Page 10 of Make You Mine

4

AVA

It’s been three weeks since that night.

Twenty-one days of tumultuous emotions running rampant inside of me; I’m constantly volleying from one extreme to the other as my once-peaceful life continues to disintegrate. From guilt to anger to a crippling sadness, I’m left with a heaving chest while this living, breathing nightmare continues to unfold.

I relive it from the moment I open my eyes until they close, and even then, there’s no reprieve.

Because of Jason Ripley, I’ve lost itall.

My community. My shop. My peace.

Moreover, everyone knows who he is.

They’ve read about or watched the special news coverage of his crimes. There’s a morbid fascination that’s grown—people trying to get a glimpse into the mind of a serial killer while harassing anyone with information about his pending court case.

It’s not enough to learn the details through journalistic accounts; I’ve been followed.

Cornered. Scrutinized.

My business was inundated with strangers trying to get a glimpse of the girl whocaughthim.

“Would you like to take a break, Miss Perry?” Silvia, the court reporter, asks while placing a bottle of water and a box of Kleenex in front of me. Tears are streaming down my cheeks, and I’m grateful for the gesture. She doesn’t have to; her job isn’t to cater to me or my emotions, but I appreciate it more than I can express. “It’s almost lunchtime, and I’m sure both attorneys will agree that this would be a prudent time for a break. Or we can call it a day if you need?”

Her tone almost makes me smile. Almost.

She’s a no-nonsense woman in her mid-forties with a navy blue and white polka dot knee-length dress, a beehive hairstyle, and bright red lipstick to polish off her look. It’s cute on her. The style is a little demure meets sassy, while beneath the edge of her white cardigan, I see what looks to be a dragonfly tattoo on her wrist.

She’s made this deposition a little less everything:

Uncomfortable.

Anxiety inducing.

Stressful.

“Thank you…” I muster a wobbly grin and shake my head “…but I’d like to get this over with. Like a Band-Aid.”

“Still going to call it for lunch, Ava,” she says, and two male voices agree with her through the video conference call. The district attorney and the defense both move to disconnect the meeting, but I hold a hand up in the universal stop motion.

“Is something wrong?” the DA asks while the defense looks at me intently. “Would you like to call it for the day, instead? We can reconvene tomorrow morning?”

Taking in a deep breath, I let it out slowly. “How much longer?”

“Can you be more specific?” The District Attorney closes the notebook he’d been jotting down notes in. His eyes hold empathy.

“How many more questions do you have for me? Both of you.”

“I don’t have anything else, Miss Perry.” That came from the defense attorney. He’s been quiet for the most part, and over the last two days, he only asked one question…Do you have any physical or mental impediments that affect your ability to observe or remember the events?

That’s it. One simple yes or no question.

His defense is based on my credibility as a witness because of the documented panic attacks I had at the hospital. And yet, he failed to read deeper into my medical history, which clearly states the trauma of witnessing his client’s horrific crime slammed me into a state of shock and then utter fear.

Not during. Not while I was running for my life.

After, my emotions weren’t mine. I became a prisoner of the circumstance and couldn’t control it.

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