That poor girl. Ian had called to tell me that they had found the body of a high-school girl who had looked similar to me. She had been a victim of Mr. X. How they knew that was because he had stapled a picture of my face to her face and they’d found his DNA—a polite way of saying his semen—all over her body. She had been tortured and raped repeatedly over the span of four days. She was dead now because he couldn’t find me. I was here, safe and hidden, while he was out there preying on girls who looked like me. How do I live with that? How was I supposed to move on or start over or whatever
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