Chapter 14
It was only a matter of time.
Two years after Mom’s death, DHS finally called on me to testify. Not against Joe, but against his colleagues. The original plan was to wait until he was caught and to take them all down together, but that plan’s changed. Some of the evidence is time-sensitive, and the window’s closing fast.
So here I am, flying from Atlanta to Phoenix with a U.S.
Marshal named Hank. Four hours isn’t a long flight unless you’re carrying the weight of someone else’s justice in your chest. My anxiety has been off the charts, but Dr. Grant has been preparing me for this.
Grounding exercises. Reframing. Breathing techniques.
Still, nothing prepares you for pressure like this.
I always thought I’d testify against Joe first. The thought of facing him used to keep me up at night. But now, knowing I might help put other corrupt officers behind bars? There’s something powerful in that. Something right.
I’ll be testifying anonymously, under the alias “Jane Doe.” It’s a closed courtroom. I’ll appear via video, with my camera off and my voice distorted through software. No one will see me. No one will know it’s me. Hopefully.
Even behind a screen, the weight of being believed is heavier than I imagined.
Hank leads me out of the terminal to a waiting black car. Once we’re secured inside, he turns to me, professional but not unkind.
“We need to go over your testimony once more,” he says.
I nod, swallowing hard. “Okay.”
Everyone seems to think I have something important to say. Something that could tilt the case. I’m terrified of disappointing them. What if I’m not enough?
“Bottom line,” Hank begins, “Joe’s precinct was involved in aiding sex traffickers.”
My stomach turns. “What?”
“We have solid evidence that Joe acted as the primary facilitator. He arranged the trades. Other officers handled logistics like securing women and children, erasing missing persons reports, and covering the tracks. It went on for years.”
“Oh my God.”
I press a hand to my mouth. I feel sick. My skin crawls. My heart pounds. Joe didn’t just abuse me. He built a system that hurt countless others. He helped predators. Protected them.
For one awful second, I think maybe I was lucky. At least I knew what he wanted. At least I could predict him. If he’d sold me… I might never have escaped. I might have disappeared into the same dark current.
“How can people be so cruel?” I whisper.
Hank watches me quietly. “Based on your allegations to DHS two years ago, we know you experienced firsthand the department’s negligence when it came to victims.”
“They weren’t just allegations,” I snap, sharper than I mean to. “Everything I said was true. You read the letter he left in Tennessee. Joe is a pedophile. He preyed on me, and if what you’re saying is true, he helped others do the same. I know what he’s capable of.”
Hank raises a hand in apology. “Of course,” he says quickly. “That’s not what I meant.”
I nod, trying to quiet the tremble under my skin. I know he didn’t mean offense, but this subject… it hits raw.
“We’re almost there,” he says after a pause. “The setup’s ready. You’ll join by video, with full anonymity. You’ll be able to see them, but they won’t see you. And the voice modulation is strong. You won’t even recognize yourself.”
“Okay.” I exhale slowly. “Good.”
It helps. A little. I know those men. I grew up around them, around Joe’s precinct and his so-called friends. Barbecues, office visits, small-town smiles with dark underbellies. The last thing I want is for them to know I’m the one helping to take them down.
And Joe… if any of them still speak to him, if word gets back… I don't even finish the thought. Some shadows still chase me. Some names still freeze my blood.
But this?
This is one step toward the light.
∞∞∞
Telling my truth to a courtroom full of strangers is excruciating.
Even faceless, I feel seen. Like they can look through the static and find me anyway.
I’m forced to relive some of the darkest moments of my life.
The defense attorney twists my words, circles me like a shark, looking for blood, but I don’t flinch.
My memories are solid. Tattooed into me. I couldn’t forget them if I tried.
When I’m finally dismissed, the judge thanks me, and the screen goes dark. Hank shuts the laptop and turns to me.
“You did good, kid,” he says gently. “What you did today… it’s going to help people. You should be proud.”
I give him a weak smile, blinking through the last of my tears. My face feels swollen. I don’t need a mirror to know I look wrecked.
“Thanks. Mind if I freshen up? I’m sure I look like hell.”
“You look like a survivor,” he says. “You’re tough. Own it. And yeah, the bathroom’s out the door, to the left, last door on the right.”
“Left, then right. Got it.”
I slip out and find the restroom easily. After relieving myself, I move to the sink and splash cold water on my face. It stings, but in a good way. Like a reset. I clean the mascara streaks with shaking fingers and blot my cheeks dry with paper towels.
By the time I make it back to the room, Hank’s packed up the electronics and is waiting for me. I’m spending the night in a safe house before flying back to Atlanta tomorrow. Short and sweet. In and out.
“Ready?” he asks.
“As I’ll ever be.”
We exit the DHS building and walk toward the curb, but the car’s empty. The driver’s gone.
“Shit,” Hank mutters. He pulls out his phone and steps a few feet away to call, probably trying to locate him.
I scan the area out of habit, just to have something to do with myself. That’s when I spot it. There’s something white tucked under one of the windshield wipers.
“Hey, Hank?” I call, pointing. “There’s a flyer or something on the car.”
At first, I think it’s just an ad. Maybe for a local diner or political candidate? But none of the other cars have one. Just ours.
Hank ends his call and strides over, plucking the paper free. It’s folded in half. He opens it and goes still. His face pales.
“Get back inside,” he barks. One hand clamps around my arm, tight and urgent, and his other goes to the concealed firearm at his waist.
“What? Why? What is it?”
“Not out here.” He’s already scanning the street, eyes sharp, body tense.
Something’s wrong. Very wrong.
I don’t ask again. I move. We hurry back into the building. Hank slams the door behind us, locks it, and leads me into the room we used for the hearing. Once the door clicks shut, he’s already on the phone, rapid-fire speaking to someone higher up.
