Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 85414 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 427(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85414 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 427(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
“Griffin is labelled as the Duct Tape Killer because he abducted his victims and suffocated them using silver duct tape for long periods of time that ranged from several hours to a day before he buried them behind his cabin. His daughter, sixteen years old at the time, was the one who reported seeing her father dragging a corpse out of their hunting cabin. The trial was messy and had a lot of public attention, both inside and outside of Great Britain.” The screen flashes again to show Dad during his recent interview. “A few weeks ago, Griffin conducted an interview for the first time and accused his daughter of being an accomplice. He claims the only reason the police caught him was due to being betrayed by his partner in crime.
“The Crown Prosecution Service announced that it will re-open an investigation in regards of Clarissa Griffin, who also happens to be the only alleged witness of Maxim Griffin’s crimes. The serial killer’s daughter should be twenty-seven now. In an exclusive statement, her father’s solicitor, Stephan Wayne, says that she has adopted a new identity and currently lives in London. It’s notable to mention that Clarissa disappeared right after the sentencing of her father and escaped the Witness Protection Program.” A headshot of me from eleven years ago appears on the screen. Even though it’s old, if anyone looks at it hard enough, they’ll recognise me. “The question remains. A victim or an assailant?”
My legs shake, unable to carry me as the screen switches to a statement made by the solicitor, Stephan.
I try to focus, but the world is closing in on me and all I can hear is the beeping in my ears and the sinking of my heart.
The cashier’s attention shifts to me, and I jerk back. God. They’ll recognise me. The nightmare will start all over again.
“May I help you, Miss?” The cashier watches me closely.
I lower my head as Dad’s voice filters from the TV. “In the time I spent in confinement, I started believing in justice, its rules, and how it should be applied. I love my daughter, but she needs to pay for what she’s done. Justice, Clarissa. I taught you that.”
If someone stabs you once, stab them back ten times.
That’s what he taught me. Those were the exact words my father said to six-year-old me when I came crying about a girl who stole my pens at school. He kept repeating them until they became my mantra.
The cashier is still staring at me, but before he can recognise me, I spin around and run out of the small store. They’ll know who I am now, and everything will start again.
The name-calling, the trials, the poor police treatment, the accusatory looks.
Everything.
A hand grabs me by the arm and I yelp, coming to a screeching halt.
Ethan.
His brows scrunch. “Are you okay?”
No. Absolutely not.
He holds my phone that I left in the car, on which there are five missed calls.
“Jonathan has been calling nonstop.” His gaze drifts behind me. “Also, why is everyone staring at you?”
No, no…
Agnus barges outside and kind of pushes me towards the car.
“What’s going on?” Ethan asks, but he follows anyway.
“She needs to get out of the public eye.” Agnus’s features remain steady. “Now.”
Ethan and I are both inside when the car revs its engine in the street. Then Elsa’s father asks, “Are you going to elaborate, Agnus?”
“She’s part of a public trial.”
Again. I’m part of a public trial again.
I barely survived the first one. I can’t go through that nightmare all over again.
18
Aurora
I’m shaking by the time the car stops. I have no clue about the destination. All I know is that I should stay far away from that place, those people.
From everything.
Ethan didn’t try to talk to me, and I’m glad for that. I wouldn’t have been able to converse with him even if my life depended on it.
I’m back to being that teenage girl who sat in a dark corner in the safe houses the police took me to. I pulled my knees to my chest and trembled all night, unable to rid the victims’ faces from my mind.
At every trial, their families brought their happy pictures, their toddler albums, their graduation memories — all the things that made them human.
They thrust them in my face and demanded I see how their lives were stolen and could never be retrieved.
In that dark corner, I prayed for their souls. I even asked for forgiveness on Dad’s behalf, but with time, I stopped everything altogether.
I think a part of me died during those excruciatingly long weeks. With every trial, every escape from the media, and every look in Dad’s desolate eyes, pieces of my soul slowly chipped, then scattered.
For eleven years, I’ve been trying to gather them back together again, and just when I thought I finally could, the nightmare rushes back in.