Chapter 6
Physical therapy was hell.
Three days a week. Two hours a day. Stretching. Lifting. Walking.
My legs burned. My back ached. My wrist screamed every time I tried to grip a weight.
Most days, I wanted to quit.
But I didn’t.
Every time I felt like I couldn’t go on, I thought of Lila leaning over the railing, laughing. I thought of her standing in my hospital room, threatening me. I thought of my dad saying I wasn’t his daughter.
And I pushed harder.
A week after I got home, Lila’s lawyer filed a motion to dismiss the case. Said the journal was inadmissible. Said the police had searched her house without a proper warrant.
The judge denied it.
Said the evidence was overwhelming. Said the warrant was perfectly legal.
Lila was going to trial.
That same week, I started getting texts.
From unknown numbers.
You’re going to regret this.
Lila is innocent. You’re going to burn in hell.
I showed them to Det. Carter. He traced them. They were coming from burner phones. From Karen.
He filed a restraining order. Karen had to stay 500 feet away from me, from my house, from my school, from my physical therapy clinic.
She didn’t care.
She showed up at my PT clinic two days later. Screamed at me in the parking lot. Called me a liar. Said I’d ruined her daughter’s life.
The police were called. She was arrested. Charged with violating the restraining order.
She spent three days in jail.
When she got out, she didn’t bother me again.
But the damage was done.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her face. I saw Lila’s face. I heard their voices.
I started having nightmares.
I’d wake up screaming, sweating, convinced Lila was in my room, ready to push me again.
My parents got me a therapist. A trauma specialist.
She helped.
She taught me breathing exercises. Taught me how to ground myself when the panic hit. Taught me that what happened wasn’t my fault. That I didn’t deserve any of it.
Slowly, the nightmares got less frequent.
Slowly, I started to feel like myself again.
By September, I was walking with a cane. My cast was off. My wrist was weak, but working. My back still ached, but I could stand for 10 minutes at a time.
Northwestern had deferred my scholarship for a year. Said I could start the following fall, once I was fully healed.
I was grateful. But I was also determined.
I was going to be ready.
I started studying at home. Took online classes. Volunteered at a local clinic, answering phones, filing papers. I wanted to be a doctor. I wanted to help people who’d been hurt, like I’d been hurt.
One day, while I was volunteering, an old woman came in. She’d fallen down her stairs. Broken her hip.
She was scared. Confused.
I sat with her. Held her hand. Told her she was going to be okay. Told her I’d been hurt too. That I knew how scary it was.
She looked at me. Smiled.
“You’re going to be a wonderful doctor,” she said.
Tears burned my eyes.
That was the moment I knew.
All the pain. All the fear. All the doubt.
It was going to be worth it.
I was going to take the worst thing that ever happened to me. And I was going to turn it into something good.
That night, I told my parents.
“I want to specialize in trauma care,” I said. “I want to work with assault victims. With people who’ve been hurt by the people they trusted.”
My mom cried. My dad squeezed my shoulder.
“We’re so proud of you,” he said.
A month later, the trial date was set.
January 15th.
Three months away.
Det. Carter came over to the house. Walked me through what would happen. Told me I’d have to testify. Told me Lila’s lawyer would try to break me. Try to make me look like a liar. Try to make me cry.
“Are you ready for that?” he asked.
I looked at my parents. At Mia, who was sitting on the couch next to me.
I thought of Lila. Of the journal. Of the 17 fractures. Of the old woman at the clinic.
I nodded.
“I’m ready,” I said.
And for the first time, I meant it.
I wasn’t scared anymore.
I was angry.
May you like
I was determined.
And I was going to make sure Lila paid for what she’d done.
