Stolen (16 page)

“I’m sorry. I just, I-I have something I want to show
you, but I don’t want to upset you anymore tonight.”

To be truthful, I’m not
that
upset. I’m
probably delusional to think that now that there is another note there will be
more evidence, and more evidence means the sooner the guy will be caught and
the sooner everything will go back to normal. It’s a grand delusion to say the
least! “Fess up, man,” I scold him.

I think he’s leaving when he gets up and reaches for
his jacket. I watch as he reaches into the inside pocket, pulling out a square
piece of paper. He seems lost as he walks to me, even though it’s only a few
feet. I’ll admit this is more intense than finding the envelope on the porch.

“I thought I could avoid this, but I think you should
know. I hope I’m doing the right thing.” He says that last part in a hushed
voice, as if to himself instead of me.

After seeing what’s in his hand, I understand why.
It’s another picture. This one is of Rogan and me. It’s not a very old picture,
but old enough since we haven’t seen each other in months. I look closely at
the picture, taking it in. I confess it takes me longer than it probably should
to process what I’m looking at.

For a moment, I forget that Bruce is still here. I
forget about the picture and letter in the envelope I just found. I forget that
Rogan doesn’t belong to me anymore. I’m so lost in the picture, I forget it
all.

It’s Rogan and me with a backdrop of green grass and
moonlight. I can’t make out many of the details, but the point comes across all
the same—this was the night of our anniversary. This was our first and only
night together. Now a photo, taken by a nameless, faceless, beast taints a
moment so special and sacred in my thoughts.

I slam the photo down onto the coffee table and storm
out the front door. I don’t know where I’m going, if I’m going anywhere; I just
need air. Bruce is my shadow, not two steps behind me as I pace the front
porch. I don’t understand what it all means. How long has he had that photo?
Where did he get it? Who all has seen it?

That’s when the sickening awareness hits me. It was
from the first letter. I remember now that there had been a picture, but I
never looked at it after I read the letter and stormed off to Rogan. This was
what mom saw, what Cass saw, what everyone in the police station saw—a girl
losing her virginity.

I stop moving long enough to get the confirmation I
need from Bruce. He has a hard time looking me in the eye while admitting that
it was the picture from that first letter. How could he not have told me about
this? Does he understand what’s happening in that picture, that it goes beyond
a couple having sex, but a couple having sex for the first time? I don’t want
to ask him.

“Thanks for showing me,” I say dryly.

“I’m so sorry, Jess. I’ve been torn about whether you
should or shouldn’t see it. Whether you would or wouldn’t want to see it. I
couldn’t figure out what was the right thing to do, and as time moved on and no
more letters came, I figured you would never have to see it because you
wouldn’t think about, I mean, you hadn’t asked about this one so I figured
since you forgot about it we could just move on. I should have expected that
you would get another one; maybe I was just hoping I would have caught the
asshole before he could take another picture. I really am sorry. Please don’t
hate me.”

I know his apology is sincere, but that does little to
calm the storm brewing inside me. “How many people have seen that?” I ask him.

“Not many,” he answers vaguely.

“Humph. That many, huh?” I ask sarcastically, knowing
by his tone that he’s trying to pacify me. “I think I want to lie down now.
Just lock up on your way out.”

I brush past him and he lets me. I sense the unease in
him, the will he’s using to not reach for me or say anything more to me, and
I’m thankful for that. I take the stairs two at a time, flop face-first onto my
bed, hating everything.

I hear my phone beep on my nightstand. It’s so late or
early, depending, so I know it has to be Bruce; no one else would be up texting
at two o’clock in the morning.

Bruce:
Are you mad at
me?

Me:
No

Bruce:
Now I know you
are. You never give me one-worded answers. Talk to me. Please.

Me:
I’m not sure what you
want me to say. Something private has been seen by my family, a whole station
full of cops, and you. That is probably the worst of it. I get why you didn’t
show me. I forgot and you wanted me to keep on forgetting, but still, this is a
big deal. I should have known.

Bruce:
You’re absolutely
right, I should have told you. It’s just that I didn’t want to hurt you anymore
than you were already hurting by not seeing Rogan anymore. I thought this would
be too much. When you didn’t ask about it after that first day, I waited for
days after, wondering if you would remember it and want to see it, but when you
didn’t, I was so relieved, thinking it was something I could protect you from.
Something you would never have to know about. And don’t think the whole station
saw it. I wasn’t lying when I said not many.

Me:
I guess that’s
something.

Bruce:
I am so sorry.

Me:
I know. I’m tired so
I’ll ttyl. Thanks for coming over tonight.

Bruce:
I will always do
anything I can to be there for you.

Fast forward five days and this is where I am. It’s a
half day of school today for a teacher conference or something, I don’t know. I
just know that when warmer weather hits there are more and more half days than
we have all winter. I know they have to have us come at least half a day so
they can be paid the school funding, but still, it’s pretty funny. I guess even
teachers don’t want to be in school all day. Anyway, this seemed like a good
day to take off.

This week has been harder than I thought it would be.
Not telling mom and Cass about the letter has been wearing at times, but I know
it’s for the best right now. Bruce and I are talking again, but it’s a little
weird to think about the picture and the fact that he, and so many other
people, saw it. I try not to dwell on that.

 I haven’t been sleeping much. I wake up
throughout the night thinking someone is in my room with me. It was warm the
other day, so mom opened some windows to get fresh air. When she tried to open
mine, I snapped. Seeing as how I hadn’t slept in forever it seemed, I didn’t
have much energy to come up with a good lie as to why I wanted to stay in a
stifling room, so I told her to leave me alone, that I was perfectly capable of
opening my own window if I wanted to. I’m figuring she passed it off as PMS.

