Chapter 31
Thirty-One
Lane
Six months later…
“It’s with great honor to inform you all that the fifty-year-old cold case is officially solved,” I say in a clear voice while looking at those assembled and the local news camera attending this press conference.
“While the suspect is now deceased, we’re able to definitively prove that he was, in fact, the perpetrator in this case.
To the family,” I glance back at the family of our victim, “I’m sorry justice came so late, but I’m glad to be a part of your getting the closure you deserve. ”
The family thanks me, and I take a few questions from reporters then allow the family to give their statement.
This is my second solved case with the cold case unit in my new field office in North Carolina, and I should be over the moon about it. The instincts I prided myself on when I hunted active murderers paid off here, and I’m well on my way to solving a third cold case.
Instead, I feel empty, hollow.
Nothing fills me with any kind of joy, besides going home and sliding on a pair of pretty panties that remind me of Ryell.
It took a month of therapy before I was cleared for field duty after Ryell released me. For the first month and a half, I approached every body that was discovered, hoping it was a Poser case and Ryell was giving me a sign he was okay, that he was still out there.
I realized what I was doing when we were called in for a copycat murder, a body posed in a semi-busy area, and I almost cried on the scene, thinking Ryell left me a message.
We immediately knew it wasn’t The Poser’s victim because there was no sketch left behind.
I knew Ryell; he would never leave that part of the process out.
He was meticulous to a fault, something I teased him about during our time together.
It hit me I was hoping an innocent person was murdered so I could know my abductor was still out there somewhere. I prayed I’d get a call that The Poser had struck again so I could feel closer to him, to know he was living his life as if I never entered it, happy.
After that, I put in for a transfer and asked to get as far away from California as possible without being in Nova Scotia. I also told my SSA that I didn’t want to work with current cases, giving the excuse that my abduction happened because I apprehended an active serial killer.
He tried to get me to stay, saying they needed my tenacity, but he also understood that I went through a trauma and needed to start fresh for my mental health.
It was a good choice. It took some getting used to, working on cold cases and interviewing victims that may not have as much information as they did decades before, but I enjoy it. It keeps my mind off my ordeal.
And my Daddy.
The press conference wraps up, and my team congratulates me on another solved case. My new partner, Cassandra Paine, nudges me with her elbow. “You kicked ass. Let’s get a drink, my treat.”
I smile sadly but accept.
Even though we talk at least three times a week, I miss Brock. After close to ten years of being partners, it’s an adjustment not to have him by my side. We started working in an almost shorthand, knowing each other’s next move, so starting fresh with someone else is hard.
Cassandra is a decent partner, though, with good instincts and is helping me get into the swing of things.
The rest of the team agrees to go out for a celebratory drink as well, and we all pack into a dive bar that’s a watering hole for cops and agents.
It differs from the Drab Dragon, which didn’t cater specifically to cops or law enforcement, but it’s not bad, and the bartender is friendly. But he’s no Emmy.
We sit around and have a few drinks, talking about the case we just solved.
It was a fifty-year-old unsolved robbery and murder of a store owner.
There was plenty of evidence, but a lot of it was botched or unusable because of improper handling.
It was my idea to isolate each set of DNA and eliminate every law enforcement officer and forensic technician that worked the case.
It took longer than we would have liked, since some people that worked the case were deceased.
We had to hunt down family members, build a family tree, then eliminate them to isolate a suspect.
In the end, we solved the crime and gave the family closure.
With a drink in her hand, Cassandra stands from the booth we commandeered and gets everyone’s attention. Raising her glass, she says, “To Agent Bauer, the lead agent in this case. If not for him, I’m sure we would have been banging our heads on the desk for another fifty years.”
There’s a smattering of laugher and shouts of “Here, here” and “To Agent Bauer”. I raise my glass in thanks, my cheeks burning.
I hate their attention. It’s crazy to say, but I kind of loathe the spotlight on me now.
When people see me, they stare, clam up, then trip over themselves to ask if I’m okay after my ordeal. Brock plastered me all over the news, and it gained national attention, so my face is easily recognizable.
I’ve had to field questions about my time in captivity and if there are any leads in the case.
So far, my “abductor” hasn’t been found and there haven’t been any matches for his description, something I’m thankful for.
There are no leads in my case, though I don’t ask anymore.
When I contact Brock, he updates me, but I’m sure he doesn’t think it’ll go anywhere.
I want to tell them to just drop it, but that will only make me look suspicious, so I don’t.
Me and my team order round after round, giving each other shit and talking about the new case we’ve been assigned. I make jokes, laugh when I’m supposed to and converse with my colleagues, but mentally, I’m checked out. I have been for a while.
Only six months have passed, but it still feels like yesterday that I woke up in that hospital room without my Daddy.
After going to Ry’s house, I didn’t look for him again, just like he told me.
I even pretended I didn’t know Jacob when I saw him at a restaurant five months ago, though I longed to ask him if he’d heard from Ryell and if he could just tell me he was okay.
I held back and cried myself to sleep when I got home.
