Page 4 of The Survivor

How could I tell him that I was someone who was hyper-aware? That I believed every strange noise or suspicious shadow could very well be a serial killer just trying to get the better of me?

“Yes,” I said.

“Okay,” Detective Vaughn said. The tightness in his jaw showed signs of tension, but his voice stayed calm. “Did you go to investigate?” he asked.

“I went to my nightstand,” I told him, trying to wave back toward my bedroom, but the blanket stilled the motion.

“For your phone?” he asked.

“For my knife,” I corrected, watching the surprised quirk of his brow.

At that moment, in my mind, I had been thinkingweapon then phone then escape. In my head, that was the way to survive this.

In retrospect, maybe escape first would have been the right move. But the windows were old. They didn’t always open easily. I was worried that I would get caught trying to pull one open and I’d be without a weapon or phone to call the police.

“I didn’t even get my hand on it before my bedroom door was flying open,” I told the detective as he scribbled on his mini notepad. It was the kind of chicken scratch that would likely even make him question what it said when he read over it hours later.

“What happened then?” he pressed when I fell silent, focusing on his handwriting instead of the incident.

“He was fast. He leaped over the bed, grabbed me, and tossed me down onto it.”

It was a bit of a blur, that part of the whole thing.

Adrenaline soared through my system, making me feel like my skin was buzzing. The only thing that was super clear was how high my body bounced.

“I’d gotten a new mattress this week,” I told him, even though I knew this detail was useless to him. “I’m not used to how springy it is.”

I felt like I was flying for a second before he was climbing over me, his knees pinning my thighs to the mattress, holding me down so that his hands were free.

“He had on a ski mask,” I said, knowing those were the kinds of details he was looking for. “But he was white.” No surprise. The majority of serial rapists were white. White, thirty or older, and the victims were overwhelmingly most likely to be under thirty.

But this wasn’t a normal sexual assailant.

Because he came with weapons.

Only eleven percent of rapists brought a weapon. Six percent with a gun, four with a knife. Most just used their bodies against women. Hands, teeth, etc.

“His eyes were a dark brown. He was average height and build. And he had a tool kit attached to him,” I said.

“Can you explain that better for me?” Detective Vaughn asked.

Right.

Details.

That’s what he needed. My brain needed to start working right if I wanted to help catch this guy.

“He had a belt on, but it wasn’t in his belt loops. It was too wide. He had things hanging from it. He had carabiners attached. One was holding this circle thing. I don’t know what it’s called. I’ve never seen one before, but it was holding zip ties for easy access,” I told him. “Another carabiner had the knife attached to it. It must have been a hunting type knife or something because it had a hole at the end. And there was duct tape attached to one of the carabiners with a zip tie.”

“Okay. This is good. Was there anything else?”

“There were pockets, one on each hip, but I don’t know what was in those.”

He was nodding, and I waited for him to catch up before I spoke again.

“He had on gloves. Really thin ones, but not medical gloves,” I told him. “They were skin-tone, though. I didn’t notice them until he hit me.”

My hand went automatically to my face. I couldn’t feel it. I knew that was the shock. That once I got a chance to process this, the pain would set in.

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