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So rather than end that night shitfaced, like I’d planned, I found myself going straight home after dropping off Jeremy, cracking open my laptop, and burning through what was left of my buzz with a scalding hot pot of fresh coffee, and an overwhelming compulsion to just… do something…
I started hunting.
Falling down rabbit holes upon rabbit holes, until I was certain I’d mentally break or end up in prison from all the bullshit I stumbled upon…and the horrors that many people suspected happened, and would go into great, twisted detail to describe. As if it was just a made up story for them to get their fucked up kicks out of.
I knew there was national coverage of Izzy’s abduction in the weeks, and even months, that followed her abduction, before it seemed to fizzle out when nothing else came of it, and there were newer, shinier horrors for mainstream media to turn the focus on.
I just had no idea that online, in the wild, worldwide web…there became a sort of cult following of her case.
True crime junkies, amateur internet sleuths trying to make a name for themselves, disgusting perverts and hateful trolls…
You name it.
They ate this shit up. Chiseled out a whole fucking corner of internet for all things Isobel Montgomery, where the girl I loved was now this…this vessel for fucked up fantasies masquerading as theories, and empty condolences for those who wanted to feel justified that they were using real-life horror as their primetime entertainment.
The worst part though? Aside from the lies and misinformation that I tried futilely to correct?—
No, it wasn’t a purse they found. It was a broken heel from her shoe.
No, she wasn’t out partying the night before. She was practicing.
No, the blood was proven to be not hers. We don’t know whose it was. That info was kept from us.
She was seventeen, not sixteen.
No, it wasn’t a vacation; it was a showcase for a prestigious music school that just so happened to take place at the hotel they were staying at.
No, the most aggravating thing to see was that there were people I knew in these Facebook groups and Reddit and Quora forums…people from this town who were using the fact they’d known her as some sort of ticket to the top.
The top of what? I don’t fucking know.
And it didn’t matter if they’d only spoken to her once, if at all. Suddenly, Izzy had all these friends who were so goddamn happy to impart their helpful knowledge of who she was as a person. Sharing stuff they had no fucking right sharing. Things like how when she was thirteen, she got her period in math class, and everyone saw the blood spot on her jeans.
And that’s just the most recent one.
And the reason I’m currently sitting outside a police station.
I was there that day, in class, when it happened. Kids laughed and pointed, Zachary Reynolds being one of them, and the person behind username ZacRey22.
Yeah, not very fucking smart of him.
Izzy was humiliated when it happened. Wouldn’t even come near me the rest of the day, until I finally cornered her at her house that evening—rode my bike over as soon as I could—and barged into her room and gave her no choice but to look me in the face as I told her I loved her for the first time.
Yeah, we were only thirteen. But I loved her. In all the ways I was capable of at that age, I fucking loved her. She was my girl. My frizzy-haired, firecracker of a girl with a heart of fucking gold. The girl who gave me piano and a second family and made my breaths quicken and my heart beat a little faster.
The girl who wouldn’t hesitate kicking ass if the tables were turned, and some other girl was in her shoes.
She had nothing to be ashamed of. And I told her as much.
But now, here, years later, when she’s…she’s gone…people are digging up one of her most embarrassing moments? People we know…
And for what? Clout? Proof they knew her?
Fuck that noise.
She might not be aware of what they’re saying, much less be here to defend herself, but I am. And like hell I’m going to let some nosy assholes profit off the only parts of her that remain. The only parts of her I can protect.
The memories.
