The Basement Screams Stopped When the Rusted Spoon Touched My Skin — Then I Saw the Photo — Part 3 of 3

The Diary Held a Different Truth

He untied me, but kept a grip on my arm, his other hand holding a knife.

We walked out of the basement, up the stairs, into a dim living room that smelled of stale cigarettes.

He shoved me toward the door, and I stumbled out into the gray morning light, blinking against the sudden brightness.

His car was a beat-up sedan, and he pushed me into the passenger seat, then got in and started the engine.

“Fifth Street, you said,” he muttered, pulling onto the road.

I nodded, my mind racing. I had maybe twenty minutes to figure out how to get to my mother’s house.

But as we drove, I saw something that gave me a wild idea — a police station on the corner, and a patrol car pulling out.

I waited until we were at a red light, then I slammed my foot down on his, pressing the brake.

The car jolted, and he cursed, trying to push me off, but I was already reaching for the door handle.

I threw the door open and ran, not looking back.

I heard him yell, heard his door open, but I kept running, straight toward the police station.

I burst through the doors, gasping, and a uniformed officer looked up, startled.

“Please,” I said, my voice shaking. “A man is trying to kill me. He’s right outside.”

Two officers rushed past me, and I collapsed onto a bench, my legs giving out.

I heard shouting, a scuffle, and then the officers came back, holding the man by his arms.

He looked at me, his eyes full of hatred, and spat, “You’ll rot in hell, just like your mother.”

But I didn’t care. I was safe.

I gave my statement, and they took him away, and I sat in the station, shivering, until a kind detective brought me a blanket and a cup of coffee.

“You’re lucky,” he said. “He’s been on our radar for years. But we never had enough to charge him.”

I nodded, but I knew it wasn’t luck. It was my mother.