Before Jeff, I was Jane Richardson. Straight-A student. One close friend, Stephanie, who I'd known since elementary school. Parents who were home for dinner. A life that was unremarkable in the ways that only feel like gifts after they're gone.
Jeff came to our neighborhood in October. I noticed him the way you notice someone who doesn't fit — something in the eyes, something that didn't land quite right when you tried to read his expression. I told Stephanie something was wrong with him. She said I was being dramatic.
October 14th, I came home to find my parents. I found what Jeff had done to them. I'm not going to write it here. I think you can infer it from the shape of this story.
I survived because I hid in the crawlspace above the laundry room and didn't make a sound for six hours. I survived because Jeff didn't check the crawlspace and because I was more afraid than I have ever been before or since. I survived because Stephanie called me when I didn't answer her texts and eventually called the police.
I am not grateful for surviving. I want to be clear about that: I am not grateful. Gratitude implies the alternative was worse, and I have spent enough time in the months after to know the alternative had certain things to recommend it.
What I am is specific. I am a person with a specific focus that I didn't have before October 14th. I found that focus while I was in the crawlspace listening for Jeff to leave. I found it while the police were taking me through the house. I found it every night for the following year while I did not sleep.
Jeff is still out there. That is a documented fact. He has been documented in seven states over the past four years, the cases linked by method and by the one thing left behind — the words carved somewhere visible: Go to sleep.
I have been following him for two years. I'm not an especially large person. I'm not trained. I have resources that are limited but sufficient and a patience that is, at this point, essentially unlimited.
I want him to know I'm coming. That's why I'm writing this. Not for you.
Don't go to sleep, Jeff. I want you awake when I find you.