Page 41 of Holden

“She was a reporter, a stringer for the New York Times, who covered the story of a mass murderer. Quite a grizzly tale about a man who hid the bodies of his victims in his attic.”

My nose twitches with disgust. “I’m not sure how that’s relevant to me.”

“While covering the story,” Professor Pritchard goes on, ignoring my interruption. I stare at the cover of the book to mask my growing confusion. “She developed a relationship with the murderer. Not a romance, per se, but more of an obsession. It began when she was interviewing him…”

My throat goes dry. Does he know about my romantic relationship with Holden? What correlations is he trying to make?

“…And then progressed to weekly visits to his prison cell. During the process, she lost everything. Her husband, her house, her friends… But as it turns out, Miss Rowe’s obsession with this killer wasn’t about these murders alone—she was using the story to learn some things about herself, to try and deal with the tragedy of her own past, which began with an abusive mother and then continued into adulthood, when she was raped, among some other terrible things.”

I turn the book over and stare at Hannah Rowe’s face. She doesn’t look like a woman whose been through trauma. But isn’t that how we cope? Masking our true self with the illusion of composure? Pretending to be someone—something—we aren’t?

“Miss Rowe took all of those experiences and turned her personal story into quite a fascinating memoir,” Professor Pritchard says. I open the book and see that the author has inscribed a personal message to him, thanking him for his guidance, and also for the numerous times he’s answered interview questions for her articles in the Times.

“Are you suggesting I write a memoir?”

The idea is preposterous. My mother’s likely objections aside, I’m not a writer. Even if I could cobble together my emotions, lay out the facts, and try to find some kind of theme, I doubt anyone would read it.

“You’re a strong writer,” Professor Pritchard says. “Your assignments are always cohesive, well put together, and quite factual, without being boring. I believe your personal account of this decade-old tragedy would shed some light on the situation. It could help not only you…but the victims of your father’s crimes, as well. Isn’t that what you want?”

“I do,” I say, with hesitation. “But, I don’t know if this is the right route. Where would I even begin.”

Professor Pritchard stands, the universal symbol of “dismissal” and extends his hand. “Give it some thought, Chelsea. Take the book. Read it. Maybe it will help with your decision.”

I tuck the book under my arm. “Thank you, Professor. I’m not sure where I will go from here, but I appreciate your support. I’ll think about it.”

Chapter 22

As it turns out, it’s all I think about.

I spend the next two days pouring through Hannah Rowe’s memoir, taking note of how she breaks up the chapters, the kind of information she shares, but more than that, how closely our stories mirror each other in ways I don’t expect.

I get lost in her emotion, and her words, though not truly directed at me, offer healing.

At night, I tell Lindsay about each scene, marveling at how the author has put herself in such a vulnerable position, and also at how cleanly she has laid out the facts. Professor Pritchard is right in that the story isn’t really about the murderer and his victims—the press has already covered so much of that—but more about healing.

It twigs something in me, and by the time I’ve finished the book, I’ve also begun jotting down notes about my own childhood. Those scribbles in my notebook become and outline, and by the weekend, I’ve carved out a first chapter that doesn’t sound like complete drivel.

“You’re really doing this?” Lindsay says, lifting her wine glass to her lips.

I take a sip of chardonnay, followed by a deep breath. “It kind of feels like the right thing to do, you know?” Professor Pritchard’s words keep replaying in my mind, and if nothing else, the writing is therapeutic, even if no one ever sees it. And it helps me not stare at my phone, willing Holden to make contact.

“I can’t imagine how hard it must be to dredge up all that stuff from the past,” Lindsay says.

“That’s just it—I’m not dredging anything up,” I say. “Because I’ve never buried it. I’ve been living with it every day since Mom and I left Maine. Yes, we ran from the place where it all happened, but you can’t just leave the memory of it all behind. In every town we lived, it was still there, hovering over us like a black cloud. Maybe this will finally get rid of it.”

Lindsay takes a bite of cheese, chewing thoughtfully. “Will you include your relationship with Holden?”

My heartbeat stutters. There are gaps in my outline where Holden and I’s story should go. He’s so much a part of this—not just as my father’s victim, but of my healing—that it isn’t right to exclude him. And yet, I lost all access to him when he found out I lied.

“I’m still making decisions,” I say. “One page at a time, I guess.”

And that’s how I approach it, one page, one scene, one memory at a time, crafting the words and sentences to become paragraphs and chapters. I write every evening for two weeks straight. The story unfurls from me with almost no prodding.

When I close my eyes, I can see each moment of my life through a new lens. The focus shifts from my father, to me, and I begin to understand how I missed so many clues about my father’s character. The more I share about him, the more I get how different we are, how unlike him I am.

Holden’s description of him still hurts—regardless of what he’s done, I can’t wrap my head around “monster”—but I know I’m not my father.

I write about running.