Chapter 32 Emily Reaches Out

Chapter 32 Emily Reaches Out
Amelia Noah POV
The Instagram DM appears while I'm hiding in Kate's guest room, scrolling mindlessly through my phone because sleeping feels impossible and thinking feels worse.
emily_wanders: I know you probably don't want to talk to anyone from that time. But if you do want to talk to someone who was there—I'm here. No pressure. Just... here.
I stare at the message for ten minutes before responding.
Me: Coffee tomorrow? Somewhere public and generic.
emily_wanders: Starbucks on 34th? 2pm? The one that's identical to every other Starbucks.
Me: Perfect.
I don't tell Kate where I'm going. Just that I need a few hours alone, which isn't technically a lie. She watches me leave with worried eyes but doesn't stop me—respecting boundaries like Dr. Chen taught her.
The Starbucks is exactly as promised: aggressively generic, packed with laptop workers and tourists, the kind of place where no one looks twice at anyone. Emily's already there, sitting at a corner table with two untouched lattes. She's wearing a baseball cap, minimal makeup, trying for invisible. I recognize the strategy—I'm doing the same thing.
"Hi," she says when I sit down. Then immediately: "God, that's inadequate. Is there a better word for 'hi I witnessed your attempted murder and documented your stalker but we've never actually had a real conversation'?"
Despite everything, I laugh. "If there is, I don't know it either."
She pushes one latte toward me. "Vanilla. I stalked your Instagram before you deleted everything—saw it in a post from last year. That's creepy now that I say it out loud."
"It's thoughtful. There's a difference." I wrap my hands around the cup, grateful for something to hold. "Thank you. For the coffee. And for testifying. And for... all of it."
Emily's face does something complicated. "I should have done more. I saw him watching you. I filmed him watching you, and I didn't—I should have grabbed you and physically dragged you away from him—"
"I wouldn't have listened." The truth sits heavy between us. "I saw the signs too. I just didn't trust myself enough to act on them without proof."
"We're both doing the guilt thing, aren't we?" Emily says. "My therapist says it's normal. Survivor guilt or witness guilt or whatever. The 'I should have done more' loop."
"Dr. Chen says the same thing. Apparently our brains are very predictable when it comes to trauma responses."
"Are you seeing Dr. Chen too? Upper West Side, glasses, doesn't bullshit you?"
"That's her."
"She's helping me not hate myself for being 'backup victim material.'" Emily makes air quotes, bitter. "Do you know he had a folder? 'Future Prospects.' I was number sixty-seven. He'd been tracking my travel schedule for eight months, deciding if I was worth—" She stops. Breathes. "Sorry. This is supposed to be supportive coffee, not mutual trauma dumping."
"Maybe that's exactly what it needs to be." I lean forward. "Everyone else treats me like I'm made of glass. Kate hovers. My mom wants me 'grateful for survival.' Random strangers on Twitter debate whether I'm lying for attention. You're the only person who was there and knows it's all more complicated than any of those narratives."
Emily's shoulders drop, tension releasing. "It is so much more complicated. Like—I hate him. Obviously. He's a monster. But also, I saw the version of him you fell for. The charming photographer who seemed genuinely interested in people. And I understand why you believed it, because I almost believed it too. If he'd approached me first instead of you—"
"You'd be dead," I finish quietly. "Or I'd be dead. One of us would be Frame 218."
We sit with that truth for a moment. The Starbucks noise continues around us—espresso machines hissing, conversations blurring together, someone's laptop playing music too loud. Normal life as backdrop to our horror.
"Can I ask you something?" Emily says. "And you can tell me to fuck off if it's too much."
"Go ahead."
"The five days. Before you knew. Were any of them actually... good? Or is that a stupid question?"
I think about Frame 143. Sunset on the beach, feeling beautiful and seen and chosen. The version of myself I saw through his lens before I understood the lens was a weapon.
"Some of it was good," I admit. "The performed parts felt real while I was living them. That's what makes it so confusing. I'm mourning someone who never existed, and I know he never existed, but my brain doesn't care about logic."
