The call came while I was making dinner. “We arrested him this morning,” Detective Blackwell said. They found him on a mattress in Queens with three burner phones and $40 in his pocket. For the first time in weeks, I slept through the entire night.
At the arraignment, I saw him in an orange jumpsuit. He looked smaller, less like a monster and more like a broken man. The judge ordered supervised release with an electronic ankle monitor and strict “red zones” around my home and office. If he came within 500 feet of me, the police would know instantly.
The recovery was slow. I started a trauma support group in a church basement, meeting others who were being stalked by family members. I learned the “5-4-3-2-1” grounding technique to handle the panic attacks that still hit me on the subway.
I eventually decided to move. Kayn helped me pack my things into a new apartment with a doorman and high-end security. My manager at work, seeing how I handled the crisis, even promoted me to senior analyst. The raise covered the extra cost of my safety.
One weekend, I went to the park where my dad used to take me when I was a little girl. I sat on our old bench and cried. I wasn’t crying for the man in the orange jumpsuit; I was crying for the dad who once taught me how to ride a bike and told me, “Everyone falls before they learn to fly.” I realized that man was gone, and his choices weren’t my burden to carry.
Eight weeks after that terrifying taxi ride, I woke up on a Saturday and realized I hadn’t checked my locks three times. I went to the farmers market, bought some apples, and enjoyed the sun. I am still careful, and I still have my backup plans, but I am no longer controlled by fear. I’ve reclaimed my life, one step at a time.
