by Alana Terry
My face is burning when I join Russel and the children.
“Everything okay?” he asks me.
I smile. “Yeah, I think …” I don’t know what to tell him. “I’m sorry for ruining the trip.” It’s the best I can do.
His voice is gentle. “Don’t worry about that. I talked to a gate agent while you were having your meeting. They got us on another flight. We leave in three hours.”
My stomach sinks. It was stupid for me not to have expected this. Russel’s glowing and raving on and on about what a huge blessing it is they were able to squeeze six of us on a flight together, and all I can think is I wish the attendant told him there was room for Russel and the kids but not for me.
I need time. Time to catch my breath. To remind myself that just because a girl’s wearing shorts doesn’t mean her life’s in danger. That just because I was captured and locked away for two years it doesn’t mean every other teenager with sad, haunted eyes is going through the same horror. The trauma I went through.
I had only been home for three months after escaping Henry’s basement when a policeman knocked on our door. I hated him and that stupid Styrofoam cup of coffee he always carried around with him.
“We’ve had a new development,” he said, stepping into our home without waiting to be invited. “Call your mom in. She’ll want to hear this.”
And then the officer proceeded to tell me the truth that’s going to haunt me until the day I die.
Henry hadn’t killed his daughter.
Concerning the murder of Jennifer Harris, Henry was completely innocent.
CHAPTER 24
Jennifer hadn’t seen Mr. Green in a while. It had been a full two years since she was a student in his science class. He seemed different now. But maybe that was because she was looking at him through the tears she was desperately trying to blink away.
“So,” Mr. Green said as he put his car into gear. “I’m not going to ask what you were doing, but if you wanted someone to talk to about it, I’m all ears.” He had a sign for some old band dangling from his rearview mirror. Back in middle school, Jennifer and her friends had spent hours speculating on the rumors that Mr. Green did drugs every night, that he’d been in a rock band in college, that he kept a shrine to the Grateful Dead in his attic. When Kylee’s older brother told the girls that Mr. Green was suspected to have dated one of his former students once she came home from college, the rumor mill seemed to have a limitless supply of fodder.
How much of it was true? Jennifer wondered. Mr. Green was strange. There was no denying that, but at least his car heater worked.
“Where am I taking you to, m’lady?” he asked, his voice happy and good-natured.
Jennifer’s jaw hurt from clenching it while she stood outside in the cold. She tried to will her body to relax a degree but wasn’t sure she was that successful. She sniffed loudly and hoped Mr. Green didn’t think she was crying.
“I live over on Belview.”
“Belview?” he repeated. “I know right where that is,” Mr. Green answered enthusiastically. “It would be my great honor and privilege to take you wherever you need to go.”
Jennifer glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. Tried to determine which if any of the rumors about her former teacher were true.
“How are you liking high school?” Mr. Green asked. “You’re a sophomore now?”
“Freshman,” she answered.
“Really? I could have sworn you were older.” Mr. Green glanced over at her. “Are you doing all right? Or does the fact that I found you on the corner alone with your makeup all smeared answer that question for me?” He waited for an answer.
Jennifer stayed silent.
Finally, Mr. Green let out a sigh. “Well, I know it’s not any of my business,” he finally announced, “but I do tend to worry about my students. Teacher’s curse, I’m afraid. I worry about each and every one of you.”
“Mm-hmm.” Jennifer squirmed in her seat. Something was making her uncomfortable. Maybe she shouldn’t have gotten in the car with Mr. Green after all. Maybe she should have just asked him for some change so she could call her dad, beg him to come pick her up.
It wasn’t until then that she realized they were driving the wrong way. She tried to remember. She’d told him Belview, right?
“I think my home’s the other way.” She kept her voice low, didn’t want him to think she was ungrateful for his help.
“Oh.” Mr. Green gave the steering wheel a small slap and let out a chuckle. “I’m sorry, I must have been driving on auto-pilot. I’m taking you straight to my house.”
Jennifer glanced at the time on his dashboard. Wondered why she hadn’t thought to ask what Mr. Green was doing driving around town this late in the first place.
“Hey, I’ve got to pick something up at the middle school. You okay if we take a quick detour?”
Jennifer couldn’t guess what he had to do at the school this late, but Mr. Green was already going way out of his way to get her home. She couldn’t be rude. “No problem.” She tried to make her voice sound at ease. Tried to mask the growing discomfort she felt. Tried to tell herself that in a few more minutes, she’d be back home in her warm bed and the stress of the night would be nothing but a distant memory.
CHAPTER 25
Given the status of what remains in my backpack, I grossly underestimated how many snacks I’d need to pack to keep four children and two adults from growing hungry. Our newly booked flight doesn’t start boarding for another hour, but I know better than to ask Russel to spend money on airport food.
I’m feeling much better now. Finally got over whatever shock I had. In fact, I’m actually glad Russel was able to get our family on this other plane. I would hate to think that I’ve ruined this vacation for everyone. Yes, I’m still anxious about meeting the in-laws. Still terrified that every single thing I do, every word I say will be compared to Sarah. Russel’s parents loved his first wife like a daughter. He hasn’t told me this, but his sister has. Their whole family saw her as one of their own.
