The Body Reader (Detective Jude Fontaine Mysteries, #1)

by Anne Frasier

She paused, and he could see they’d reached another place she didn’t want to go. But he’d eventually have to get a full statement of what happened in that basement so the man who’d held her against her will could be prosecuted if still alive.

The interview took maybe an hour. Not that long considering she was relating the past three years of her life, but she could have been reciting a grocery list, for all the impact the sharing of events had on her. At some point in the past three years, something inside her had shut down, shut off. If that hadn’t happened, she probably would have lost her mind, but now she was left with a person who could relate atrocities without emotion.

Maybe that’s why women often didn’t report abuse. Forget about their fear of retaliation or their fear of tomorrow or their fear of being alone or their love of their abuser. Once it was out there, once the facts were hung on the line for the world to see, that abuse robbed the victim of dignity and the victim suffered twice. Once at the hands of the abuser, and once at the hands of the world.

I had a little saved up”—before I died. Wait. That wasn’t right. Not died. But it had been like a death, the past three years, and now she was a ghost, moving through the familiar and unfamiliar terrain of a new life, complete with a new cast of characters.

“I wonder why we always feel disdain for our old selves,” Uriah said. “We should feel thankful. We should appreciate the people we used to be rather than being ashamed of them.”

Apparently she’d checked the motorcycle off her to-do list. “I like to be out in the open,” she explained. Had she read his mind, or was he getting too damn transparent? She tucked the helmet under her arm and offered more information. “I like to feel the sun and the wind.” Three years was a lot of sun and wind to catch up on.

“I have no plans to die soon, and I don’t have to prove anything to you. As you pointed out, after being held prisoner for three years I still had the resourcefulness to escape. I’d say that’s all the résumé you need from me. And it’s not as bad out there as you think.”

Jude focused on the girl, experiencing the crime scene from the viewpoint of the person she was now, and not the cop she used to be. In the months since her escape, she’d struggled to ignore the heightened awareness, that bombardment of sight and sounds and odors, because those revved-up senses got in the way of everyday life. Now, though, she realized she was picking up information much in the same way she’d picked up information from Uriah, much in the same way she’d picked up information from her captor. The dead girl had a story to tell, and she was telling it to Jude.

“And how, after a two-minute cursory exam, did you arrive at this theory?” “She’s telling me things.” “My God.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Don’t say that kind of nonsense out loud. She’s dead,” he said. “Dead.” “Yes, but what she was feeling before she died is written on her face and in her muscles. It’s still here. I see it. I can read her.”

“I can’t begin to grasp what you’ve been through, but you aren’t ready for this. You might never be ready for this. You should go home. The department offered you a severance package. Take it. Why do this when you don’t need to?” “Why are you doing it?” The wind kicked up, bringing with it the scent of charred wood. He stared at her for a long moment. “It’s all I know how to do.” “Me too.”