Page 52 of Jagged Line Paradise

I just want to keep the peace—avoid any bruises to my fragile ego when I’m ultimately put in my place for pretending that I know what I want. I have no idea what I want—it’s what has kept me stagnant all these years. Stagnant, but at the least predictable, manageable…safe.

Safe?

Falling right into his trap, I slowly nod. “Okay.”

I don’t want to be here.

I’m cursing myself for allowing Andrés to manipulate me into agreeing to this because I’m so disgustingly terrified right now. My hands are shaking, I’m nauseous, I feel light-headed and weak.

I don’t know ifI can go through with this.

I don’t know if I can handle meeting the Millers, let alone listen to their story. But I got into the stupid SUV with Andrés and the people from the film crew, and now I’m stuck here.

Joanna Miller was one of the Canyon Carver’s victims. She wasn’tluckylike I was—she was murdered after being brutally tortured by him. I’m lucky, all right. I get to live every day of my life with memories of how he brutally tortured me. I didn’t get to rest in peace like the others.

I don’t ever say that out loud to anyone. I’m sure they would think I’m ungrateful for the life I got a second chance at, but I do think that way sometimes. Often, actually. Though I do have brief periods of freedom in my mind when I’m chasing a temporary high. I don’t do drugs and I certainly don’t drink—not after seeing the way it’s broken my mother—but I can overwhelm my senses enough to distract me from emotional overthinking.

Thank God Mack has work for metonight.

I don’t know Joanna Miller’s whole story—I couldn’t bring myself to learn much about the victims before me. It would strike such fear in my heart with the reminder of what I went through that it would cripple me. If I happened across a mention of it on the news, I’d be trapped in my pain for days, holing up inside and refusing to leave my bed. I did know that Joanna was only seventeen when she lost her life, and it happened to her only three months before it happened to me—she was the last victim he successfully murdered, and that reminder makes me feel sick.

It all feels so fresh right now as I teeter on the verge of a meltdown, waiting to go inside to listen to her parents talk about it all for the documentary.

I don’t knowhow to do this.

All the pain of the last decade as a survivor crushes me under its weight. There were so many times over the last decade where I thought I couldn’t go on. There were times when I wished that he would’ve succeeded in killing me because then I wouldn’t have to live with the memories of the disgusting things he did to me.

I don’t think anyone knows the full story except for the police—I didn’t give the details to my mom or Andrés or anyone else. And not everything came out at trial because it wasn’t all necessary. They had more than enough DNA evidence linking him to all the crimes. Maybe the police report is public knowledge now. Maybe everyone knows. I have no idea. I don’t watch the news and I don’t actively seek the information.

I just feel so sick right now.

I don’t know if the Millers know who I am or whether Andrés has told them I’m here today. I don’t know if they’ll hate me because I survived and their daughter didn’t.

I lean forward onto the hood of the SUV as I stand to the side of it, crossing my arms and laying my head down on them. Andrés and his film crew are inside to set up for filming, and I’m waiting for him to come and get me.

I hear the front door click open and my heart pounds against my ribcage. I stay right where I am, head on my arms, leaned over the vehicle, and I do my best to steady my breathing. Andrés’ touch is gentle and calming as he places his hand on the center of my back, rubbing in a slow circle. Then he slips his arm around my waist, coming to stand beside me, leaning over the hood with me. I turn my head to the side to look at him and I’m met with such warmth in his deep brown eyes that it actually makes me smile at him—only a little.

He gives me a small grin. “I told the Millers you’re here.”

“Just now?”

“Yeah.”

“Are they mad?”

His brow furrows. “Why would they be mad?”

“Because I’m here. It’s gotta be hard enough for them to do this without seeing me, knowing that I survived and their daughter didn’t.”

“Just come inside, okay? I promise, this will be good, for you and for the Millers.”

My stomach coils in a knot. “I feel sick.”

“I know,” he says as if he’s done this a million times before. I suppose he might have in his business withVindication. I never really thought about it—I just pictured him being on the business side of things, but he’s just so cool, so calm, like he’s comfortable working with someone like me.

Victims.

Survivors.

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