Collared(54)

We look like two people in love. We look like newlyweds dancing their first dance at their wedding. We look like . . . nothing like we should with him being who he is and me being who I am.

The first thing that hits me is that someone at the party had to have taken that picture and sold it. A friend, a family member, an acquaintance. The betrayal cuts through me like a hot knife.

The next thing I feel is anger. Red, volatile anger that starts in my chest and spills though the rest of my body.

Then I read the headline:

Father Costigan or Father Charming?

That’s it. Nothing else. Just those five words stamped in thick black letters as big as my pinkie finger.

I shouldn’t read the article. I should stuff the paper back in the drawer and forget I ever saw it. No good will come from going deeper down this rabbit hole. I know that, but I let myself fall in.

I skim the article, absorbing sentences, all of them making my intestines feel like a tangled, knotted mess. They know about Torrin’s and my relationship in high school. I guess it wouldn’t have been that hard to learn about since everyone at our high school, on this street, who was in the same movie theatre where we spent more time kissing than watching, would remember.

It goes on to talk about Torrin after I disappeared. His trouble in school. A couple run-ins with the law that were only charged as misdemeanors given his “special circumstances”—those being his girlfriend getting abducted minutes after being with him. How he barely graduated high school, how he organized search parties, candlelight vigils, national and local television interviews to keep my picture in the public’s face.

Then the article talks about him going to college, then seminary after that as the explosive Torrin Costigan transformed into the respected Father Costigan of St. Marks. How he’s a favorite in the Seattle Catholic community. How he spends endless hours volunteering in the community, bringing bags of burgers to street kids and helping the elderly measure out their medications into pillboxes. There’s a quote from one of the members of St. Marks who claims Torrin does what four people couldn’t accomplish.

Then there are a couple of anonymous quotes from guests at the party last night. One person talks about how cozy Torrin and I seemed most of the night, and the other . . . it makes me crumple the paper. The other friend, family member, or acquaintance told the reporter how they’d watched me sneak out of the party early without saying good-bye. How Torrin had followed me in the same clandestine way a few minutes later. No conclusions are stated, but it’s so obvious what’s being implied that I feel my nails digging into the wood desk.

This will put him in a bad situation. This won’t blow over. People will read it, they’ll talk to other people, and on Sunday, everyone sitting in those pews will stare at him wondering . . . judging.

They’re going after the people around me—the ones closest to me. They can’t get to me because I won’t let them, so they’re swinging their meat hooks into the closest alternatives.

My head lifts, and I glare out the window. They’re still here. All of them. Metal barriers have been set up and flaggers have been stationed outside twenty-four-seven to guide traffic through the maze of trucks and cameras and life-suckers.

Almost two weeks, and they won’t go away. They won’t take a hint. They won’t respect my privacy. They won’t leave. Not until they’ve gotten what they want—however they can get it.

Including crucifying the person I care about most to his own cross if necessary.

I’m still glaring out the window, feeling like I’m about to detonate, when a series of honks pops off outside the barricade. The beeps turn into a blare when the driver isn’t allowed through.

I can just make out Sam’s dark blue sedan being swarmed by reporters who are “supposed” to let her, or anyone else trying to get into our driveway, pass. They’re not though. Why would they? She’s Jade Childs’s sister. Jade Childs isn’t around for them to dissect her life into bloody pieces, so why not just dissect everyone else around her?

In some places, they’re five deep around Sam’s car, and she’s still blasting the horn, but I can see her through the windshield of her car. She’s scared. She’s holding that brave face I’ve seen a lot since returning, but it’s a fa?ade. When reporters knock on her windows, tapping their microphones against them, she starts to cry. Her forehead lowers to the steering wheel, and the horn stops.

I’m running through the living room, and when I reach the front door, Mom’s roaming out of the kitchen, phone still tucked to her ear.

“What’s going on out there?” she asks me.

My hand curls around the door handle. Then I yank it open. “Stay here.”

Before her eyes finish widening, I step outside.

At first, no one notices. They’ll all too busy harassing my sister.

She’s still leaning over the steering wheel, her body shaking. My disappearance ruined this family once. I’d never have guessed me being found would ruin them again. If I had known the lives of everyone I loved would be destroyed a second time, I wouldn’t have spent so much time wishing to be found.

“Leave her alone!” I shout, but my voice doesn’t carry above the roar. I jog down the steps and storm across the lawn.

Now they’re starting to notice. What feels like hundreds of cameras and people whip my way. There’s a hush for one moment, then the noise starts back up as questions spill across the front yard at me.