Finally, the verdict came in. The forensic evidence was enough: Marco was found guilty of first degree murder. Cameras flashed in my face as the words were delivered—the journalists were probably expecting tears and smiles at justice being delivered but they got none of that.

All they got was the numb expression of a girl who had stopped feeling. From the pictures, you might have thought I’d been the one convicted. Even after the sentence of life in prison was delivered and everything was finally over, I felt nothing. My life had been damaged by an act so senseless lawyers couldn’t even come up with a bad reason for why the murderer did it. All I could do was stare into space.

And sit. After the verdict I did a lot of sitting and staring into space. When the anguish became too much, I’d curl into a ball on my bed and lay there for hours until I fell asleep from exhaustion.

Marco’s letter was bringing it all back. Just when I was finally beginning to feel again, my mother’s murderer had forced his way back into my life—for who knows what reason—making me numb to the world again.

Laying on my bed, I did my best to steady my breathing. The letter hadn’t mentioned my father. Had news gotten back to Marco about Dad’s suicide? Was he aware of just how much damage he’d done? That his pointless action had driven a good man to kill himself?

I managed enough strength to pick up the offending letter, ball it up, and throw it in the trash. The words “With much love, Marco” echoed through my head. How dare he write that he loved me? He had no right to pretend he had any connection with anyone.

There was no way I was writing him back. Although Dr. Schwartz had told me that I needed to forgive him if I was ever going to completely move on, I couldn’t. Not yet. He wouldn’t even take responsibility for what happened. He was sorry “for the pain of my family”—not the pain he had caused.

It wasn’t that I wanted something bad to happen to Marco. I just wanted to erase him from my life. I thought I’d managed to shut the closet door on my skeletons but one had managed to escape. I propped myself up and got under the covers of my bed, burying my face in my pillow. But even under the covers, I still felt cold.

Chapter Twenty-two

THE FALL

“Lorrie, get up! You can’t skip today. We have an exam!”

Daniela’s muffled yelling stirred me from a dreamless sleep. I reached over to my night stand and looked at the time on my phone: 8:00 AM. I had slept a long time, but I still felt exhausted. What the hell happened? What day was it? Why didn’t my cell phone alarm go off?

My friend burst into my room, making me realize I neglected to lock the door. “Your alarm was going off forever. Are you feeling okay? I wasn’t even sure you were here last night until I heard your phone beeping.”

I was aware of her words but couldn’t form a response. It felt like my jaw was glued shut. Something bad had happened. There was a reason I was supposed to be unhappy that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Something in the back of my mind.

The letter.

My stepfather had sent me a letter begging forgiveness. Slowly, it came back to me: Marco, the letter, the murder, his dead eyes in the courtroom when he’d been sentenced. I had fallen asleep after I’d read it.

Daniela was staring at me, confusion on her face. “Lorrie, wake up! What’s wrong? You’re white as a ghost.”

I threw my covers off and sat up, rubbing my eyes. “Go on, I’ll be there,” I said quietly. I scanned my room, thinking of what I wanted to wear.

My friend watched me for another minute, then spun and left. I sighed as I watched her hurry back to her room to finish getting ready. As I absentmindedly packed my backpack, dropping books and papers in the process, I realized this exam was going to be a disaster.

The walk to the exam had been a daze. It felt like my head was a balloon loosely attached to the rest of my body. The sensation was familiar—I’d felt the same way when Dad told me with tears in his eyes that Mom passed away.

Daniela and I made our way through the crowded aisles of the auditorium, until we finally found two empty seats. One of the teacher’s assistants handed us test packets. Moments later, the professor at the front of the auditorium explained the exam was scantron multiple choice; eighty minutes for a forty question test.

I breathed a sigh of relief when I heard the exam would be multiple choice, figuring it wouldn’t be too bad.

But I did not anticipate using every ounce of concentration just to focus my eyes enough that I could bubble in the letters of my name. Every thought that flickered through my brain felt like it was traveling through mud. Holding my pencil correctly took effort. My muscles did not want to listen to what my brain was trying to make them do.

I stared at my test blankly:

What anxiety disorder—characterized by its link to one or more specific events—is said to affect over 6% of women in the United States at some point in their lives?

The words seemed to pass in and out of my mind without processing. I closed my eyes and focused on my breathing, trying to follow the technique Dr. Schwartz had taught me to manage my anxiety.

Gradually, I became aware of being kicked in the shin. I opened my eyes and turned to see the coffee brown eyes and receding hairline of my stepfather, Marco.

My heart slammed into my chest, knocking the breath out of me.

I blinked. It wasn’t Marco. It was Daniela, and she was looking at me out of the corner of her eye suspiciously. I turned to study her. What did she want? How long had she been watching me? As I tried to put together the pieces, there was a cough at the front of the classroom.

Startled, I nearly jumped out of my seat. Did Muller think I was cheating? I looked at the front of the classroom and saw he was sitting at the table, reading a newspaper like he always did during exams. Nobody was looking at me. I had overreacted.

My heart still pounding, I went back to my test and realized I had lost my pencil. It must have flown out of my hand in my panic. I looked at the floor and saw it had rolled under the feet of the girl in the row in front of me. Why had I ignored Daniela’s advice to bring an extra? God, this sucks.

I stared at my fallen writing utensil in despair, knowing it was too far away to reach it with my foot. Suddenly, I felt a kick at my shin again. I turned my head and saw a pencil on the table. Daniela met my eyes briefly, then went back to her test. I smiled at her, but she was already focusing on her exam. That girl wasn’t letting anything get in the way of an A in this class.

My case was different. I looked at the exam and tried to answer the first question. The words might as well have been in a different language. The sound of a metal chair grating against the floor from the front of the room caused me to jump again.

After an hour of futilely reading and rereading the first damn question, I realized that it was hopeless. I bubbled in C for every question just so I’d have something, then struggled through the rest of the exam period trying to find some question that I had a clue on. It didn’t work. I had studied for this exam the previous day, but even understanding the questions was too much to handle at the moment.

After the exam ended, I told Daniela I wasn’t feeling well after all. She looked at me quizzically, but nodded and let me go without asking any questions. I headed back to my dorm and to the comfort of my bed. As I slid miserably under the covers, I thought about what was happening. Why had he picked now to contact me? Why not when I was taking time off school? How had he found my address, anyway?