I stare at the paper still clutched in his hand.
“Can I see it?” I ask.
He hesitates. Then slowly hands it over.
The paper shakes in my grip as I unfold it. The handwriting is rushed and uneven, ink smudged like the writer didn’t have time to be careful.
My Dear Little Lina -
You look more beautiful than ever. I knew you’d come home. I’ve been waiting for you, but you’ve been fucking playing games hiding from me. I don’t like waiting. You’re in big trouble. I’ve missed you terribly, but it won’t be long before I come for you we’re reunited at last, my love.
-Your Joe
P.S. Go Dawgs!
I go still.
The last line sends ice through my veins.
Go Dawgs.
That’s not just some random cheer. That’s my school. The University of Georgia. Our mascot is the bulldog. The phrase is everywhere… on signs, shirts, chants.
“He knows,” I whisper. “He knows where I go to school.”
Hank hangs up his call and reads the note again. His jaw clenches.
“He’s completely unhinged,” I say softly.
“The crossed-out words. The tone. It all points to instability,” he agrees. “Help is on the way. I don’t know how the hell he got this on our car, but we’re going to find out.”
I look down at my sweatshirt. It reads ‘UGA’ in bright red letters.
“My sweatshirt,” I murmur. “He saw me in this. That’s how he knew.”
Hank’s face twists with guilt. “Shit. We should’ve caught that.”
I hug my arms around myself, suddenly cold. Not physically, just… hollow. Exposed. Violated. He was here. He was watching me.
“Why won’t he just let me go?” I ask quietly.
I don’t know if I’m asking Hank or the universe.
“I’m never going to be free,” I say, more to myself than anyone. “Not really. I’m always going to be hiding. Always watching my back.”
Hank doesn’t answer. There’s nothing he can say.
Because deep down, we both know I might be right.
∞∞∞
When I get home the next day, I pack my bags under Hank’s watchful eye. Within twenty-four hours, my entire life imploded. Again. I don’t know what’s next, just that I have to move on.
I move on autopilot, stuffing clothes into my suitcase with numb fingers. Hank stays silent in the doorway, arms crossed, face unreadable. Probably trying to decide whether I’m a flight risk or just pathetic.
Halfway through packing, I reach for a box shoved into the back of my closet. My stomach dips. It’s the wooden keepsake box from Nik. I’d nearly forgotten it was there.
I glance toward the doorway. Hank’s in the hallway, his voice carrying. He’s on the phone and distracted. Good. I don’t want him to witness another of my meltdowns.
I lift the lid with shaking hands. Inside, there’s only two things: Axel’s worn leather journal, long since filled, pages curled at the corners like they’ve been crying too. And a sealed envelope, yellowed slightly at the edges.
Johnny’s letter.
I forgot I even had it. He told me to open it if I ever felt alone. If things ever got too dark. If I needed… a friend.
I wipe my palms on my jeans, breathing hard. I shouldn’t be this nervous. It’s just paper. Just ink. Just Johnny. But I’m alone, and I’m scared, and I’m so fucking tired of pretending I’m not.
I sit on the edge of the bed, tear the envelope open, and unfold the letter. The handwriting hits me first. It’s slanted and aggressive, like he carved it more than wrote it.
His nickname for me stares up at me from the top of the page.
Honey—
Just like that I’m not in my bedroom anymore.
I’m seventeen again, swimming in their pool.
Cool water rippling around me in the heat of late Tennessee summer.
Johnny’s beside me telling me everything I need to hear.
That I matter. That I deserve to take up space and be noticed. That I deserve to have a life.
My throat tightens. I blink hard. Then I keep reading.
Honey,
If you’re reading this, you’re probably having a really hard day. Maybe it’s worse than that. Maybe the world feels too heavy. Maybe your chest is tight, your hands are shaking, and you’re wondering how the hell you’re supposed to keep going.
I don’t know exactly what’s happening, but I do know this: you’ve made it through hell before, and you’re still standing. You’ll get through this, too.
You are not alone.
Not now. Not ever.
I know what it’s like to wake up already drowning. I know how the quiet can be louder than the screams. I know the kind of hurt that doesn’t leave bruises, but still makes your whole body ache. I know what it’s like to carry memories that claw at your skin and hollow out your lungs.
And I know how strong you are, even when you don’t feel it. Even when you don’t want to be.
I’ve seen it with my own eyes. You carry your pain and still manage to light up a room. You survived something no one should ever have to, and you didn’t let it break you. You fought for yourself. That kind of strength isn’t loud, but it’s unshakable.
So please remember: whatever it is you’re feeling right now? It won’t last forever.
Emotions lie. Trauma lies. They’ll tell you you’re weak, or broken, or that you’ll never be okay again.
They’re wrong. You’re already proof of that.
If the pain is loud, let these words be louder.
You are loved. So fucking loved.
By Axel. By Nik. By me.
We don’t just love the brave parts. We love the broken parts, too.
If you can, reach out. Text one of us. Let someone hold the weight with you. But if you can’t, if all you can do is read this and breathe, then know I’m proud of you for that. Truly.
You’ve already survived the worst days of your life. This one won’t beat you.
Still Yours,
Johnny
I read it once. Then a second time, slower. I let every word sink in.
By the time I fold the letter and tuck it back in the box, my hands aren’t shaking anymore. My chest still aches, and my world is still upside down, but the hollowness inside me feels... less empty.
He’s right. I have made it through worse. And maybe I’m not okay yet. Maybe I won’t be tomorrow, either, but now, I remember how to hope.
I close the lid on the box and carefully pack it in my bag. Then I stand, zip up my suitcase, and square my shoulders.
I don’t know where I’m going yet, but I know I’ll be okay.