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“I don’t believe Julianne possessed a conscience to forgive. It’s not in her nature to ask anyone for forgiveness unless it served her in some way. I want to leave her in my past. If that means I must forgive her for my mental health, then sure. But she has no power over me anymore. She’s nothing.”
It’s like an epiphany.
“What about you, Lori and Ken? Jack? Do you forgive Julianne?”
“Never,” Dad responds.
“Never,” Mom responds.
“No, never,” Jack responds.
When we leave the studio, the sun seems to shine brighter than before. This interview proved more cathartic than I realized. I’m glad I did it, it gives me closure.
* * *
When we board the plane back to Minnesota, it gives me time to think. I watch out the window as the plane’s wings cut through the wispy vapors. Julianne doesn’t have control over me or how I see myself. My negative thoughts were always in her voice, not mine. I am still here, still living. She’s dead and gone. She was a horrible person, so why would I care about what she thought of me? But I had been letting her disapproval fester in me without realizing it.
Everything that told me I was damaged, broken, and unfit for love wasn’t true. My self-doubt was poisoning me, and I never stopped feeding myself those messages. Just because Julianne didn’t love me, doesn’t mean I’m not lovable. My parents love me. Jack loves me. Audrey and Maddie love me. Micky loves me. And at one time, Lonan loved me, and maybe he still does.
For most of my life, I’ve believed I’m not worthy of someone caring about me the way Lonan did. He laid it out for me, and in return, I said, “No thanks, I’m good.” Not only that, but he’s probably struggled with the same unworthiness, and I’ve gone and reinforced it. Even after he said he loved me to my face, I rejected him when all I truly wanted was to allow myself to give him that same love back.
Evidence Item #181–c
Submitting Agent: Tim Rollins
Case Number: NF-2000-PR-0856478
Item #: 181–c
Description of Enclosed Evidence: Journal, 2022
Victim’s Full Name: Bridget Lynn Hayes
Suspect’s Full Name: Julianne Katheryn Fournier
September 23, 2022
They refuse to see this as a misunderstanding. The police are making me go in this afternoon to do a DNA swab or they are going to send out an officer to “escort” me. I’ll not be humiliated like that. The audacity of this city’s detectives is staggering. They want to ruin my life. I’ve never been so insulted. They are undermining everything I have worked so hard to build. What is the point of even trying? This was all Elizabeth’s fault. It was an accident. It doesn’t matter anymore. This will never be pinned on me. I’ll make sure of it.
THIRTY-FOUR
Three weeks later...
My story is finally dropping off the media circuit. I’ve had my fifteen minutes, and I’m ready to have a somewhat normal life again. Though nothing about my situation has been normal in the last six months. There’s pressure to find a publicist and write a book. What the kidnapping was like, what living with Julianne—the child murderer—was like, how it’s shaped me as a person, yadda yadda yadda. I don’t want to. At least not right now. The focus should be on Elizabeth, not me. This is about her. I was an unfortunate victim in her tragic story. I was a filler, a prop. All I’ve ever wanted is control over my own life. Which is why I’m done with all the media interviews and talking about it. I want to move forward. I want to experience life.
I haven’t made many friends yet outside of work, but I anticipate that will become easier once I’ve been out of the headlines for a while. Thankfully, I was able to distance my story from Lonan and not involve him. It gave me a tiny taste of the attention he receives daily, and I don’t know how he does it. Privacy has always been important to me; now that I know what it’s like to give it up, I can’t imagine living like that permanently.
My new apartment is working out swell. A little small, but I don’t need more than a studio right now anyway. I don’t mind the size; it’s nice and cozy. Micky says that’s another way to say rathole, but whatever. It’s not like I need a fancy kitchen now that I have a state-of-the-art one at Alloy to play around in. Most of my dinners happen at the restaurant anyway. Unlike my neighbors, who apparently eat orgasms for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. The walls here are a bit thin.
I mean, truly, more power to them. I’m just jealous because the few vibrators that can still get me off are only because of my memories of Lonan using them on me. This leaves me still getting off to the image of him, and that’s not doing me any favors. It’s a bad habit I can’t seem to break. I keep telling myself to stop, but I can’t. Anytime I try to finish without his image in my mind—nada. No stars, no fireworks, nothing.
Sure, I could try to find a hookup, but what’s the point? None will be Lonan. It’s like my vagina has betrayed me and only responds to him now. How am I supposed to get over him when he’s in control of my orgasms too? I hate him for that. I’m sure he’s not having the same issues. After all, I’ve seen even more social media posts of him out with the team. He’s certainly not lonely. There’s a hot woman on his arm in every. Single. Picture. I know I have to move on, but I’m not ready. Job security for my therapist, right?
There’s a gala coming up that I’m expected to be at with my family. And guess who else is going? That’s right. I refuse to be a fifth wheel in my own family, though. It’s bad enough I’m going “with my parents.” Technically, we all get a plus one, and although Mom and Dad have cautioned against asking someone to go with me, there’s no way in hell I’m showing up alone. Not if I have to look at him with someone else all night.
Nate is the only other guy I know that isn’t a coworker or relative. Nate, who I told Lonan I wouldn’t go out with. But he also said he didn’t plan on seeing other women, and according to the internet, he hasn’t done a good job of holding up his end of the bargain either. Besides, the whole Lakes organization is going, Nate would have been there anyway, and even though I made it clear numerous times we would only be going as friends, his excitement level makes me worry he’s reading into it.
It doesn’t matter who my date is for the gala. It won’t change the deep ache that will be inflicted when I see him with someone else. Being in the same room to witness his hands on another woman will be so much worse than seeing the photos. My brain plays this horrid game where it pretends there’s still a chance he secretly loves me, and all the pictures of him with other women are just something that’s been fabricated by the tabloids. Once I see him in person, that daydream will be smashed. The truth will be revealed and will play out in real time in front of my eyes. His distance from me is due to my own request, but that doesn’t mean I’m mature enough to sleep in the bed I made.
