Here, Wylie’s voice always broke. Every single time. This was her biggest regret—not getting Becky into the cornfield and to safety.
Wylie lifted her eyes. Two women and a young girl stepped into the meeting room. Wylie immediately recognized Margo Allen, Becky’s mother. She hadn’t seen Margo since Becky and her mother had been reunited at the hospital after they had escaped the farmhouse.
When Margo had been escorted into the hospital room where Becky, Josie, and Wylie were being tended to, at first she didn’t believe the emaciated woman with the bruised and swollen face was her daughter.
Wylie had felt like an intruder, an interloper. Margo, once the shock of having her daughter back and discovering that she had a granddaughter had settled in, regarded Wylie coolly. Wylie felt that Margo had never quite forgiven her. Becky had been abducted at her home, on her parents’ watch, and Wylie had walked away while her daughter had not.
And now standing next to Margo were Becky and Josie. Wylie faltered. She hadn’t expected them to show up here. She wasn’t prepared to read these words in front of Becky. It felt wrong.
Becky gave her an encouraging smile and Wylie swallowed back her tears and continued to read.
“Get up, get up,” Josie begged, pulling on Becky’s arm. “Please.” Once again, she dared to look behind her. A shard of moonlight briefly revealed a shape stepping out from behind the barn. In horror, Josie watched as the figure raised his hands and took aim. She dropped Becky’s arm, turned, and ran. Just a little bit farther—she was almost there.
Josie crossed into the cornfield just as another shot rang out. Searing pain ripped through her arm, stripping her breath from her lungs. Josie didn’t pause, didn’t slow down, and with hot blood dripping onto the hard-packed soil, Josie kept running.
Wylie lowered the book and looked out over the crowd who stared back at her with rapt attention. Most knew by now that Wylie was Josie Doyle and that Becky and her daughter had miraculously survived after years of being locked in a basement, but still it was a shocking story.
Margo Allen dabbed her eyes with a tissue, Josie rifled through her grandmother’s purse, and Becky looked down at the floor.
Hands shot up and Wylie began fielding questions. When did you decide to become a writer? Why true crime? Why did you decide to write your own story? How does Becky Allen feel about the book? Are you still in contact with Becky and her daughter?
“Becky Allen and her daughter,” Wylie said, “are the bravest, strongest people I’ve ever known. I hope the world will let them have their privacy.”
“But you wrote a book about her tragedy. How does Becky feel about it?” a woman in the crowd asked.
Before the book went to print, Wylie offered to send the manuscript to Becky so she could read it, so she could share her input. Wylie told her, unequivocally, that she would pull the plug on the book if Becky wanted her to.
“I don’t need to read it,” Becky had said. “I trust you.”
Wylie looked to the back of the room for the final confirmation and Becky gave her a sad smile and nodded.
“Becky gave her approval,” Wylie told the audience. “I wouldn’t have finished the book—I wouldn’t have released it without her blessing. It was our tragedy, both of ours. Over the years we shared this nightmare in different places and different ways, but we shared it.” Wylie bit back her tears. “And we came out on the other side. I’m so grateful to have my friend back.”
The room filled with applause.
An hour later, once the last book was signed, the last picture taken, Wylie thanked the library director and she and Seth made their way toward the exit where Becky, Josie, and Margo were waiting just outside.
“I can’t believe you made the drive over here,” Wylie exclaimed.
“It wasn’t far and we wanted to surprise you,” Becky said with a grin. She looked completely different than the last time Wylie had seen her. The swelling in her face and the bruises were gone and were replaced with the features Wylie remembered most about her friend. Her dimples and bright smile. But still, scars remained some visible, some less so.
“Hi, Wylie,” Josie said shyly. Josie, too, had changed. Her shorn hair now fell below her chin in a mass of wild dark curls. She had grown a few inches taller, and her thin, emaciated frame had filled out some.
“Look at you,” Wylie said pulling Josie into a tight hug. “You’ve grown a foot. And you,” Wylie said grabbing Becky’s hand, “you look amazing.”