Losing Hope (Hopeless #2)(84)

Dear Holder,

If you’re reading this, I’m so, so sorry. Because if you’re reading this, then I know what I did to you.

But I really hope you never find this letter. I’m hoping whoever finds this notebook doesn’t see much use for it and throws it out, because I don’t want to break your heart. But I have so much I need to say to you that I’ll never be able to tell you face to face, so I’m doing it here, instead.

I’m going to start with what happened when we were kids. With Hope.

I know how much you blamed yourself for walking away from her. But you need to realize that you weren’t the only one, Holder. I walked away from her, too. And you were doing what any other child in that situation would do. You were trusting that the adults in her life were doing what was right for her. How could you have anticipated what was going to happen when she walked to that car? You couldn’t have, so just stop thinking you could have done something differently. You couldn’t have and frankly, you shouldn’t have. Hope climbing into that car was the best thing that ever happened to her.

A few weeks after she was taken, her father asked me if I wanted to help him make some flyers. Of course I wanted to help him. I would have done anything that would have helped bring Hope back to us.

When I walked into his house, I could feel something wasn’t right. He walked me to her bedroom. He told me the materials for the flyers were in Hope’s room. Then he shut the door behind us and completely shattered my life.

It went on for years after that. It went on until the day I couldn’t bear it anymore and finally told Mom..

She immediately went to the police. That same day I was interviewed by a therapist and my confession was documented. I was only nine or ten years old, so I don’t remember a lot about it. I just remember that weeks went by and Mom and Dad had to go to the police station several times. The whole time all of this was going on, Hope’s father never once returned home.

I found out later he had been arrested. An investigation was completed and it was even taken to court. I remember the day Mom came home and told me we were moving. Dad couldn’t leave his job and she refused to keep us in Austin, so she moved us. I don’t know if you know this, but they tried to work it out. Dad tried to find a job that could support us in our new town, but he never did. I think they eventually realized that it was easier being apart. Maybe they both blamed each other for what happened to me.

Now that I look back on all the therapy Mom had me undergo, I hate that she didn’t see the need for her to see a therapist, too. I always wondered if their marriage could have been saved if they had talked to someone about it. But then again, I’ve been in therapy for years and it obviously didn’t save me. I wish it did, and maybe it could have if I knew how to apply it. It did help me get through for several years, but it couldn’t save me from myself every time I had to close my eyes at night. And as much as Mom tried to save me, she couldn’t do it, either. I wasn’t looking to be saved.

I just wanted to be let go.

I found out several years later that Hope’s father never had to pay for what he did to me. For what he did to Hope. He was extremely manipulative and made it seem like I was blaming him for Hope’s disappearance and this was my way of getting back at him. The entire community rallied behind him. They couldn’t believe someone would accuse a man of such a cruel act after having his daughter ripped out from under him.

So he got away with it. He was free to do whatever he wanted and I felt like I was locked in hell for eternity.

Mom didn’t want you to find out what happened to me. She was afraid of what it would do to you. We both saw how much you blamed yourself for what happened to Hope and she didn’t want to see you hurt any more.

I didn’t want to see that, either.

Now comes the most difficult part of this letter. This is so hard for me to say, because I’ve held so much guilt over it. Every day that I saw the pain in your eyes, I knew that if I just confessed to you what I’m about to tell you, it would have relieved you of so much agony.

But I couldn’t. I couldn’t find a way to tell you that Hope was alive. That she was okay and that Mom and I saw her once, about three years ago.

I was fourteen and we were eating at a restaurant, just Mom and me. I was taking a drink when I looked up and saw her walking through the door.

I turned to Mom and I know I had to be as pale as a ghost, because she reached across the table and grabbed my hand.

“Lesslie, what’s wrong, sweetie?”

I couldn’t talk. All I could do was stare at Hope. Mom turned around and the second she laid eyes on her, she knew it was her. We were both stunned silent.

The waitress led them to a table right next to ours. Mom and I were both just sitting there, staring at her. Hope glanced at me when she took her seat, then looked away like she didn’t even recognize me. It broke my heart that she didn’t recognize me. I think I started crying at that point. I was just so emotionally overwhelmed and I didn’t know what to do. I fingered the bracelet on my wrist and whispered her name, just to see if she would hear me and turn around again.

She didn’t hear me, but the woman who was with her did. She darted her head in our direction with sheer panic in her eyes. It confused me. It confused Mom.

The woman looked at Hope. “I think I left the stove on,” she said, standing up. “We need to leave.” Hope looked confused, but she stood up, too. Her mother ushered her toward the exit to the restaurant. That’s when Mom stood up and rushed after them. I did, too.