Find Her (Detective D.D. Warren #8)(25)

“I should shower,” I hear myself say.

“Of course. Take your time.”

There doesn’t seem to be anything else to say. I pad away, still holding the waistband of the sweats. Four whacks of the old plumbing later, the water turns steaming hot. I shed the baggy sweats. I step into the hard spray. And I let the water scald me.

For a moment, I can almost smell it again. Freshly roasted human skin. Like a pork barbecue.

Then the moment passes, and I close my eyes. The void fills me, and I welcome its emptiness.

To always be alone in a crowded room.

The only time I ever feel safe anymore.


*

AFTER MY ABDUCTION, when I returned to the land of the living, one of Samuel’s first tasks was to develop my postcaptivity support plan. Basically, he conducted an assessment of my coping skills, while also working with the victim specialists who’d assisted my family to understand the level of support network already in place.

While Samuel is an expert in post-traumatic stress, he informed me that he’s not a fan of the term. In his opinion, it’s often applied too readily and as a one-size-fits-all model. He’s worked with dozens and dozens of survivors over the years, and while all of us experienced trauma, only a few genuinely qualify as suffering from PTSD. In fact, he warned my mother explicitly about making such an assumption, or even such excuses on my behalf.

Survivors make it because they learn to adapt. Adaptation is coping. Coping is strength.

My mother, my brother, myself should not expect me to be weak now, nor actively foster dependency. Instead, we should all focus on reinforcing my natural resilience, which got me through the ordeal in the first place.

As for myself, the biggest mistake survivors can make, according to Samuel, is second-guessing their actions now that they’re safe. So, no wondering why I went to the bar in the first place that night. Or why I didn’t struggle harder. Or escape the first time Jacob left the cab of his truck unlocked. No matter that Jacob had pulled over his rig in the middle of nowhere and he was standing right there, taking a leak in a drainage ditch.

The past is the past. It doesn’t matter what mistakes I might or might not have made. What matters is that I survived.

Samuel was right about the pitfalls of second-guessing. I don’t suffer nightmares about Jacob as much as I suffer terrible anxiety over the might-have-beens, should-have-dones. My first enrollment in a self-defense course was an attempt to help mediate those nerves, make me feel more comfortable. Ironically enough, my mother supported that step, even took that first class with me. Samuel had approved as well. Reinforcing a feeling of personal strength, excellent.

It was right about the fourth or fifth class, and my growing interest in marksmanship, that my mother became concerned. I was living back home those days, and I overheard her discussing it with Samuel during one of his checkins trying to assess how either of us, both of us, were doing.

Samuel is not a therapist, and certainly not my therapist. He had, however, recommended counseling for me, or therapeutic support, as he liked to call it. I’d resisted all attempts, though. Private sessions would by definition involve telling my story, and I was sticking to my guns: I’d told my story once, as promised. Never again.

Ironically enough, it was my mother who took Samuel’s advice. I moved on to tactical driving classes, while she started meeting with the local pastor once a week.

Another one of those realizations that all survivors have to make: My abduction hadn’t just victimized me but my entire family too. My mother, who, after the third postcard, pretty much gave up on the farm and turned her attention full-time to reaching out to a depraved kidnapper in the desperate hope of seeing her daughter again. My brother, who dropped out of college, first to answer endless police questions and later because, in his own words, how could he possibly concentrate knowing I was out there, somewhere, needing him?

Major crimes are like cancer. They take over, demanding an entire family’s full resources. My brother became a social media expert, building a Facebook page, running Twitter feeds. And, frankly, trying to manage the press who camped out in the yard for weeks at a time, especially after Jacob mailed out a new postcard, offering fresh bait.

My mother spent her days with the victim advocates, as well as with fellow parents of missing kids. They offered support, mentorship, as she sought to come up to speed quickly on law enforcement, criminal behavior, media management. She got to learn how to craft messages for strategic press conferences, while also making the rounds on the morning news shows and nightly cable stations. She got to handwrite replies to hundreds, then thousands of letters from total strangers wishing for my safe return. And she got to endure other notes, Facebook posts, stating an obviously immoral teenage girl like me got exactly what I deserved.

In theory, there are some financial resources available to victims of crime. The specialists diligently produced paperwork enabling my mother to possibly collect a couple of thousand here, or apply for a grant there. My mother will tell you she had neither the time nor mental focus. No, having your child abducted is a fairly impoverishing ordeal. My sin of heading out for a night of spring break drinking becoming my entire family’s punishment.

In our case, the community rallied. Neighbors showed up and worked the farm in their free time. They got seeds started, crops planted, and then, as the ordeal continued to drag on, dealt with the fall harvest. The church held bake sales. Local businesses sent over checks. Local restaurants and delis provided food.