They’re all still mourning her death.
Which is exactly why I was dreading this trip.
But there’s nothing like a massive panic attack on a crowded airplane to put things into perspective. I’m a survivor. I can’t even guess how many times I’ve reminded myself of that fact since I finished talking with airport security. The man was attentive enough, but he realized as soon as we started talking that there was nothing to go on. I have no idea why I got so upset in the first place. What did I expect him to do? Order the captain to turn the plane around so they could arrest a man simply because his teenage daughter wore shorts and a surly expression?
As humiliated as I am by the experience, I think in the end it’s all for the best. I’ve forgotten how much energy it takes me to keep everything that happened with Henry hidden, secret, and forgotten. My trauma is a trapped animal, expending all its effort trying to get out of its cage. It’s a full-time job keeping my demons in check.
I’ve promised myself I’ll tell Russel everything. But not right now. Not here in the airport, not until we’re home after this vacation. But he deserves to know. I won’t tell him in a way that makes him feel sorry for me or worried about my mental health. I’ll just bring it up casually. Hey, there’s something I didn’t feel totally comfortable telling you earlier, but now that we’re married, I think it’s important for you to know.
That’s the kind of conversation two rational adults can have, right?
Picturing this future encounter holds my guilt at bay, the guilt I feel for not exposing my secrets earlier. Eventually I’ll tell Russel everything. When the time is right. Might be next month, might be in a year … The longer I wait, the more awkward it’ll be, but then again, by that point our marriage will be stronger. More resilient.
Who am I kidding?
This is a secret I might as well carry with me to my grave.
�
�We should have packed more sandwiches,” Russel announces factually. I love how he uses the pronoun we, as if he had any part in packing for this trip for six. But who am I to complain? It’s my fault we’re here and not on our way to his parents’ already. If I hadn’t overreacted like I did, we’d be landing in Detroit any minute.
“Look, Daddy,” Andrew says, pointing at a TV screen. “It’s an airplane.”
Russel glances up. I’m still rummaging through my carry-on, looking for more food to pass around, when I hear my husband suck in his breath.
My eyes follow his gaze. The ticker at the bottom of the screen reads Flight hijacked. Missing Detroit teen identified as one of the passengers. A school photo accompanies the text. Blood drains from my brain. I’m glad I’m sitting because the room has tilted onto its axis.
Russel grabs my hand. “Is that …?” He doesn’t complete his sentence. He doesn’t have the chance.
Three men and one woman in very professional-looking suits walk directly up to me, brandishing official badges. “Are you Anastasia Strickland? You talked earlier with one of our security officers?”
I give a faint nod and try to tell them yes. I can’t even hear my own voice, but that doesn’t seem to matter to these agents.
“Come with us, please. We have some questions for you.”
CHAPTER 26
Russel refuses to let me go anywhere without him. It’s sweet, actually. A little protective.
It takes a few minutes, but the airlines agents call in someone to keep an eye on the kids in the adjoining room and take my husband and me to another small office. Through the cracks in the door, I hear Andrew whining about how hungry he is.
“Mrs. Strickland, are you aware of what’s occurring aboard Flight 219?”
“I saw something on the news,” I answer, uncertain if this is what I’m supposed to say or not. “I don’t really understand …”
“Flight 219 has been hijacked,” the man interrupts. “And as part of the attack, the perpetrators have kidnapped the daughter of Detroit’s school district superintendent.”
I don’t understand what a school district has to do with hijacked planes or acts of terrorism. A small portion of my brain worries that I’ve misheard everything this man is telling me.
I’m thankful when Russel leans forward in his seat and takes the lead. “That’s the same girl my wife mentioned. The one she talked to the security officer about.” I don’t know how to describe what I hear in his voice. Is he angry they didn’t listen to me in the first place? Scared to think that his entire family was supposed to be aboard that plane? The only name I can give to his tone is intense.
The officer nods his head. “Yes. We took your wife’s concerns very seriously when she brought them to our attention, and in the end, it seems she was right to sound the alarm.”
“What’s happening to those people right now?” my husband asks.
“I assure you we have every available law enforcement agency and officer involved to ensure they don’t harm anyone else in their …”
“I mean the passengers,” Russel interrupts. “What’s happening to them? Are they all right?”
“News is just coming in,” the agent answers. “I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you right now.”
I’m trembling. I’m afraid I’m going to throw up my peanut butter and jelly sandwich and granola bar. So I wasn’t wrong. I wasn’t crazy. I wasn’t making things up.
Which means that girl really was stolen from her parents. That she really was as terrified as she appeared.
I should have done more. Asked her for her name, found a way to talk to her alone. What was I thinking? I just left her there, left her alone her with her abductor … And now the plane’s been hijacked.
She must be so scared.
I want to know everything about her. Her age. Her favorite color. What kind of music she listens to. The name of her crush. I want to know where she sleeps at night, in a bed safe and warm or in a freezing cold basement, her hands cuffed behind her back.
