Page 185 of Unwrapping Deviance

The couple feeding the birds are back on their bench and I study their serene features, their absolute lack of soul while they toss fistfuls of seed across the grass.

Fuck you guys,I want to yell out my window as we drive past them.

I don’t.

I return my attention to my bag and the phone buried at the very bottom.

“Sweetheart?” Christian scoots to the edge of the backseat and leans forward in between the two front seats.

With one hand, I hold the button down on the side of the device, turning it on for the first time in ages. With the other, I touch his face.

“I think I know what I want to do,” I say, dipping my face and touching my lips to his cheek. “I’m going to make sure Lucy dies behind bars and Jefferson never forgets what evil they let live amongst them.”

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

MIRA

––––––––

Two Years Later...

I put the final loop on my signature and slap the book shut.

Five hundred signed copies.

My wrist is throbbing. My back aches. I’m exhausted and pretty sure blind in one eye, but I grin as I set the final signed copy of my published novel on the pile taking up one whole corner of my home office.

I still can’t believe it.

It all happened so fast, an overnight flip that took my life on a spin and all because I survived when twenty-two other girls didn’t.

Twenty-two.

Only ten found their families. Most were runaways Lucy found under bridges and living in parks. Several were hitchhikers. Girls no one knew needed help. The twelve unnamed were given proper funerals. I made sure of it. I attended each one. I mourned with those with families. In the end, it did nothing to change anything.

Escaping the Cellar, my bestselling novel diving into the evils of Jefferson, the blind eye of justice, and the twenty-two souls lost due to careless negligence hit every chart and even a whole year of book signings, TV appearances, talk shows, documentaries, podcast interviews, some days, I can only sit and stare at my life with wonder.

I found my calling.

Strange, really. Before Jefferson, I had no future. Nothing I could hold on to and build that was mine.

Four days in that hell and I found my passion. I started writing. I put words on paper and built a structure of truth. I caught the eye of a publishing house dedicated to crime biographies. They took me on, gave me a chance to stretch my writing muscles documenting the lives of victims and killers.

I love it.

I love my job. I love our rooftop apartment in Christian’s building. I love my greenhouse the boys built me. I love my life. It took a lot of therapy sessions — all with Dr. Pollack for the last two years — to finally come to a good place mentally.

I think it’s having a purpose. As the only survivor of the Carr Family, it’s my job to give those girls a voice and hopefully peace. Granted, writing true crime documentaries was never the career I expected to fall into, but I’m here and I’m making it my place.

Stiff, but relieved to be finished, I shove out of my chair. My knees and back immediately protest the rapid gesture, but I grip the corner of my desk and stay upright. I rub at the small of my back and groan when I prod the fancy, new knot I’d formed after being hunched over for nearly four hours straight.

Daniel teases that I’m going to develop a hump if I don’t find a better position, but that’s a problem for another day.

I pick my way gingerly to my office door and slide it open. Both my boys are home somewhere. Daniel might be in his office down the hall from mine, but I know Christian is wandering around the apartment; he’d been a restless spirit pacing outside my door for nearly two hours. Somedays, he’s worse than Lord Whiskers who occasionally appears at my office window and glares at me with his squished little face until I relent and let him in for cuddles and kitty treats. Christian is kind of the same — he also wants cuddles and treats.

But it has been several hours since I’ve gone to see them. I usually don’t lock myself away this long and I miss them.

When the family living on the top floor bought a house in the suburbs and moved six months after we returned from Jefferson, it was honestly a dream come true. The three bedrooms with full access to the rooftop and an open concept layout is perfect. There’s enough space for Daniel. An office for me. And a bedroom large enough for the king-sized custom bed we designed together as well as the matching toy chest, three dressers, and end tables.

---