11:42 PM
Rachel hardly knew what to do with herself anymore. She'd fallen into a bit of a lopsided routine, fueled only by her determination to spite Alex. She'd decided, a few days back, that she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing her die inwardly like this. So while it still hurt, while she still wished for nothing more than death, she wore a mask. A compliant mask that spoke politely to her parents, answered the detectives, and tried to go back to life before she'd been kidnapped.
Rachel would wake late in the morning, usually after ten, and shower. She would try to read, before getting frustrated with whatever whiny character happened to be starring, and then attempt to watch television with Chris. She would do so for about half an hour, and then force down whatever lunch her mother made her eat. Rachel told herself that the reason she wasn't eating wasn't because she was depressed—it was merely because she wasn't hungry. That part was true. She was thoroughly repulsed all of the time.
Her day would be a myriad of events that mostly tickled her frustration and ended with her sitting in her room for hours, reflecting upon a long-forgotten hobby—her keyboard. She would lock herself in her room and pound away at the keys until her fingers bled. Song after song she composed in the few short days that felt like months. It was her escape. When she was playing, she forgot about him.
Rachel's parents seemed pleased with her progress, despite her appetite or lack thereof. They encouraged her to live, to not be so worried that he'd be back. They let her roam freely outside of the house, which was not so much as a privilege as they liked to think. Rachel attempted to walk her usual path one afternoon, but the falling snow and the barely covered tracks brought her back to that fateful evening. So, most of the time, she stayed inside.
She refused to do interviews, except for the local newspaper, which she felt an obligation to. Besides, she reasoned, it would be better that her truthful story be printed now rather than let it wait until she went back to school and the rumors started to fly. Rachel didn't tell them anymore except the minute details of how she'd been kidnapped, why, and how she had been treated. Decently. But she knew they would twist it anyway, to make Alex sound like a monstrous murderer, pedophile, and rapist—which he wasn't. Only she would know that truth.
Rachel did, however, testify for the police, making sure the information was sent to the department in Orlando for Lisa. She told them about Alex—leaving out as much as possible—and his assassination plot for her uncle, and how Lisa had not in one way been involved with that job or the Keefe murder. She hoped daily that Lisa would make it out of this trouble. She was grateful that she wasn't being targeted for the Keefe murder as well.
"Here you go." Rachel looked up from her uneaten slice of cake as her father handed her a glass of champagne. She frowned at it.
"I thought you didn't like me drinking this stuff." Her father shrugged. He'd always been intolerant of her underage tasters when she vacationed with her uncle.
"You're sixteen, babe," he clapped her on the shoulder and spoke above the din in the room. "But you have more years on you than I do. You deserve this much. Go ahead."
She smiled and thanked him, before rising to her feet and searching the room for her uncle. He was sitting in the corner, his leg propped up on the couch. He grinned and patted the seat next to him.
"There's my girl," he said, wrapping an arm around her as she sat. He—and the rest of her family—had been increasingly protective and loving towards her since the ordeal. Which, really, she realized, was only to be expected. But the honest tenderness in their voices still got her every time and almost—but only almost—made her forget about Alex.
"It's almost midnight," she stated obviously, nodding at the wall clock. "And then it will be 2007."
"You bet. Any resolutions?"
Rachel bit her lip, thinking. She hadn't really pondered that as of yet. What did she resolve to do? Stop thinking about Alex, that would be nice, but of course she couldn't tell her uncle that. She cleared her throat. "I want to move on. I'm sick of thinking about what happened, and I'd like to go back to normal."
He nodded slowly, finally speaking. "That sounds like a good plan if I've ever heard of one."
The congregation in the room—which consisted of the entire Redford/Nolan clan, began chanting the countdown as the clock and television broadcast sped closer to the new year. Rachel felt her breath getting shallow as she sipped her champagne.
Suddenly, she was reminded of the countdown to Christmas. The champagne. Lying on the carpet. Without warning, Rachel felt the urge to slide to the carpet and rest her face on the soft floor. She stood from the couch, not hearing her uncle as he called her name.
She reached out—Alex was so close. She could see him, smiling at her and touching her cheek as she rested on the floor. She touched his shoulder, her other hand falling around her necklace.
As the crowd rang in 2007, Rachel fell from her standing position—so close from making it to the carpet—and collapsed, fainting as Alex's face slowly faded away.
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Tuesday, January 2, 20077:32 PM
Rachel slammed her door. "I don't need to see a shrink!"
Her mother ignored the closed access and intruded Rachel's space anyway. "Yes, Rach, you do! You collapsed New Year's Eve, you're obviously seeing things, you're overly paranoid, and the worst—I can't get you to eat! I'm worried, Rachel, that this ordeal with Rocher might have had more of an effect on you than you'd like to believe."
Rachel glared at her. "I. Am. Fine. Leave. Me. Alone."
Her mother, chest rising and falling in worried heaves, suddenly cast her eyes downward, down to Rachel's chest. Rachel originally thought that the reason for her mother's suddenly watery eyes was the long bruise that surrounded her neck as a result of one of Alex's punishments, but when her mother reached out and touched her necklace, Rachel felt sick. She backed away, stumbling towards the wall and clutching the chain.
"What's that?" her mother whispered. Rachel looked into her eyes. She knew. There was no point in lying, but she did anyway.
"It was just—a gift from a friend."
"From him."
Rachel forced a look of utmost confusion, feeling dirty. "Who?"
Her mother licked her lips, sadness smothering her features. "You know who. That man. That evil, horrible man."
"He never did anything to me, Mother," Rachel shook her head. "Why won't you believe me?"
"Look down, Rachel," her mother snapped, suddenly curt. "Look at yourself. You're bruised, you're scarred, all over. He did that to you. And you're attached to him. Why?"
"He did not do this to me!" Rachel screamed. "I did this to myself! I didn't trust him, I didn't listen to what he told me! Everything that's wrong with me is my fault, not his! He did nothing!"
"He tried to kill you. Your uncle."
"He did not," Rachel took a breath. Now. She had to say it now. "He didn't try to kill me. He didn't want to. And he had no choice with Uncle Freddie. It was—he just had to, all right?"
"How do you know that the man who did this to you—and he did, Rachel, whether you choose to believe it or not—cared about you? Why would he not want to harm you?"
"Because, Mom," Rachel sucked in a gasp of air. "He loved me. And…and I love him."
She was shocked wordless when her mother slapped her across the face. Rachel stumbled backwards, her face a mask of hurt and confusion, matching her mother's. She'd never hit her before.
"I--" Rachel began, but her mother's short voice halted her speech as she strode briskly from the room.
"After school tomorrow, you're going to see Dr. Walker."