Page 89 of Jagged Line Paradise

“That’s what she said to me.”

“What does the documentary have to do with you finding happiness?”

“The only time I’ve ever talked about what happened to me with the Canyon Carver was in court. And I didn’t even have to tell the details because they’d already connected his DNA to the last two victims. That lady, she wasn’t a lawyer…” I feel my forehead wrinkle as I try to remember what she was called.

“She was a victim’s advocate,” he reminds me.

“Yeah, that’s right. She worked with the lawyers and, well, I don’t understand it all. I just remember that I didn’t have to face him in court or…or tell the details in public.”

“Right.”

“I haven’t told a friend, my ex-husband, my mom, no one. I never even shared it all with you, and I think I’m just holding onto this darkness and it’s eating me alive. It’s…it’s kept me trapped here.” I pull back to meet his eyes. “It kept me trapped here when I should have left with you, and I still haven’t let go of it. I don’t want to hold onto it anymore.” Tears spring to my eyes. “I can’t. I want to get it all out so I can move on. So we can be how we were before.”

I hardly get out the final words before I start sobbing again, for the thousandth time in the past week. But Andrés is there to catch my fall, dragging me against him as my head falls to his chest. I feel him press his lips to the top of my head as he holds me.

“You don’t have to do this for me,” he whispers.

I lift my head and look up at him through hazy eyes. “I don’t want to do it for you. I want to do it for me.”

He lets out a heavy breath and I sense relief with him that somehow triggers relief within me, as though the simple act of telling him that I want to be free from this trauma-trap has unlocked the first gate that blocks my exit to freedom, to peace.

He reaches up and strokes his palm down my cheek, his fingers slipping beneath my jaw and holding my face still. His eyes flicker from mine to my lips and a proud smile creeps up from the corner of his mouth.

“If you’re really ready to tell your story, then we’ll do it right. Just you and me, okay? The crew can fuck off.”

I nod and tilt my chin so I can press my lips to his. “Thank you.”

I curl my arms around his waist and squeeze him tight, and for the first time in a decade, I feel peace on the horizon.

Chapter 23

Andrés

AVALON PACES Atrack in the carpet across my hotel room as Jeff sets up the camera. I stand beside him as he adjusts the angle to point at the blue armchair we’ve set up in the far corner of the room, where she’ll sit to tell her story.

I still can’t believe she’s agreed to this. Her current level of anxiety is palpable and it tastes bitter. This is terrifying for her. I can see it in the way her eyes dart around the room, the way she wrings her hands together, the way she chews on her bottom lip.

But she’s here.

She showed up.

And if I’ve learned anything over the years through my work with victims and their families, that’s half the battle.

It’s unbelievable how proud I am of her.

The door behind us clicks open and she stops her pacing to turn toward it. Brittany returns with a handful of shopping bags and a tense smile on her face—the kind of smile you give someone when they’re in the midst of a crisis and you don’t really know how to react.

“I got a few outfits so you can choose,” she says as Avalon crosses the room to meet her. “Should I hang them all up so you can look?”

Lonnie nods. “Yeah, thanks.”

I told her she could wear whatever she wanted. No one will give a shit if she wears her usual tank top and denim shorts on camera; it’s about what she has to say. But she hinted she wished she had something nicer to wear so I took the liberty of sending Brittany out with my credit card to get her some options.

We silently stand in a cluster as Brittany pulls out four dresses and hangs them up on wooden hangers in the closet. I know which one I would pick as soon as I see it come out of the bag.

Avalon takes her time, holding out the fabric of each one in turn, examining them with care and taking her time. I think she dawdles to buy time. The consideration of her outfit choice is more about getting her thoughts together than it is about selecting the perfect dress. By the time her fingers tug on the fabric of the third dress, her hands are shaking. She turns and looks back at me.

“What do you think?” Her eyes are wide and round, and I know she needs the comfort of some guidance.

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