Mom is at work. Cass went to her morning classes
because she wanted to, because she has friends, because she’s normal and likes
her life. I used to be like that. People used to like being around me, and I
them, but now I’m an outsider, a nobody, a shadow following those living and
breathing around me, those who don’t know how good they have it.

It’s safe to say, I don’t feel much like myself these
days. I’m a caged animal, ready to attack. I feel crazy most of the time, not
knowing what’s real, always on the edge of something, not knowing what that
something is or if I want to jump to find out. Maybe none of this is real.
Maybe I’m not real.

Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

This wouldn’t be so bad if I had Rogan; but I don’t
have Rogan. I have no one.

I should stop wallowing. This is the point where most
people would say, “Others have it worse than you.” Do they really? Does it even
matter if they do? This isn’t exactly a gumdrops and Skittles kind of deal I’ve
been dealt. This sucks, and I’ll wallow if I want to wallow.

Things can’t get much worse than they are right now.

My phone is beeping; must be Bruce.

Meg:
Have you heard?

Meg? Why is she texting me? We haven’t spoken in
months. She used to be one of my best friends in case you’re curious.

Me:
I guess not,
what’s up?

Meg:
 You should
probably turn on the news. I can’t talk right now.

She can’t talk right now? Why did she text me then?
Why is she watching the news? Who watches the news besides old people and smart
people? Why is she watching it at school?

Ugh!

 Dragging my lazy bum downstairs, I flop onto the
couch and turn the TV to one of the local channels. I forgot to ask her if this
was local news? Global news? Fashion news? Why I should care about the news at
all?

There’s a banner running across the bottom of the
screen . . .

Breaking
news

“Rogan Eli Morgan, has been found
murdered. No further details have been given. We’ll keep you informed as more
information becomes available.”

What. What? What!

No! Absolutely not! Not Rogan! He was supposed to be safe!
He was supposed to be there when this was all over! He was supposed to be with
me!

I think I’m screaming. I’m not sure, it could be in my
head, or maybe I’m doing nothing. What am I supposed to do? This is all my
fault.

I hear the home phone ringing in the background and my
cell phone ringing, beeping, and vibrating with calls, texts, missed calls, you
name it, beside me on the coffee table. I should answer. I can’t move, though.

Rogan? It must be a mistake. There must be another
Rogan Eli Morgan. Right? That could happen, couldn’t it?

I hear the front door slam against the wall, but I
don’t move. Maybe I’m next. Maybe whoever killed my Rogan has come for me.
Maybe there really is something in the Cosmos that’s going to take me away
before the pain sets in, before this becomes reality, because right now this
isn’t real. I know this isn’t real!

“Jess! Jess, where are—“Bruce shouts, sounding
terrified. He finds me in the living room and sits on the coffee table,
watching me, waiting for me to break; but I won’t break. This isn’t real, so I
won’t break. “Jess, oh my God, you saw it? Damn it! I thought I would make it
before you did!”

“A friend told me to watch the news. You don’t have to
be so upset, though. It isn’t Rogan. They made a mistake. Don’t worry. This
isn’t real,” I reassure him. “It’s not real.”

I see pity in his eyes. I don’t think I ever knew what
real pity looked like until this moment. I snap my eyes back to a black TV. I
see the remote in his hand. He turned it off. Fine by me; I don’t want to hear
about a boy with the same name as my Rogan being murdered. That’s too
depressing.

“Jess,” he starts, his voice octaves lower than
normal. “Jess, you have to listen to me. That isn’t another Rogan. There is no
another Rogan. I’m so sorry, but Rogan really is dead.”

I blink repeatedly at him. Why is he being so mean to
me? Why is he saying this to me? “Bruce, stop it. Just stop it! This isn’t
true. This can’t be true. I left him so this wouldn’t happen. This can’t have
happened. I left him to protect him. I left him because you told me to. Because
you said that was the only way to keep him safe! You told me he would be safe!”
I shout.

Anger is blinding. I don’t know when I start hitting
him, slapping him, yelling at him, threatening to kill him, but once I do, I
can’t stop. “This is your fault!” I scream the whole time. “This is all your
damn fault! I’ll never forgive you! Never!”

“Honey, stop, this isn’t solving anything. Bruce is
just trying to help,” I hear mom say. I don’t know when she got home and I
don’t care.

“Mom! Leave me alone!” I swing at her, trying to
escape the hold she has on me from behind. She can’t stop me. “It’s his fault.
You know it is! I left Rogan so he would be safe. Now everyone is telling me
he’s dead. If he isn’t dead and that’s some other Rogan, tell me. If it
is
Rogan,
it’s Bruce’s fault, so just leave me alone.” I take a breath and wait for her
answer. I’ll stop hitting him if someone just tells me it isn’t real;
otherwise, I may keep going until he’s as dead as my Rogan.

“Honey, that is Rogan, but Bruce didn’t kill him.
Bruce did everything he could to keep him safe. We don’t know what has
happened; maybe it was a random crime that has nothing to do with any of this.”

“Really, mom? Are you serious right now? How many murders
do we have? Luke and his mom was the first since I’ve been alive, so are you
really going to try to tell me this is a chance killing? That it has nothing to
do with the psycho who’s stalking me, the same one who all but told me to ditch
Rogan?”

I wait expectantly. There’s nothing she can say that
will take this away. If this is all true, there’s nothing anyone can say to
make this better.

Nothing.

Nothing.

That’s what’s left, nothing. I have nothing. My soul
mate is dead. He’s . . . he’s . . . Oh I can’t say it again. I won’t say it. I
want to go to sleep. I just need to go to sleep and wake up from this hell.