brave, Lucy. I will find you.
“He’s a chauvinist?” Sean said, tapping Hans’s notes. “He does this because he thinks he’s better than women?”
“That’s a bit simplistic, but yes,” Hans said. “I think it’s more that he believes that women are by nature weaker and should be subservient to men, and thus must be properly trained. One thing about all his victims, according to a psychologist who worked with them after the attacks—they all had low self-esteem. They felt they were unattractive to the opposite sex, that they were too fat or too skinny or too ugly. He preyed on the outcasts. They would be far more vulnerable to the charms of an older, nice-looking man who was in a position of authority.”
“Lucy doesn’t fit that profile,” Dillon said.
“No, she doesn’t.”
Sean’s head shot up. He heard something in Hans’s voice. “What?” he demanded. “What are you thinking?”
“What have you learned about his mother?” Hans asked.
Sean frowned, not liking where this conversation was going. “Christina Lyons. She went back to her maiden name after the divorce. Was a successful realtor in San Francisco, and an artist. She owned an art gallery, sold her own work plus that of other local artists.”
“Have you found her obituary?”
“I have it, but I haven’t read it—” Sean flipped through his computer files. “Here it is.” He skimmed it. “I don’t know what you’re looking for.”