My heart clenches.

Twenty-two years.

Twenty-two years.

“Cora, sweetheart? Are you okay? You’ve hardly touched your food.”

I swallow, glancing up at my mother with wide eyes. Bile sticks to my throat as I try to form words. “Did you see this news story about the missing boy who was found after twenty-two years?”

My parents pierce me with empathetic eyes and my father clears his throat. “We saw that on the news this morning.”

“How awful,” my mother adds, scooping peas onto her fork. “It’s a miracle that boy survived.”

I blink.

Is it, though?

I can’t help but wonder if he wishes he never survived at all. I was only gone for three weeks, and I still can’t shake the nightmares and haunting memories. I tried to take my own life.

How can he ever move past his trauma and have a normal existence?

“Excuse me,” I mutter, pushing myself away from the table and making a hasty retreat upstairs to the guest bedroom. I curl up under the covers and screenshot the article, sending it to Dean. I never replied to his last text and it hovers between us like so many other unanswered questions and frightening unknowns.

He reads it right away, but I don’t get a response for another ten minutes.

Dean: That’s fucked. Really puts things in perspective.

Me: To him, we would be the lucky ones :(

Another few minutes pass before my phone zings again.

Dean: Speaking of….. Did you see the new development in our case?

I freeze as I stare at his question, my body going numb. I haven’t seen anything—in fact, I generally scroll right past all posts and articles that have the name ‘Earl’ attached to them.

Me: No…

Only five seconds pass when a screenshot comes through, the picture slowly loading. I zoom in to read the headline:

“Victim of Earl Timothy Hubbard, also known as ‘The Matchmaker’, comes forward”

I read it again.

Then again.

My insides churn with disbelief. There’s another victim out there… alive? I don’t even read the corresponding article. I call Dean immediately.

He picks up on the second ring. “Hey.”

“Oh, my God.” My hand flies up to grasp my neck, scratching at my collarbone as I try to regain my composure. “Holy crap, Dean.”

“Yeah. I was reading all about it right before you texted me.”

I swallow. “What did it say? Did she give an interview? How did she escape?”

I hear him moving around on the other end with a faint rustling in the background. “Her name is Tabitha Brighton. She claims she was abducted by Earl last spring, along with her college professor. They were kept in the basement for two months before Earl killed the guy and let her go.”

“Let her go?” I repeat, dumbfounded. My heart is rattling my ribs and I start to tremble. “She’s lying. She’s got to be lying. That man didn’t have a single shred of decency inside him—there’s no way he’d let one of his victims go.”