Page 33 of Good and Gone

As the days pass, I find myself sinking deeper and deeper into a state of anxiety and depression. Even if Tyler and my mother refuse to see it that way, it feels like everyone is turning against me, accusing me of faking my abduction for attention. The media especially, but even the police have suggested the idea in roundabout ways, though never directly.

It’s all over social media, the accusations. Distraught, I turn to Tyler for support. But he’s just so angry. At least at first, though it isn’t long before even heseems to be losing faith in me, questioning my mental state, even mentioning at one point that it’s okay if I made everything up. He said we’d figure it out. He said he loves me no matter what. I know he’s exhausted. I know deep down he doesn’t believe what they are saying. He just wants it all to go away.

Fighting back my tears, I tell Tyler that I need some time to clear my head. I pack a few things and decide to flee to my parents' house, hoping to find some peace and quiet there.

But even my parents' house is no refuge from the media frenzy surrounding my case. The moment I step out the door, the cameras are upon me, bombarding me with questions and accusations.

I struggle to hold back my tears. I struggle to even get out of bed as it becomes more and more apparent that I am living in a fishbowl, completely exposed to the world. I don’t know how else to describe it. Despite the frenzy, I feel completely alone and utterly helpless.

The only good to come of any of it is that I know those men are out there. With so much attention, I doubt they’d try anything. But then that sense of false security fades quickly, the more I think about it. Who knows who they have working for them? Who knows what they’re capable of? Me, I’m supposed to know. Only I can’t remember. My memory fails me. My brain feels broken. I feel broken.

But now, as I stare out at the endless sea of cameras and reporters, I know that I have to find a way to break free from the paranoia and the toxic scrutiny surrounding me. I have to figure out how to escape the relentless pressure and find my way back to normalcy once again.

I have to.

Otherwise, I know that my life will forever be shrouded in doubt and suspicion.

But where do I even begin?

I’m not sure. I just know I need to find out.

As I lie in my childhood bed at my parents’ home, I allow the memories of the abduction to flood my mind again. I stare at the ceiling, and I begin to realize that to prove my innocence, I have to remember exactly what happened.

I have to remember the details. If I’m going to save those girls and essentially myself, I have to remember.

I close my eyes and tell myself to breathe.

Maybe if I'm relaxed, it will come back to me, I think to myself.

I try to picture the car that was parked at the curb that fateful morning. It was less than a month ago, but might as well have been another lifetime. I try to remember every detail.

In my mind, I see the SUV. It looks dark green.

Then blue.

Or was it black? I'm pretty sure it was black.

Then I see it.

The taillight is busted.

There is a dent.

A large scratch down the side.

The dent is in the door.

It is definitely black.

The door handle is silver.

Just like the car Lily had described as being parked on the street outside her window. The car that was always there, but nobody else seemed to notice. The police went door to door asking for footage from neighbors’ cameras, but no one seems to keep said footage. The ones who did found nothing. No SUV, anyway. But perhaps that’s because they grabbed me down by the park. There are no houses there, which means no cameras. Those men had to have known this. They have kidnapped others, which means they know how to get away with it. The realization sends chills down my spine, but I feel a sense of relief as well. I am not the only one this has happened to, and it only takes one girl to escape, one girl to come forward. Then this could all be over.

A knock at my door startles me. Without thinking, I fold into a ball, a response the doctors say is normal after a traumatic experience.

“Hailey?” my father says. “It’s me.”

I have no idea what time it is.

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