I am running at a good, hard pace, listening to a murder podcast. This one is the Delphi Murders — two girls, 13 and 14 years old, murdered in broad daylight this past Valentine's Day, in a woodland area in Delphi, Indiana. Whatever the killer did to them, it's so horrible and unique that authorities won't even say how the girls died. It would reveal too much about the killer's 'signature'.
One of those brilliant, gutsy, soon-to-be-dead girls took video of their killer. His voice, his full body as he walked towards them. Can you imagine the bravery of that child, to realize something was off, to get out her phone? She did everything right. In a world where women get blamed for their own assaults all the time — out too late, wearing a skirt, being drunk, not running, being alone, not fighting back, fighting back so they get killed instead of just raped — these girls were unimpeachable. One of them used that phone and caught her own killer red-handed in the act.
I think about that so completely, that when I look up, I'm at the end of my jog and I haven't thought a bit about how sweaty and out of breath I am, a blister rising on my big toe where the sneaker rubs.
Those two girls were on a hiking trail known mostly to locals, in a town nobody would visit unless they had reason to be there, on a day school should've been in session, but had been canceled. Their abductor made them cross a cold February river to the kill spot, secluded but close to a public path. Who but a local would know the river was shallow enough to cross, not so fast it would sweep them away? Who would know school was out, that kids would be out, but most parents still required to work?
In a town of less than 3,000 people, her video was all over the news: a sample of his voice, the movement of his body, surely recognizable to someone in a town so small. But it's been eight months, and no arrests.
It boils me, toughening my internal organs the way soft turkey innards go into a pot for Thanksgiving gravy, cooked until they become rubbery and unchewable for hours, until finally, they give up whatever held them so strong, and dissolve. That is me; I will never go back to being soft and silken. I will resist until the bonds that make me finally break down into nothingness.
Someone in that town must recognize his videoed face, his voice, his jacket, his familiar hunting ground. Same as I know my husband's gait from across the park — the way his head tilts slightly to the left as he walks, the shuffle of his legs.
My jog should be over — 4.5 miles is enough for one day — but I loop back, retracing my steps, running from facts I can't escape: Someone in that town recognizes their father, or their husband, or their son in that video. Perhaps their mind cannot turn to what he must've done to those girls. It is too horrible and their reasoning shorts out. And yet, they protect him.
Here is the thought I am running away from: not just one person. I bet several people know, in their secret hearts, the man on that video. They tell themselves John from the office couldn't be a killer. They couldn't even do John the disservice of saying it out loud. John would never escape the stigma of being falsely accused as a child killer.
You could ruin a man's reputation with stories like that.
My uncle is in every family Christmas picture from the time I was ten to the time I was 26, child molester's grin on his face, sitting thigh-to-thigh with my aunt, drinking eggnog with my father, all of us in our horrid, itchy Christmas sweaters.
My uncle was the first, but others came later — boys who knew exactly where the line lay, like that childhood game in the back seat of the car, where your brother would stick a finger so close to your eye it might brush your eyelashes if you blinked, but not, as the rules said, touching you.
And then of course, after endless complaints to the front seat, and the self-defense smacks that got you yelled at, and your tired mother telling you both to shut up... touching you, anyway.
Those boys who knew how to get away with it grew up all around me; high school and then college friends who got raped on dates (You went willingly to his dorm room/car/park to make out? You were drunk at a party and he walked you home? That sounds like a case of miscommunication. Did he buy you dinner? Was it late at night? You were wearing a crop top? You smiled at him? You were afraid to say no? You were afraid to say no more than once? You just lay there? Where are your bruises? Why didn't you scream? Why didn't you overpower him and run away? Why didn't you get a rape kit right away? Could it be you only regret it after the fact? Are you sure you accurately recall who it was? Maybe something happened, but not with the boy you've accused? Maybe this is all a big misunderstanding.) And of those girls, only two went to the campus police, who in turn, did not report their rapes to actual police (This is an internal matter, this is a disciplinary issue. You would not want to destroy both your lives over an accusation that cannot be verified by anyone else. This is not a prosecutable case. This will damage the school's reputation. This will reflect poorly on both of you. We'd prefer it if you let us handle it internally. We will have a disciplinary meeting. We will sort this out, but be aware that you may also be penalized for breaking school rules if that's what the committee finds.)
My phone chimes, loud in my earpiece, and I gasp, stumbling out of my pace. Dan. My stupid iPhone X only gives me the options of ANSWER, REMIND ME, or SEND TO MESSAGE, but no button to end the call, and the line trills. I rip the earpiece out.
Without it in place, I hear someone coming up fast behind me. I whirl around.
"Why didn't you answer?" Dan grins, out of breath. He's dressed halfway between lounge lizard and sports fanatic, with mesh basketball pants and a Raiders sweatshirt, his phone idly in one hand, the small green phone button still lit.
"I told you not to call me. Ever."
Old Me would've backed away, smiled, deflected, both of us laughing at how he's clearly tried to scare me with this rush tactic. I step too close into his body space, leading with my forehead, angry and snarling. He puts his hands up in mock surrender.
"Relax. Just delete it off your phone. He'll never see."
"You don't know shit about what he sees."
A shimmer of anger behind his eyes. I have not relaxed, as instructed. I have not been charmed by his games. I try to smile now, weak and wobbly. Not because I am afraid, although I am, but because I need him to relax, to not overthink me, to not suspect what I am going to do to him. I pass off a breathless laugh as if I've belatedly remembered my place.
"Look, I'm asking you nicely," I plead. "You'll ruin my marriage."
There, give him all the power, all the leverage. I am at his mercy! Some part of him, I suspect, would quite enjoy the ego boost of ruining someone else's marriage. But I can hardly blame him for having evil intent, considering my plans for the rest of his life.
"Hey, I don't want to hurt anybody." He lifts his arms like I am holding him hostage. "I just needed to see you. You run by my house every day, and you don't answer my calls. I mean, did I read this whole thing wrong, or what?"
He transforms into a small boy, disappointed at opening the last Christmas present and not finding The One Thing He Hoped For.
My response has been programmed into me since I was old enough to understand I am female: I led him on. I am playing hard to get. I am being deceptive.
"No, I just... I don't know." I reach halfheartedly out, not touching him. A gesture of comfort. Inside, I'm ice water. I don't jog by his house. The closest I get is the main street two blocks from him. How did he find me? Shit, shit, shit. "OK, look, I'll get another phone. I want to talk to you, too."
He glances up at me from his downcast expression, hopeful. I want to punch him right in his fucking pouty mouth.
"You really came here to talk to me?" I ask, trying to reel him back in.
I am leading him on. I want him to keep coming on to me. I am being deceptive. My stomach squeezes too hard and I swallow back curdled milk acid with hints of Hazelnut nondairy creamer.
"Well, you know, I gotta get some exercise." Dan's face goes completely pink and he sniffs, looking around as if worried someone might catch him in this moment of vulnerability. His eyes dart to mine, hold for a moment, and he smiles shyly. "And yeah, to see you. So hey," he adds, a little louder, posture going professional in a way that makes me sure someone has spotted us. "I gotta go. But it was nice seeing you. Call me, K?"
Who's seen us?
I force myself not to turn and look as Dan backs up and walks away. A guilty glance will ruin us. So I wave goodbye, and by the time it's safe to casually surveil the area for whatever, or whoever spooked him, Dan is gone.