"Trauma bonding," Emily says. "Dr. Chen explained it to me too. Your nervous system created attachment because that's how it tries to survive threats."
"Exactly. Which means the feelings aren't wrong, they're just... biological. But telling my brain 'it's just neurology' doesn't make me miss him less. The fake him." I laugh bitterly. "God, listen to me. 'I miss my attempted murderer.' That should be a terrible t-shirt slogan."
"'I Miss My Attempted Murderer: A Trauma Memoir.'" Emily deadpans. "Too dark?"
"Extremely dark. But also kind of perfect."
We both laugh, and it feels transgressive—like we're not allowed to find humor in this. But maybe gallows humor is how you survive. Maybe you laugh or you break, and we're both choosing to laugh.
"I'm writing an article," Emily says after our laughter fades. "About solo female travel safety and recognizing manipulation tactics. Red flags that seem like romance. The way predators engineer 'coincidental' meetings. I want to include your story—with your permission. I can keep you anonymous if you want, or use your name if you're comfortable. It's your choice."
"What's the angle?"
"That trusting your instincts doesn't make you paranoid, it makes you smart. That 'intuition' society tells women to ignore is actually pattern recognition. That it's okay to be 'rude' if something feels wrong." She pulls out her phone, shows me the draft. "I interviewed Dr. Chen about trauma bonding, got quotes from Detective Mateo about predatory tactics, talked to other solo travelers who've had close calls. But the core of it is: you survived because you documented and told people. That's the lesson."
I read her opening paragraph: Amelia Noah should be dead. David Thornton had killed eight women using the exact same method he employed with her. But Amelia survived—not because she was lucky, but because she was smart. This is how she did it.
"You can use my name," I say. "I'm already public anyway. Might as well control the narrative."
"You're sure?"
"I'm writing a book. You're writing an article. We're both refusing to let him be the only one telling the story." I meet her eyes. "Yeah, I'm sure."
Emily saves the document. "Thank you. I'll send you the draft before publication. You have veto power on anything you're uncomfortable with."
"When does it publish?"
"Next month. I'm shopping it to major outlets—New York Times, The Atlantic, places that reach the women who need to read it."
We talk for another hour. Comparing notes about David's tactics: the way he touched—possessive but disguised as affectionate. How he always knew where we'd be before we arrived. The questions that seemed interested but were actually intelligence gathering. Emily shows me footage from her blog—moments I didn't know she'd captured. David watching me through a window. His expression when Dr. Mitchell asked about his photography career—that flash of rage before the mask rebuilt.
"I've been contacted by other women," Emily says quietly. "Solo travelers who follow my blog. They've sent me stories about close calls with men who used similar tactics. Not David—different guys, different countries. But the same playbook. Engineered meetings. Intense attention. Isolation tactics. They got away before anything happened, but they recognized the pattern after reading about your case."
"How many women?"
"Forty-seven messages so far. Some are probably paranoia—guy was just friendly, not predatory. But others..." She shows me a few messages. Each one makes my stomach turn.
Met photographer in Thailand who knew my hotel room number without me telling him...
British guy in Barcelona who appeared at three different locations I'd posted on Instagram...
Charming stranger in Rome who got weird when I wouldn't go to 'private location' for photos...
"There are more of them," I whisper. "More predators using these exact tactics."
"Yeah. And most of them aren't as sophisticated as David. But they're learning from each other—forums, Reddit threads, pickup artist sites teaching men how to 'hunt' solo female travelers." Emily's face is grim. "Your case is raising awareness. Women are recognizing danger faster. That's something."
"It's not enough."
"No. But it's more than we had before."
My phone buzzes. Kate: You okay? Need me to come get you?
I text back: I'm good. With Emily. Be home for dinner.
"She checks on you a lot?" Emily asks.
"Every two hours minimum. It's suffocating and essential in equal measure." I pocket my phone. "But she's trying. Everyone's trying. I'm the only one who feels like I'm failing at healing fast enough."
