be worthy of even an inch of copy space in the local papers and she dropped out of mention all together.
In the weeks following the broadcast, it wasn’t visions of the men who violated me or the terror-stricken expressions on my friends’ faces that haunted me.
It was her face, those terrified eyes of the nameless woman.
She consumed my thoughts.
I wanted to know who she was and how she ended up in that house.
I found her name fairly quickly - it was in the police report. Rebecca Harvey. I found clues about her life - from her Myspace mainly, but she’d seemed like a happy, normal young woman. Not someone you’d expect to find in a place like that. But as I dug deeper, I found more. Her father was an eight-time felon serving a life sentence. Her mother was listed a missing person and had been since the early 90’s.
On paper, Rebecca and I couldn’t have been more different.
Except in one frightening and fundamental way.
I too, could only be distinguished by my relationship to other people. If I had died in that house, my footnote on history would be full of other people’s accomplishments and misdeeds.
I was Remi’s twin, Tina’s daughter, Liam’s granddaughter.
It was like living on the dark side of the moon - invisible, predictable, not worthy of distinction.
In a stroke of genius, I figured out how to save us both from obscurity. With my conviction in place, I went to my two best friends and asked them to take a leap of faith in me.
We were all desperate to find a way to get back some of what was stolen from us that night. And, they both said yes.
We scrapped our individual submissions for the editor position and created a feature called “Herstory” that we would collaborate on under the byline “The Jezebels.”
We would focus on misunderstood, forgotten women in popular culture and traditional history.
We spent weeks preparing our pitch. We were buzzing with excitement the whole time. Working together didn’t just save our friendship, it gave us all a sense of control and purpose.
We felt like revolutionaries - righting past wrongs, giving credit for stolen achievements, adding nuance, and giving a voice to women who had silenced or erased from moments in history that they helped usher forward.
We were going to change the world and knock the editorial staff off their feet.
They rejected our submission.
But we weren’t daunted. They just weren’t ready for us.
We started a blog with the same mission. When we launched The Jezebels, our first story was about women who’d been made accomplices simply because they shared a bed with a criminal.
It gained enough traction to build a following and healed our fractured friendship. We even got matching tattoos that read Jezebel on our lower backs. It didn’t become the cultural zeitgeist we hoped it would.
Practical things like careers, and relationships intruded and by the time we graduated it had become our collective labor of love.
When Rebecca contacted us a few months ago and said it was the blog that helped her find us, it became my most bitter regret.
Under the cloak of darkness, the deserted lobby of the building my grandfather built almost 50 years ago looks like a house of horrors. The plants and light fixtures cast grotesque shadows that crisscross the large ceramic tiled floor. But I’ve got real shadows and fears to fight. My heart seems to beat harder with every step I take toward the door marked “Strictly Forbidden.”
My grandfather, my mother, my brothers and I are the only people who have a copy of the master that unlocks it. That same key gives us access to every floor and office in the Wilde World’s headquarters. If my grandfather finds out that I used it to get my hands on evidence that could incriminate his long time and most trusted employee, he’ll be furious.
But Matty and Jack aren’t just my friends. We walked through fire together. We survived it together. And we wouldn’t have been there if I hadn’t led them there. I owe them this.
With that final thought spurring me forward, I hold my breath and say a silent prayer of thanks when the light on the access panel turns green.
I step onto the elevator that is reserved for the exclusive use of my grandfather.
My heart is in my throat by the time the doors open on the 40th floor.
The quiet is eerie. Normally, it’s buzzing with people who are either waiting to see my grandfather or working