A long, heartfelt apology he had no reason to offer. He did right by me. He saved me. He also included a gift with his letter—a bracelet with a guardian angel charm.
I wore that bracelet for a long time, the only thing that kept me feeling safe, kept me going. We wrote each other letters once a week at first, then a couple of times a month. Occasionally emailing, even getting brave enough to exchange texts when I finally got my own cellphone. But ultimately my mother found out about our correspondence and I was forbidden from ever talking to Will again.
She banished him from my life and I allowed it, too afraid to defy her.
I hadn’t worn the bracelet Will gave me in years, keeping it safely tucked away in an old jewelry box. But the night of the interview, after it aired, I dug through that box and slipped the bracelet on, my fingers sliding over the charm again and again, wishing for strength. Wishing for courage.
Lisa sent me a skeptical look when I offered up my answer about Will, but I didn’t budge. I didn’t so much as blink. After a long, quiet moment she informed me she didn’t know what happened to him either. Could only assume he’d changed his name, created a new identity, a new life, and moved on.
I hoped that was the case. I didn’t like thinking of the alternative. What if he turned to a life of crime like his father? What if he couldn’t shake the burden and guilt of being that horrible man’s son? What if . . . what if he took his own life and he’s no longer alive? I know I’d been tempted over the years. Suicidal thoughts ran rampant in my brain, especially when I was younger and didn’t know how to cope.
But I soldiered on. And came out on the other side. Did Will? Was he able to soldier on?
Lisa barely mentioned him during the interview. A few references here and there—and he deserved more than that. He’s the only reason I’m still alive. She didn’t include the clip where we talked about him in the televised interview, either. That made me inexplicably sad.
Will wasn’t my enemy. He helped me. I don’t care about the many news accounts that implied he was a part of his father’s evil plan. He was questioned so much about why he didn’t take me to the police sooner. I, too, was questioned over and over again about Will’s role in all of this.
Did he molest you?
No.
Did he make you touch him?
No.
Did he have sex with you?
No.
Did he force himself on you? Become violent with you?
No and no.
The police never seemed fully satisfied with my answers.
Didn’t they realize he’d been just a kid, like me? I was almost thirteen when it happened. He’d been fifteen. Close enough to an adult, one of the cops muttered under his breath during my initial questioning. We’ve thrown murderers into prison that were younger.
It wasn’t true, what they were implying. He was my hero.
My angel.
My response to his letter and gift was a card full of gratitude, written in girlish script. I sent him a small gift as well, the only thing I could manage considering I was still a child and I knew without a doubt my parents would be furious if they found out I was corresponding with my kidnapper’s son. It didn’t matter that he saved me. In their eyes, Will was the enemy.
Halfway through the interview, I gave up watching and was on my laptop using Google. My search results came up empty. I think Lisa was right. He must have changed his name, his identity, and moved far away.
The interview is over but I’m still searching and when I finally sit up straight, my back aches, as do my shoulders. I glance around, see the late-night talk show host smiling and cracking jokes, and I turn off the TV, unable to take the cued laughter coming from the audience.
Fake. Everything feels fake. Unreal. I hold my hand out in front of me and curl my fingers, stretch them back out, my knuckles popping, and I notice that my fingers . . .
They’re trembling.
Slamming my laptop shut, I leap from my chair and roam through my tiny house, restless. Mom texted me after the interview was over, asking if I was okay, and I reassured her that I was fine. And I am fine. Watching myself on TV is . . . weird, but hearing myself retell the story was cathartic. I’d been holding those words in for so long, it’s rather liberating, knowing my story is out there now.
My shame is there for everyone to see.
It’s late and I’m tired. I need to go to bed, so I go through the motions. Wash my face, brush my teeth, brush my hair and pull it into a messy bun on top of my head. I stare at my reflection in the mirror, my plain features, my washed-out blond hair, pale blue eyes. I feel . . . empty.
Bland.
Blank.
I change into a T-shirt and sweatpants and toss my clothes into the laundry basket. My routine is the same every night. I never deviate. I like routine. It makes me feel in control.
Safe.
Slipping in between the covers, I climb into bed, plug my phone in to charge, then turn off the lamp on the bedside table. The house is quiet, eerily so, and usually I like that. I live at the end of the street on a cul-de-sac; the backyard ends where the forest begins. Mom thought I was crazy, wanting to live in a house that butts up against a forest.
She’s afraid someone will lurk in the shadows, Brenna had told me, trying to make a joke of it though I know she was serious.
They’re all lurking in the shadows, I’d replied. It doesn’t matter where we are, what we do. If they’re out there, they’ll find a way to get us.
Brenna told me I was morbid. She’s right. I am morbid. When you’ve already faced your death once, what do you have left to fear? I tell myself that I should be living balls out. Not hiding away in my safe little house with my safe little routine and my bland, blank existence.