Page 72 of The Lost Bones
“It doesn’t, but all theytalk about is you.” He drew their attention to the highlighted sections. “Look. Everyone else discusses other detectives and other aspects of the documentary. But Mack1987 is the only one whose focus is just you. Asking questions about your cases, your life, commenting on your answers, what you were wearing…”
As Mackenzie read the entries, her skin began to crawl. Mack1987 was curious about the moles on her skin, the shape of her collarbone, why she wore blue more than other colors, why her hair was always in a ponytail, where she went to school, how long she was in New York for, when she returned, whether she was dating anyone…
“I’ll ask Austin to look into it.” Nick broke the charged silence that had ensued. “He’s been itching to contribute somehow.”
Mackenzie nodded. Mack1987was behaving unhinged online, but did it make them the killer they were after?
THIRTY-SEVEN
“Has Jane Doe said anything to you?” Mackenzie asked hopefully.
Andrew was by the water cooler, waiting in line and thumbing his phone. He clicked his tongue and shook his head, putting the phone back in his pocket. “Nothing useful. It’s like she wants to completely sever herself from the past.”
Mackenzie didn’t blame her. But even though Jane Doe had been fortunate enough to escape, other women were still trapped. Still stuck in purgatory. She needed some help to rescue them—and lead her to Sterling.
“How about I chat with her?”
“You could, but she hasn’t revealed anything in your presence either.”
“Alone.”
He flinched. “Alone? Why?”
“Maybe she’d be more comfortable that way.”
“Okay.” He rubbed the back of his neck, lines forming deep in his forehead. “I can take you to her and you can go for a walk. I’ll stay in the car.”
“Sounds good.”
Jane Doe was one of them. That was what she had escaped from before she fell into Mackenzie’s arms that night. That was what she was running away from. She was one ofthem.
Mackenzie looked at the woman walking next to her. She was wearing a long beige dress that brushed the ground. Her hair was even shorter now—a boy cut. It suited her, bringing out the heart shape of her face. Her skin had cleared up in the last few days. The scrapes and cuts had healed. She looked healthy.
Even though she still walked with shoulders drawn down by gravity, occasionally she watched her bare feet sink into the mud with wonderment. She would wiggle her toes and giggle.
“You might hurt yourself,” Mackenzie said. “Are you sure you don’t want to wear your shoes?”
Jane Doe shook her head. She frolicked ahead, carrying her shoes in her hands, a maiden in the woods, looking like someone who would pluck flowers to fill her handmade basket. A long way from the damaged puppet she had been. She was beginning to stitch herself back together. She still barely spoke, still hadn’t told anyone what her name was or what had happened to her, but there was less fear in her eyes, fewer sudden bodily jerks, and more moments—albeit fleeting—when she wasn’t haunted, but actually present. The filaments of her identity rearranging and fashioning themselves into a woman who wasn’t scared.
Suddenly Mackenzie realized that they had reached their destination: the woods behind Hidden Lake. And Jane Doe had stopped to blow at a dandelion right where Mackenzie had buried a body with her mother twenty years ago.
It was a balmy morning. Not even a light jacket was required. The sunlight fell gently upon the scene. Much like the mass grave, this place for Mackenzie was forever marked. And though closure and justice had been achieved, she was chained to it.
“Dr. Turner said you’ve been doing better.” She leaned against a tree. “I can tell. Do you like him?”
Jane Doe nodded, distracted by the floating seeds.
“I needed to talk to you.” Mackenzie took a deep breath. “About your tattoo.”
Jane Doe’s mood nosedived. The corners of her lips pulled down. Mackenzie hated reminding her of it, but there was no other option.
“You’re not the only one with this tattoo, are you?” she ventured carefully. Jane Doe looked like a deer in headlights. “Please. You’re not in any trouble. I just want to talk.”
Silence stretched between them, then Jane Doe nodded glumly.
“I saw other women with the same tattoo. Last night.”
“At the house?” she asked. “How are they?”
