Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 116708 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 584(@200wpm)___ 467(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116708 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 584(@200wpm)___ 467(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
However, the survivors did.
Each and every one of them deserved a voice—a testimony of their strength and resilience. Truett wasn’t the only hero in the mall that day. There were dozens of stories of strangers banding together, putting their own lives at risk for one another. Even those who hadn’t been able to be a hero for anyone other than themselves faced a different kind of hell on Earth in the aftermath of an event like that. Those were the people who deserved a platform.
With zero connections other than his name and the lore behind it, Truett was able to find a producer we felt we could trust in less than a week. Together, we focused on making a documentary with the survivors who were ready to have their stories told, never once bombarding those who weren’t.
When word got out that the mysterious Truett West was involved in the project, it took on a life of its own. So many people came forward with experiences they’d never felt comfortable sharing before. Even billionaire and public figure Caven Hunt and his wife broke their silence for the first time, knowing Truett would never allow their story to be treated with anything other than respect.
By the time it was all said and done, the murderer’s name was never mentioned, and Survivors: The True Heroes of Watersedge ended up being seven hour-long episodes—one for each day leading up to the release of Folly’s film—allowing us to steal any possible momentum or shock value he might have had.
We’d already watched all the episodes—some more difficult than others, especially our own. But as the button on the streaming service changed from “Coming Soon” to “Watch Now,” there was pride in knowing we got to have the final say.
Still in his lap, I nestled even deeper into Truett’s chest as he appeared on screen, sitting in the very chair we were currently in. His voice was deep and resolute as he talked about mental health, emphasizing how no one can do it alone.
Overwhelmed by his strength as he spoke through the raw emotion that had destroyed us, a single tear rolled down my cheek. My emotions never lost on him, he used the pad of his thumb to wipe it away, his other arm flexing to keep me close to his chest.
On the screen, Truett drew in a deep breath. “Life after tragedy is about surviving, healing, and moving forward. Everyone has a story, and this is ours.”
More tears escaped as I stared at the man on the TV while the real-life version of him held me in his arms. I’d never been more proud to call him my husband.
I tipped my head back so that I could peer into his eyes, whispering, “This is our future, isn’t it?”
He pressed his lips to my forehead, lingering for a moment. “You’ve always been my future, Gwen. But yeah, forever starts today.”
I smiled as I let my lids drift closed, the sound of his voice and the warmth of his embrace enveloping me. We’d come a long way, and we still had a long way to go, but the future—our future—had never been brighter.
“I love you, True.”
“I love you too. Forever.”
THE END
Meet Caven Hunt and his story of survival inside The Watersedge Mall, Written With Regret.
Preview of Written With Regret
“Squeeze together,” my sister ordered from a few yards away. She was holding the small disposable camera I’d gotten for my eighth birthday up to her eye.
It wasn’t exactly what I’d meant when I’d asked my parents for a camera. But that hadn’t stopped me from taking thirty-five sure-to-be-incredible pictures of my friends, my school, our iguana Herman, and even a few sneaky shots of third-grade heartthrob Brad Harris.
I’d always loved photography—or at least I’d loved what I could do with my mom’s old thirty-five mm. I didn’t know much about anything else. I’d been begging for a digital camera like the ones I’d seen at the electronics store, but it was never going to happen. My parents were old school to the core. If they hadn’t had it growing up, we weren’t getting it, either. And considering that our grandparents had been the original old-school parents, this meant no TV, no computers, and no cell phones. Short of a horse and buggy, we were as close to Amish as you could find in Watersedge, New Jersey—a sleepy suburb of New York City.
My father owned a bakery off Times Square, but according to him, the dangerous city was no place to raise a family. I didn’t figure that the dozens of young children we saw on the occasional Saturday picnic in Central Park would agree, but there had been no convincing my parents otherwise.
My dad put his arms around my mom and me and curled us into his sides. “I’m pretty sure this is as close as we can get without melding into one big Banks-family monster.”