After a few hours of drinking with my team, I beg off, saying I’m tired. I’m not really but I’m ready to go home, slide on some panties, and lie in bed with my sketch.
I only live a few blocks from the bar, so I decide to walk to my place. I can get my car in the morning.
The night breeze helps clear my mind, and I breathe in deeply, hold the air in my lungs ‘til the count of five, then blow it out slowly.
I need to move on. I’m stuck, waiting for a sign that Ryell is done with me. But the sign is apparent. He told me not to look for him, and he hasn’t come for me. Ryell is done with me, so I need to forget about him.
It’s so hard because for those few months, he was all I had. We talked, we laughed, and we made love. He was mine, like I was his. It’s hard to let that go.
I take my time walking home, smiling softly as the wind ruffles my hair.
I let it grow longer since I moved here, not for any kind of change but because I’m never in the mood to do more than shave in the mornings.
It’s easier to let my hair grow so I don’t have to add the arduous task of scheduling an appointment at a barbershop.
The most I do is snip the ends when it grows past my shoulders.
As I’m making my way down the sidewalk, the hair on the back of my neck stands up, and I feel like someone is watching me.
I lower my hand to my gun but don’t turn around.
If someone is attempting to rob me, they’ll have a bad fucking day when they realize they’re trying to attack a law enforcement officer.
I keep my steps measured as I walk down the residential street, waiting for someone to pop out and attack me. But it doesn’t happen.
Tired of being on the defensive, I whirl around to see if someone is behind me. When I do, I spot a woman with her dog about ten yards away. She raises her hand in a wave, and blowing out a trapped breath, I do the same.
Picking up my pace, I make it back to my apartment and head upstairs.
When I take off my shoes and toss my suit jacket on the arm of my couch, I beeline to the shower and turn it as hot as it will go.
While it heats, I make my way to my room and look at the sheets on my bed.
They’re all tucked in, just how I left them before I went to work.
Sighing, I go to my dresser and grab a blue thong like the one Ryell brought for me.
A lump lodges in my throat as I look at the material, remembering how he ripped the first thong from my body then fucked my ass hard and rough, sketching his cum that dribbled from my hole.
A sob threatens to break free, but I push it down and put the thong away, instead selecting a pair of lacy, full coverage panties. Ryell got me some like these as well, but they don’t bring back any memories that will undo me.
I bring my panties into the bathroom and take a long shower, trying to talk myself into letting go of my Daddy.
There’s a guy that works in forensics that’s asked me on a date.
He seems nice, normal, like he’s not a serial killer that poses bodies for the FBI to find. But he’s not Ry. He’s not my Daddy.
Maybe if I tell him yes, if I go out with the forensics guy, he’ll help me get over Ryell, and I can move on. If I see there are other options for me, that I deserve someone that didn’t kidnap me, I’ll be able to let Ry go.
Maybe.
Turning the water off, I step out of the shower and wrap a towel around my waist. Standing in front of the mirror, I detangle my hair.
I wonder if Ryell would like that I let my locks grow out.
He loved threading his fingers through my tresses while I was sucking him off or cockwarming.
Maybe he would; there’s more to grab onto.
Sighing at the direction of my thoughts, I finish brushing my hair, then slide on my panties, my heart finally settling. This is the only time I feel…anything. I usually walk around feeling like I’m all carved out.
Trudging back into my room, I reach into my nightstand and remove the ankle monitor I got from an online site. It’s amazing what’s available on the internet.
It took me weeks to figure out why I tossed and turned so much after I got back home.
It was only when I tied a sock around my ankle before bed as a test that I got a full night’s rest. I kept the habit up until I was able to order an ankle monitor for myself.
It’s the only thing that helps me sleep.
I attach the monitor then climb into bed, tucking my blanket around me.
Then I drag my sketch from under my pillow and open it carefully.
Over the past few months, it’s become smudged because of the oil from my fingertips, so I’m careful not to touch the actual drawing or the note when I press it flat to the bed.
“Love you,” I tell the picture as if I’m talking to Ryell and close my eyes, fighting back tears. I used to cry every night when I got home, but I’ve gotten better, and I’m able to keep the weeping at bay. In another six months, I should be able to go an hour without thinking about him.
Letting out a long breath, I do an exercise my therapist told me about for when I can’t sleep; I relax every part of my body individually, starting with my toes, then my calves, up to my thighs, my belly, chest, arms, and fingers.
When I’m relaxed and tired, I close my eyes and slip into an uneasy sleep.
Like I do most nights, I wake up suddenly, my heart racing. I don’t move though, I just stare at the ceiling, hoping the thumping organ behind my ribs chills the fuck out so I can get some rest. Sleep is the only time I escape the pain.
But there’s another reason for my racing heart. There’s…someone here. On my bed.
I sit up suddenly, reach under my pillow, and pull out my gun, my finger poised to click the safety off.
I stare at the man at the end of my bed. I blink to bring him into focus in the semi-dark room.
Then I blink again. And again.
Ryell smiles at me, raising his hands in the air in mock surrender. “Looks like you’re not being good for me, Agent.”