Find Her (9780698404229) by Gardner Lisa

Author:Gardner, Lisa
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin USA
Published: 2016-01-11T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 26

THE GIRL IS CRYING.

I can’t see her, only hear her in the pitch black. I should do something. Move, talk, assist. I can’t. I just . . . can’t. Somehow, I’ve retreated to the far wall, sitting on the mattress with as much distance from the girl as I can get, knees curled to my chest, bound arms looped around my knees. I’m too stunned to react. I know how to take care of myself. Are you in pain? Are you hungry? Are you thirsty? Are you uncomfortable? No? Then you’re all right.

I’m uncomfortable, I think wildly. I have training and preparation and experience. But I never saw this coming. I’m supposed to take care of myself, fight to save myself. Not . . . this.

Her cries are quiet. More whimpers than sobs. The kind of crying done when you’re exhausted and dehydrated. When you’ve already used up your supply of real tears and this is all you have left.

I recognize this kind of crying. I’ve done it myself.

Water. Somewhere along the way, I dropped the water bottle. I should crawl forward and find it. I should crawl forward and . . . help.

It’s not easy to do. In fact, it’s excruciatingly difficult. Why? I’m the one who collects images of lost people. I’m the one who assigned myself as personal savior of Stacey Summers. So now, faced with the opportunity to really, truly lend a hand . . .

I don’t want her to be her.

I don’t want her thinking I can actually save her.

I don’t want her, I don’t want anyone, depending on me.

She’s a resource. Is that a cold thought, a callous thought? But it comes to me. She’s a resource. Her clothing, items she might have in her pocket, clips from her hair. Who knows? And if she’s been allowed more freedom and privileges, say, a belt buckle—oh, the possibilities.

Now I must move forward. I have to engage. She’s a resource, and a victim must use all resources available to her.

I pitch forward onto my hands and knees. Using my inchworm crawl, weight on my elbows, I wiggle forward in the dark.

She’s fallen where I attacked her, sprawled in front of the suddenly appearing, disappearing door. Pulled shut, locked tight. I can’t make out any sign it was ever there. The wall has gone back to being just a wall, the crying girl the only evidence anything happened at all.

“Stacey?” I whisper as I crawl forward.

She doesn’t answer. Just whimpers.

My bound hands connect with the water bottle, knock it sideways. I pause, feel around more gently, until I can clasp it between my fingers. I wriggle forward, then bump against the girl’s body.

Leg. Clad in denim. Blue jeans. She’s in real clothes, versus my silly nightgown. The realization gives me hope. If she has pants, then maybe she also has a belt. With a metal buckle. That would be perfect. Oh, the locks you can pick, the things you can do, with the tongue of a belt buckle.

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