"Dr. Chen told me there's no timeline for this. That recovery isn't linear. That some days I'll feel strong and some days I'll dissolve in Starbucks bathrooms because someone's cologne triggered me." Emily pauses. "Which happened yesterday, by the way. Hence why I finally messaged you. Figured if I'm falling apart, maybe we should fall apart together occasionally."
"Trauma buddies."
"Exactly. We can text each other when we're spiraling. Compare notes on therapy breakthroughs. Send memes about PTSD that are too dark for normal people."
"I'd like that." And I realize I mean it. Kate loves me fiercely but can't fully understand. Dr. Chen is professional and helpful but clinical. Emily was there. She saw him hunting. She documented the predator in action. We speak the same language of almost-death.
"Can I ask one more thing?" Emily's voice goes careful. "The trial. Are you scared?"
"Terrified. His lawyers are already investigating my entire life. My ex contacted me trying to cash in. The defense will make me the villain for surviving." I stare at my cold latte. "But I have to testify. For Sophie and Nina and Mei and Grace and Lucia and Ana and Carmen and Isabella. They can't speak. So I have to."
"I'll be there," Emily says. "In Athens. For your testimony. If you want me there."
"You don't have to—"
"I want to. I'm covering the trial anyway for my blog. But also, I want to be there for you. As witness and friend and fellow almost-Frame." She reaches across the table, squeezes my hand. "You don't have to do this alone."
My throat tightens. "Thank you."
We finish our coffee talking about lighter things: her upcoming travel plans (domestic only, nowhere isolated), my potential return to work (unlikely), whether true crime podcasts are helpful or exploitative (complicated). It's almost normal. Almost like two friends catching up, if you ignore the underlying trauma binding us.
As we're leaving, Emily says: "Oh—one more thing. A woman contacted me last week. German, lives in Berlin now. She dated someone matching David's description in 2018. Before his documented victim timeline. She got out before anything happened, but she remembers details. His birthmark on his left shoulder. The specific cologne. The way he photographed her sleeping without permission."
My blood chills. "2018? That's—"
"Before Sophie Laurent. Before any of the confirmed victims." Emily pulls out her phone, shows me the email. "She's willing to talk to Detective Mateo. She thinks there might be earlier victims no one's connected to him yet. Women who died in 2017, 2016, maybe further back."
"How far back could this go?"
"Anna de Vries was 2009. His first attempted kill that we know of. But Dr. Chen testified he showed concerning patterns from childhood. What if he's been doing this since his early twenties? What if there are victims from before he refined his method?"
The Starbucks feels too small suddenly. Too loud. "How many women?"
"I don't know. But I'm going to find out." Emily's expression is determined. "He's in prison. He can't hurt anyone else. But the families of his earlier victims deserve answers too. Closure. Justice."
"You're going to investigate."
"We're going to investigate," Emily corrects. "If you want to. No pressure. But you have investigative instincts—you documented him better than I did. Together, we might find connections the police missed."
I think about the eight families I met in Athens. The grief that will never fully heal but might soften with answers. And somewhere, there might be more families. More mothers wondering why their daughters never came home from vacation.
"I'm in," I say. "After the trial. Once I've testified and he's officially sentenced. Then we find the others."
Emily nods. "After the trial."
We walk out together into Manhattan afternoon. The photographers who camped outside my apartment aren't here—anonymity achieved in generic Starbucks. Emily heads toward the subway. I hail a cab back to Kate's.
Before we part, Emily hugs me. Quick and fierce. "Thank you for meeting me. For trusting me. For being alive."
"Thank you for seeing me as survivor instead of victim."
"You're both. That's okay too."
The cab takes me through city traffic, back to suburban New Jersey where Kate's made dinner and the kids are doing homework and Tom's researching security systems. Back to my fortress of people who love me.
But I'm also thinking about Berlin, 2018. About women whose names we don't know yet. About justice that extends beyond conviction to answers.
David Thornton is in prison. But his full victim count remains unknown.
Emily and I are going to change that.
After the trial, we hunt.