Without a Trace Read online

  “Well, now we can at least identify one of his victims. I wish Rachel Coffey had left a message, too,” Cummings sighed.

  “Let’s go arrest him and see what he has to say about this,” I said, darting out of the bathroom before they could see my eyes watering.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  6 months earlier

  The Mother

  NOVA

  When I learned what the site was really for, my face burned with shame.

  If I logged in with only my username and password, the site was a normal knitting club that featured members’ instructional videos, collages of knitting projects, and page after sunny page of patterns that you could use to knit the scarf of your dreams. But when I used my member code I’d received during registration, it pulled up another version of the site—like the “upside-down” of knitting. There were knitting images and advertisements on the borders, but that’s not what the site was for. It was an “online shelter”, a means of support for victims of domestic violence. Former survivors helping victims leave their current abusers, or sometimes, they just offered a nonjudgmental ear. There was information about actual, real-life shelters, and with the click of a button, I could join a waiting list for a discrete shelter in my state.

  Women supporting women, and there were men too. But not just support. Sometimes they saved each other, too. Like Roberta, for instance. One night, Roberta’s husband turned more violent than usual. She sent her mentor a safe word which apparently meant “call police now”, and when they got there, she had a gunshot wound. They took her husband to jail and they saved Roberta’s life just in time. Now Roberta was one of the mentors and she liked sharing her story.

  The first time I learned what the site really was, I felt humiliated, angry and scared. If Rachel knows, then who else does? Does my family suspect? And, who the hell does she think she is? What if Martin finds out? He’ll kill me; he might even kill Rachel.

  I closed the app and it stayed that way for a couple months. Then one day, after Martin screamed at me for letting Lily get up too early and threatened to shut her up himself, I logged back in. I’d told myself that I didn’t even remember my “special code”. But my fingers remembered as I punched in the letters, and I sat on my bed, staring at the menu screen while Martin slept less than a few inches from me.

  There were safeguards in place, like the app would shut itself off if you were idle for longer than sixty seconds, which honestly, was a pain in the ass most of the time. And if you clicked the exclamation point five times, the app would lock you out until you called to restore your account. It was a safe place, or at least it was designed to be.

  That first night on the site, and for many nights after, I lurked. I read the other members’ posts—some of them had successfully escaped their abusers and some had decided to stay. You could comment on the posts, and I was shocked to see that no one ever posted anything judgmental. Maybe there was an admin who screened the comments for nastiness, but I liked to think the “club” was so tight-knit (pun intended) that we respected each other’s decisions and knew, personally, that pushing never helped a woman leave. We were, as corny as it sounded, learning to “stitch” ourselves back together, one thread at a time.

  There were articles and resources. Quizzes and lists to help identify signs of abuse. Personal online journals to document incidents and upload photos, if needed.

  I found myself clicking on it most afternoons while Lily ate lunch or watched cartoons. I was scared to post anything or make a comment. Scared of leaving some sort of footprint on the world and scared of being judged, even though these women didn’t seem like the judge-y type.

  I finally filled out my profile some and added a user pic. I even typed out a big long post about my father and Martin, but then I deleted it before I clicked “post”. Two days after that, when I logged on, there was a message in my inbox.

  I dreaded reading whatever message awaited me, and I put off reading it for hours. But then, finally, I realized it was from one of the members. The name on the account was simply Al, with a profile pic like most other profile pics on the site: not a personal photo. It was a stack of books with a rose on top. I’d seen Al a few times before, commenting on others’ posts. What could this person possibly want from me? Taking a deep breath, I clicked on the message.

  Al: I like your profile pic. Northanger Abbey is one of my favorite Jane Austen novels. There’s this line I like: “There is nothing I would not do for those who are really my friends. I have no notion of loving people by halves, it is not my nature.”

  I wasn’t sure what to say, but it made me smile. A few days later, I responded.

  Me: Jane Austen is great, but lately I’ve been reading more modern stuff. Have you heard of the Twilight series? I thought I’d hate them, but they’re really good. Hold on, let me go find one so I can tell you the author’s name.

  Al: !! You don’t get out much do you?