Page 30 of Jenna's Protector

To the past.

To the memories I’ve tried so hard to leave behind.

After my session, drawn by an impulse I don’t fully understand, I head to the back of my closet and pull out the old steamer trunk. The scent of aged leather and old memories envelop me as I rummage through items I haven’t touched in years.

My fingers brush against something familiar—my old sketch pad.

I’ve thought about throwing it away so many times. Each spring cleaning, I held it in my hands, poised to throw it in the trash.

Something always stopped me, an inexplicable feeling that it might be important someday. I never understood why I couldn’t let go of this tangible link to my darkest days.

Dusting it off, I flip through the pages. Each sketch vividly reminds me of the places I worked, the men I encountered, and the horrors I endured. Every detail is preserved with unsettling accuracy, showcasing my nearly eidetic memory. It’s a gift—or perhaps a curse—I’ve kept hidden along with so much else.

As I stare at the drawings, guilt washes over me. These sketches, rendered with painful accuracy, could have helped Carter. I should have told him about them when he first asked for help.

But I didn’t.

I kept silent, and I’m not entirely sure why.

Maybe it was the fear of dredging up the pain of my past, of reliving those horrific moments in graphic detail. Or perhaps it was the dread of seeing judgment in Carter’s eyes once he knew the full extent of what I’d been through, what I’d seen.

What I did.

Whatever the reason, I held back, and now we’re entangled with Joe, the sketch artist, working hard on recreations I could have provided effortlessly.

The weight of my silence feels heavier now, knowing a fourth girl has gone missing.

Another young life in danger, another family torn apart.

I can’t help but wonder: if I had shared these sketches earlier, could we have prevented this?

Could we have saved her?

I close the sketchbook, pressing it to my chest as if I could absorb its contents and erase the guilt, but it’s not that simple. I’ve kept this part of myself hidden for so long that it feels almost impossible to bring it into the light. Yet, it’s time.

For the missing girls.

For Carter.

And maybe even for myself.

The thought of sharing these drawings and the memories that accompany them terrifies me, but the image of Carter’s determined face and gentle encouragement gives me strength. The faces of those missing girls, their futures hanging in the balance, steel my resolve.

I can’t change the past or my initial reluctance to share, but I can do something now. I can help with this case—really help—in a way that might make a difference.

It’s time to stop running from my past and face it head-on. With Carter by my side, maybe I can find the courage to do just that.

I clutch the sketchbook so tightly that my knuckles turn white. My heart races, a mixture of fear and determination coursing through my veins.

Today will change everything—my relationship with Carter, my role in the investigation, maybe even how I see myself. What if he can’t forgive me for hiding this?

The memory of his gentle touch, warm eyes, and the almost-kiss that still makes my lips tingle—it all feels so precious and vulnerable.

I might lose it all.

But I have to do this.

For the missing girls.

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