Authorities were desperately searching for me.
I was believed to be the victim of The Night Prowler. I remember hearing about him on the news that night, but beside the fleeting chill anyone has about news of a criminal on the loose, I hadn’t given him much thought. To be honest, his wasn't the only name on the news. Despite the sunny weather, beautiful houses, and well-mannered neighbors, the Sacramento area had been plagued with prowlers for some time now.
I hadn't known much about his crimes, but the article went into detail. About the pattern they believe he followed. That he may have prowled dozens if not hundreds of homes, ransacking them, taking tokens and peeping through windows for years before finally escalating to attacking homeowners about a year ago. Hot prowl. That's what they call it when a prowler enters a home with people inside. It takes a level of brashness many criminals do not possess. Most criminals just want your things and minimal confrontation. The hot prowl, that's instigating complication.
I cringe at the unmitigated brutality of his crimes. At me for allowing myself to enjoy this monster in any way.
He is why we fear the night. He is the real monster kids imagine in the closet or under the bed. A shiver races down my spine thinking about how I have found a way to be somewhat comfortable with this man.
As if to twist the knife in my gut, the article states that he has never been known to kidnap, preferring to leave without a trace, making him elusive to the cops. Maybe if I had said nothing, he would have fled. Maybe I did bring this upon myself. But I had no choice. He had Johnny. I throw the paper down in frustration, sick and angry at myself. If I had paid more attention, maybe I would have been able to notice someone had broken in. If I had just screamed in the house when he shined that light in my eyes, maybe he would have spooked and left. I let him force me to bind Carter. There were so many times along the way I could have done things differently.
I grab the next paper and skim the date. It's been just over four weeks if this is today’s issue. I can't believe a month has already passed. But there's a wisp of hope in that—it's a month and I am still alive. I can survive this. This time the headline on the paper is about some political race. I flip the pages to find the many articles about me and how the world has stopped to find me. It takes me several passes through before I find a short one.
NO NEW LEADS IN THE CASE OF THE MISSING SACRAMENTO NURSING STUDENT
The Sheriff of the Sacramento County Sheriff’s Department, Sheriff Hunter-Ridgefield, claims they are still working vigorously behind the scenes, but have shifted their investigation from a large scale search to old fashioned police work, with evidence from the scene and witness testimonies so they can be more targeted. It feels like code for “we have no clue.” Forgive me if I sound cynical.
Besides that update, there's not much news in it. In fact, the article is about how The Night Prowler has yet again stumped the police and they don’t believe he has committed a crime since taking me, but he has been known to go through periods of dormancy, so much is uncertain. Yet there is one development that makes my heart skid to a halt.
When asked if she thought her daughter was still alive, Rivers' mother confessed that they had “given up hope on that possibility.”
Four weeks. Four fucking weeks and she's already cast me off as dead. She's finally free of the burden. The daughter she didn't plan on as she fucked every man in our commune. She had to guess who my father was and he wouldn't even think of accepting me, knowing the odds. She was a hippie, but it was never about love and peace with her. It was freedom. From responsibility. From the world's expectations. Now she's free, married to a doctor of all things. And I'm the one who's a prisoner.
I'm already becoming a byline in the paper. They think I'm rotting somewhere in the desert. No one is looking for a living woman. The only person who knows I exist, who I matter to, even in a twisted way, is the man who took me.