Keller has never discharged her firearm in the line of duty, yet her husband treats her like she’s a serial-killer hunter.
Today, though, maybe she is.
CHAPTER 4
ELLA
The survivor, Jesse Duvall, sits in the corner on the floor, her arms wrapped around her knees, head down.
The room is too bright, the paper covering the exam table wrinkled and ripped.
Without looking up, the teen says, “I already told you assholes that I don’t need an examination. Now leave me the fuck alone.”
It’s not a yell. She sounds more tired. Matter of fact.
Ella says, “No one’s going to touch you without your permission.”
Jesse’s head pops up. She has a pretty face, large, almond-shaped eyes. A curious expression. “Who are you?”
“My name’s Ella. I’m a counselor.”
This seems to amuse Jesse. “Where do you counsel—a strip club?”
Humor—even dark humor—is a good sign. Ella’s instincts tell her that this girl is strong. Ignoring the jab, she says, “I know right now you want nothing but to be left alone. To go home to your own bed.”
“Home.” Jesse says the word with derision.
Ella realizes she’s already made her first mistake. Mr. Steadman told her that Jesse’s a foster kid.
“The thing is,” Ella continues, “that whoever hurt you and your friends, he’s still out there. We need to make sure he can’t hurt anyone else. You may have seen something that can help the police catch—”
Jesse murmurs something; her head’s on her knees again.
“What was that?”
Jesse says nothing.
“I know this is hard and—”
Jesse’s head snaps up. “How would you know? Because you read it in some book? Or because you talk to housewives about their feelings? Or rich kids about their anxiety over getting into a good college? Lady, I’ve talked to dozens of you people, and the only difference between them and you is that they weren’t dressed like a ho.”
“But I do know, Jesse. I do.”
Jesse listens while Ella explains. About coming into the break room on New Year’s Eve 1999. About the crushing blow to her head. About not remembering much else until they found her in a ring of red in the snow after she’d come to and run outside. She tries to keep it clinical but she feels the tears filling her eyes. She leaves out the part about awaking to Katie’s nearly decapitated head on her lap, as if her friend had crawled to her for help and died there. And she leaves out the recurring nightmare of the figure bending down, sliding the blade into her as he whispered: “Good night, pretty girl.”
“They weren’t my friends,” Jesse says when Ella’s finished. “I barely knew them.” For the first time, her voice breaks.
“You were buying ice cream?”
She shakes her head. “I just needed to use the bathroom. When I came out…”
“Did you see who—”
“No. He hit me. It felt like being hit with a baseball bat and everything else is a blur.”
Ella tries not to react. It’s so familiar, so horrible, so … Stop it. “Were there any customers in the store when you went inside?”
“No. They were closing up.”
Ella swallows a lump in her throat. “Did you see anyone outside around the shop or anything suspicious?”
Jesse shakes her head again.
“Did he touch you?” Ella can’t bring herself to say more; she clasps her hands behind her back to hide the trembling.
“No,” Jesse says with too much conviction.
“You were unconscious. Are you sure? Because—”
“I’ve been in group homes since I was fourteen. I know what it feels like to have someone try to touch you in your sleep.”
Ella nods, swallows again.
By 6:30 a.m., Jesse’s agreed to give them her clothes—for DNA and crime scene analysis. She’s also agreed to talk to a doctor—a female doctor. And she’ll stay for observation—because of the concussion.
“I’ll come back later to check on you,” Ella says.
Jesse nods.
Ella considers hugging her. Putting a hand on hers. But decides against it. Jesse Duvall isn’t fragile like Ella was. She’s in shock, traumatized, but Ella’s instincts were right: she’s a strong girl. This makes Ella ashamed of herself for some reason.
As Ella reaches the door, Jesse says it. The thing that nearly levels Ella.
“I do remember one thing.”