Better yet, he’s let go of my neck.
Taking in a deep breath, I turn around. There’s blood all over him—on his hands, his forehead, his upper lip—and two of his fingers appear swollen. He lunges at me, but I manage to duck back. I already know I don’t have the strength to fight this man.
I need to use my brains.
As he grabs for my arm, his fingers glance the flesh, but I’m too fast. I jump back and then run around the van, making sure he’s chasing me. I need him away from the passenger side if I’m going to do what I hope.
Unfortunately, he’s fast.
I run around the driver’s side and the back as he gets closer. Just a few more steps, that’s all I need, and I make it to the passenger side. I’m reaching in toward the floor as he catches up.
Where the hell is that letter opener?
Once again, he squeezes my neck, but this time, he’s using both hands, even though a couple of his fingers aren’t working right. I’m sure I threw the letter opener down here on the floor, but I can’t see it. I’m feeling around, because it’s dark on the floor and my eyes are watering. I shove my left hand under the seat and touch cool metal—but it’s the track where the seat slides. Once more, I’m finding it hard to breathe and it hurts.
Just then, I realize that the letter opener is up against that metal track, and I almost missed it. Wrapping my hand around it, I try to lift myself up a little, to gain a bit of leverage against this man—but I don’t have much leeway. Still, he’s focused on my neck, the back of my head, and making sure there’s no gap between us so I can’t grab his testicles again.
As the edges of my world are turning black, I manage to bring the letter opener around and begin jabbing at the head behind mine. I have no idea what I’m hitting—maybe his neck, maybe his face? I’m just stabbing as best I can, trying to make him let go of me.
Finally, he does.
I take in a deep breath of air, and I can actually hear it. It’s almost a struggle, but it’s sweet. It’s hard to move now, but I turn. I didn’t get him too hard, I don’t think, but there’s a few droplets of blood on his neck, and it looks like I might have gotten him in the shoulder. He’s coming at me again, so I plunge that opener into his chest, his pec muscle. I don’t have much strength and the fabric of his track jacket gives some resistance, but I still get it through.
I have more strength than I realize.
Blood begins to flow from the wound just as I hear behind me, “Freeze. Get your hands in the air.”
I don’t know if that voice is talking to me or Don, but I let go anyway and turn. There’s a cop and two center employees just behind. The cop has a gun and he’s using it like a pointer. “I need you both out here on the ground.”
I’m tempted to say something, but this cop doesn’t know who to trust.
I can only hope that we have enough. That Joe was able to save the files.
But as I feel the bite of handcuffs as the cop squeezes them too tightly around my wrists, I’m afraid I’m going to be living in a haze again very soon…
*
Don survived.
But I still have my memories since I woke up that first fateful day.
And Joe. Joe saved me.
I didn’t know it at the time, but when Dr. Wilson made her confession? Joe had Don’s new cell phone. He couldn’t get inside it because we didn’t know the passcode, but he was still able to shoot video—after making a call to 911. It took a while to sort everything out and for the cops to actually be able to watch said video, but they took us all in for questioning and managed to get to the truth.
And, although it took a long time, I’m free now.
“Mommy!” says Emma as she runs toward me. “Look!”
My sweet baby girl. She’s brought me another shell, a tiny cone. “Thank you, sweetheart.”
Ollie’s right behind her. He doesn’t say much, but his little dimply grin tells me more than words. He, too, has a shell for me. “Thank you, buddy.” With a grin, he turns, acting almost shy.
They run back out away from us to sort through more shells in the brown sand.
The sun feels so warm on my legs, and I never want to leave. Even though I still don’t remember most of my time in the mental health clinic, I do know I never got to be outside when I was there. Joe told me later that there was a yard, but the clinic never had enough staff to be able to take patients out.
I think that should all be changing now.
Between the cell phone, the files, and other evidence I still don’t know about, in addition to a confession to the cops from Dr. Wilson, the police were able to present the DA with a heck of a case. And I was wrong. I figured Don would roll over on all his rich friends in order to mitigate the charges against himself. As a former defense attorney, he must think he has a great case.
I hope the jury finds him guilty and he rots in hell.
But the trial will be starting tomorrow, and that’s why we’re here on a beach in Hawaii. People recognized me from the stupid photos in the paper, on TV, and the truth finally came out that I didn’t try to commit suicide. And while I appreciate the kind words complete strangers had for me, I wanted to get away.
Glancing over, I look at my new partner, Joseph Dublin. My new husband. As soon as my divorce was finalized, we tied the knot.
We did not move into Don’s house. It belongs to his parents, and I don’t want to live there. But I did get a decent settlement and I also got a book offer. People want to hear my story. So, once the trial is over, I’m going to see if I can put into words what happened.
First, though, some quiet time with my family.
Of all the things I hate Don for, I almost want to say the thing I hate the most is being separated from my kids, for missing these years with them. But then I think of all those poor girls they still haven’t found and I realize that I hate him even more for that. I’m holding out hope, because Joe managed to save those files before Dr. Wilson could destroy them, and the cops aren’t giving up.
Maybe my book can help with that, too. If someone reads my story and then thinks, “Oh, yeah. My rich friend suddenly showed up with a new wife or maid and had no explanation. Why don’t I just pass this info on to the cops?”
I can hope.
Did I ever love Don? I must have. I can’t imagine living with someone and having his children without any love in the marriage. But I also often wonder if he manipulated me in my time of grief. He mentioned that I’d met him when my father died, so it leaves that question. I won’t ask Don, though, because I won’t ever again trust a word that comes out of that man’s mouth.
Meanwhile, I’m working on healing. Someday, when my kids ask what happened to their dad, I’m not sure what I’ll tell them. Already, Emma asks where he is sometimes and, although she’s happy to see me, she wonders.
And she wonders about her “second mommy,” too. Fortunately, that memory is fading fast. All I can do is give my babies all my love and make sure they feel safe.
Someday, I’ll tell them the story—but I don’t know that I’ll be able to shield them from the horrible truth of their father.
In fact, I know I shouldn’t.
But I’ll worry about that tomorrow. For now, we have a vacation.