Before She Was Found - Heather Gudenkauf Page 0,45

who both bobbed their heads in agreement.

“Cora, the only way someone will read your journal is if you want them to.” I made a mental note to ensure that my next meeting with Cora included just the two of us. Older siblings often tried to speak for the younger brother or sister but if I was going to get a sense of what Cora was really feeling I was going to have to get her to speak for herself.

“Do you have anything you’d like me to know right now, Cora? Anything you’d like to tell me?” Though someone tried to clean her up, the smell of iodine and blood permeated what remained of Cora’s hair. Her breath was stale and coppery.

Cora’s unmarred eye blurred with tears. “I didn’t die,” she whispered, revealing the gaps in her teeth where her attacker had knocked them out. “I’m still here.”

Case #92-10945

Conversation dated November 18, 2017,

via DarkestDoor

Corareef12:

JW44, I have a few more questions. Where did you go after you left Pitch?

Corareef12:

If you are really Joseph Wither, how can you still be alive? Wouldn’t you be really old?

4leafclover:

I don’t think he’s coming back and that’s a good thing. You really need to be careful in these chat rooms. You just never know who you are talking to.

Thomas Petit

Tuesday, April 17, 2018

Now, Thomas stands outside Jordyn’s bedroom door and listens. The boys, when they were upset, would storm out of the house and disappear for two or three hours but would always come home when their stomachs began to growl.

A part of him wants to barge in and yank Jordyn right out of bed and another part of him wants to just let her sleep. Jordyn didn’t come down for dinner last night even though she hadn’t eaten any lunch. Thomas tried to imagine what Tess would do in this situation. Probably bring her something to eat, but Thomas thought that if Jordyn got hungry enough she would come out on her own.

Jordyn didn’t come out, at least not that Thomas knew. Before he went to bed last night, Thomas stood in this exact same spot and listened. Through the heavy oak door, he was sure he heard his granddaughter crying, but instead of going to Jordyn and trying to comfort her, he lumbered off to his own bedroom.

“Jordyn,” he finally calls out, not able to stand it anymore. “Jordyn, open this door right now.” No answer. “Jordyn Ann Petit, if you don’t open the door, I swear to God I will take it off its hinges.” Still no answer.

Ridiculous, Thomas thinks to himself. Jordyn’s meteoric moods were sucking the air out of the house.

“I’m going to get a screwdriver!” he says through the door. When there is still no reply, Thomas knows there is no turning back. The door is going.

With newly found energy he moves down the steps at a speed he hasn’t known in years. By the time he makes it to the kitchen and reaches the door that leads to the basement where all the tools are stored his heart is racing. He leans against the door frame as he collects snatches of air in short, sharp breaths.

When did he get so old? Why was everything so difficult? When he closes his eyes, Thomas still pictures himself as the strong young man who could heft kegs from the cooler with ease. He could work eighteen hours at the bar, sleep for six and then start all over again. Where had that man gone?

The stairs down to the basement are rickety at best and Thomas decides the search for a screwdriver isn’t worth a second broken hip in the family. Instead he limps across the kitchen and pulls open the wide, deep cabinet drawer that holds an olio of odds and ends.

His fingers rummage past a crescent wrench, a few wayward screws, a large whisk, tongs and ladles. He finally locates a screwdriver and turns to make the trek back up the stairs to Jordyn’s room but swivels back to the drawer. He stares down at the jumble. Some items are missing, though he can’t quite put his finger on what. He pushes the drawer closed and, at a much slower speed, begins the journey back upstairs.

By the time Thomas reaches the top of the steps, perspiration stains have bloomed beneath his armpits and at his neckline. His hand slick with sweat loses his grip on the screwdriver and it tumbles down the stairs, landing on the hardwood floor with a