And the man with her, who is he? Has he just abducted her, or has she been trapped with him for weeks? Months? Has she gotten to the point where she’s forgotten her age? Where she’s certain at least one birthday has passed but all she can do is wonder what her parents did to commemorate the day …
An agent who’s been silently standing in the corner speaks up. His partner turns around, and they have a small huddle in hushed tones, using words and phrases that cascade over me.
I squeeze my eyes shut. Russel puts his arm around me. Draws me close.
“I’m so glad you got us off that plane,” he whispers. “That must have been God guiding you.”
There’s nothing but awe in Russel’s voice, except I can’t share his sense of grateful relief. Because that girl is still on that plane with her captor. And the other passengers … I can’t even imagine what’s happening to them.
“… demanding to speak to the superintendent,” one of the agents is saying, and they continue talking about some elementary playground. I can’t believe that an abduction and hijacking all revolve around school politics, but what do I know? After I escaped Henry’s basement, I never even returned to school. I got my degree from a correspondence program, which meant my mother didn’t need to let me out of her sight. Which meant I never had to leave the house.
If you were to ask Mom the details, I was in shock when I first returned home. Then came the miscarriage. The hemorrhaging. The surgery. A few months later, once my body healed and I realized I didn’t have to simply exist in survival mode anymore, I broke down and fell into an unbreakable depression.
The real depression was because I had discovered the truth. I’m the reason Henry died. I killed him. His heart gave out when I accused him of murdering his daughter. I was so sure of it at the time. But I’d been wrong. Dead wrong. The cop who came to our house that day told me that they reopened Jennifer’s case, that they found a DNA match.
Henry hadn’t killed Jennifer after all.
Which meant I broke Henry’s heart when I accused him. I’m the one who killed him.
Mom couldn’t understand. “Whether or not he murdered his daughter, he was a monster. He kept you trapped in a basement for two full years.” She stated the words so factually, as if she expected them to break through my despair and get me to see reason.
Henry hadn’t killed Jennifer. How many times had he begged me to tell him I believed him? That I knew he’d never lift a hand to hurt me?
And then one day I snapped. I yelled those terrible things at him, accused him of those monstrous acts.
I killed him with my words.
I’m a survivor. Some would say I did what I had to do. I escaped with my life, didn’t I? Do you know how rare it is to survive two years of captivity?
Going strictly by the numbers, I should have been dead within the first 48 hours.
I’m a statistical anomaly.
I survived. I got myself out of there.
Now I’m free.
Free from Henry’s basement. Free from his handcuffs. Free from his delusions. Free from his oppressive grief.
Free from everything. Everything except the overwhelming guilt I felt that I accused a weak, sad man of a crime he didn’t commit, then I ran away when he needed my help the most and left him to die, terrified and alone.
CHAPTER 27
“Are you crying?” Russel asks me.
His voice is so gentle. So pained to think I might be in any sort of turmoil or anguish.
“I don’t want to answer any more questions.” I choke on the words. I didn’t expect to break so easily.
The agents turn and look at me.
“We need to go,” Russel tells them. “My wife is unwell.”
He doesn’t wait for their permission but stands me up, holding onto my elbow. My legs nearly collapse under me.
“Are you all right?” he asks, worried. “Do you need a doc
tor? Is there a doctor she can see? I think it’s the stress. She isn’t well …”
I hear the hint of panic in his voice, and that’s when I crack. I let the pieces of my soul that I’ve tried so desperately to hold together all these years crumble to shards around me.
“She’s in shock or something,” my husband insists, and still it takes the men in the room several seconds staring at us before one of them says, “I’ll see what I can do.”
Russel is trying to support my weight, trying to keep me from falling to the ground. I can’t stand the feel of his fingers clenching my arm, can’t stand the memory of Henry’s grip on my body.
“Let me go,” I shriek, only half aware that I’m yelling at my own husband and not a man who’s been dead for ten years. “I don’t want to stay here. I want to leave.”
A childlike voice from the doorway carries over the sound of my hyperventilating. “What’s wrong with Mommy? Is she all right?”
I don’t process the child’s words or Russel’s answer. Someone’s hurrying toward me. Seconds later an oxygen monitor is clasped to my finger, a blood pressure gauge wrapped around my arm.
“Has she had anything to eat or drink lately?” a voice asks my husband.
“Here, someone take my wallet and go get her something from McDonalds,” he says, and I want to laugh at the thought of Russel ordering me fast food.
My breath returns to me in short, choppy gulps. I want to pass out. I want to ignore the faces around me, the worried expressions, the shouted questions.
“She’s unwell.” I’ve lost track of how many times Russel has repeated himself. Unwell, unwell, unwell …
My wife is unwell.
The man has no idea.
No idea whatsoever.
CHAPTER 28
Jennifer felt silly for getting herself so worked up. Just because it was dark out, just because there was nobody out on any of the roads this late at night, she didn’t have to create all kinds of spooky stories about her teacher. She blamed Shawna and Kylee and all their silly rumors about Mr. Green from all the way back in middle school.