We stayed in New York the year after I was found. Hiding in our house, reporters camped out on the lawn. My dad’s Aunt Martha was a retired teacher, and she moved in with us to homeschool me and help keep me entertained since I rarely went anywhere. My parents eventually went back to work, walking the gauntlet of snapping cameras and microphones. Corrine insisted on going back to high school that fall, and I’ve always been in awe of her strength and resilience. The reporters began to fade away until the following spring when the trial commenced. The media attention ramped up again. I remember peering through the curtains of the living room, frightened, feeling like a prisoner. Mom had asked her hairdresser to come over and cut off my long hair. She bought me new clothes in drab, nondescript colors. I remember feeling like they were trying to make Melinda go away, as if my parents wanted another little girl in my place. They started calling me Molly then too.

After Keith was convicted, the reporters started leaving, packing up their equipment and moving on to the next shiny thing. My parents huddled in the kitchen in the evenings, talking, planning. Corrine told me later, I don’t remember it myself, that Mom and Dad decided we needed to move, to start over. My dad opened the phone book in the middle and stuck his finger on a random name, and we became the Morgans. The paperwork was filed, and the name change was official. Then Dad got a job in Graybridge, and we moved to Massachusetts. I do remember the drive to the new house, Mom turning around to where Corrine and I sat in the back seat. “Remember, Molly, your last name is Morgan, and we’re from Pennsylvania. Don’t forget. If you tell people our other name and where we’re from, those reporters will come back, and you’ll never be able to go outside or to school again.” I was, of course, terrified and managed to bury our secrets deep inside myself until I no longer thought about Melinda Wright or New York unless I was very tired or upset. Then memories would flood back, and I’d retreat to my room and lie on my bed, crying until I could put Melinda in her place.

And, of course, the therapy sessions continued. My parents hoped they would save me from debilitating anxiety and acting out, which our pediatrician back in New York warned them about. Mom dutifully drove me to see a therapist once a week in Providence. She didn’t want me to see anyone locally. She didn’t want to take a chance that someone would figure out who we were. I kept busy in the back seat on those long rides by reading. I lost myself in hefty chapter books while Mom listened to talk radio.