When he’s finished, his shoulders collapse, and I can tell he’s barely holding it together. His head hangs down, and he won’t meet anyone’s eye. Pulling him into my arms, I hug him close. “You did good, baby. I’m proud of you.”
Rod makes a brief statement on behalf of Torment, confirming the band’s support of Ryder, and then we make a fast exit. I try to block out the questions being shouted as we leave but it’s hard to blot it all out, and some of it isn’t pleasant.
Ryder doesn’t speak as we make our way out of the hotel and into the waiting limo. He wants to get out of the city as fast as possible, so we’ve already said our goodbyes to the others inside. Rod is the only one still with us, and Mr. Jenkins, Ryder’s attorney, is waiting in the limo. We head straight to the police station where Ryder makes a formal statement and lodges an official complaint about Ren Winters. Mr. Jenkins has already applied for a restraining order in both our names, and he anticipates it being approved within the next twenty-four hours.
Our last point of order is a conference call with Ryder’s probation officer in Orange County. He’s not pleased Ryder didn’t inform him in advance, and he cautions there may be serious consequences. Already, social media is blowing up, and it’s brought a spotlight on Orange County and the case all over again.
We shake hands with Mr. Jenkins and Rod after the call has concluded, and I’m confident both those guys will do everything in their power to ensure Ryder is kept out of jail. Then we head to the airport, and I only feel Ryder start to relax once the plane is taxiing down the runway.
When we get home, we change into comfy clothes, order takeout and snuggle on the couch. Ryder hasn’t said much since the press conference, but I don’t pressure him to talk. I’m just there for him, hugging and kissing him, letting him know how much I love him. We purposely avoid checking out comments online and head to bed early. Tears stream down his face as he tenderly makes love to me, and I hold him close all night, praying we’ve done the right thing and that this will finally enable him to move on and leave the past in the past.
* * *
“What’s all that?”I ask a few days later when Mike arrives in the kitchen carrying four massive gray sacks.
“Fan mail sent over from the label.”
I frown, wondering if it’s wise to show that to Ryder. He’s been very melancholy and closed off the last few days. “I think I should check some of it out before Ryder returns from his run. I don’t want him upset if there’s anything nasty in there.”
The story of Ryder’s true identity has gone viral, and public debate is divided. His fans have stuck loyally by his side, defending him online, while various expert child psychologists argue about the case in scheduled TV interviews. Some are siding with Ryder, explaining he was a vulnerable child who was preyed on by older boys and he’s already served his time, while others argue his youth and his lack of involvement in the actual murder don’t negate his culpability. Parent support groups lambast him for being a bad role model for their children, and calls for his resignation from Torment are widespread.
I’m trying to shield him from the media, but he’s prone to self-destructive behavior and I’ve caught him checking out stuff on his cell on countless occasions. I’ve beseeched him to not look at it, but I can’t force him to ignore it, and I know it’s easier said than done, especially when you know the whole world is talking about you and casting judgment.
I’m trying to keep things as normal as possible at home, and keeping conversation away from those tough subjects, but it’s challenging. Mr. Jenkins confirmed the restraining orders are operational, but Ren is in the wind. The police say there is no official record of Ren Winters after age seventeen, and he’s clearly using a false identity.
They have taken fresh statements from some of the other members of Z-Crew, and they’ve confirmed the truth. It appears languishing in a jail cell for eight years has relinquished their supposed loyalty to their old gang leader. Vincent, Ryder’s only friend back then, and the only other member who is currently free, has also corroborated Ryder’s account of events. All the statements are classified, in order to protect the identities of those involved and to keep the media from blowing this up into an even bigger shitstorm.
“Good idea,” Mike says, propping the first bag up on the island unit and pulling out a stool. “I’ll help.”
I have a healthy pile of letters and gifts open in front of me by the time Ryder arrives back from his run. Tears are streaming down my face as I read every heartfelt message.
“What’s going on?” Ryder asks, using the bottom of his tank to rub the sweat from his forehead.
I jump up and throw my arms around him. “I’ve been reading your fan mail. You should too. You need to see how loved you are. How much your fans support you.”
Ryder extricates himself from our embrace. “I’m all sweaty and gross, babe.”
I circle my arms around his neck again, pulling him back into me. “I happen to love you all sweaty.” I wiggle my brows suggestively.
Mike coughs loudly. “I do not need to hear that shit. It’s bad enough listening to the moans and screams coming out of your bedroom at night.”
“You need to get laid,” Ryder quips.
“Don’t I fucking know it,” Mike laments with a pitiful sigh, as he touches his fingers to his earpiece, tuning us out.
Ryder looks over at the bags on the floor. “That’s a lot of fan mail.”
“I can go through it for you if you like, but I really think you should read it. I think it’ll help. They’re all on your side.”
“Honestly, babe,” he says, going to the refrigerator and removing a bottle of water. “The only two things that’ll help is knowing that shithead is behind bars and finding out if they’re going to prosecute me for anything.” I know he’s on edge waiting to discover if they plan to charge him with anything. Mr. Jenkins is in daily contact with the authorities in Orange County trying to smooth things over.
“Eh, boss.” Mike rubs the back of his neck, standing. “We have a bit of a situation out at the front gate.”
“What kind of situation?” I ask before Ryder can.
“There’s an unknown man asking to be let in.”
“Just tell him to fuck off,” Ryder says. “He’s probably just paparazzi.” We’ve had reporters and TV crews camped outside the front gate since the story broke. A well-known network even sent drones overhead trying to capture footage. They have no sense of decency. No moral compass whatsoever.
