Have you ever made a life-changing breakthrough in therapy that you deeply regret?

I’ve been seeing Dr. A. Foreman for six months now, trying to figure out how to find my parents’ killer.

I remember his face perfectly. I was seven when it happened, hiding in the closet, watching him stab them through the crack in the door. Gray hair, tall, scar on his left hand from where my mother had fought back. I’ve told the police everything a hundred times, but without a name or location, they can’t do anything.

“The sketch has been in the system for twenty years,” I told Dr. Foreman during our Thanksgiving afternoon session. “No matches. It’s like he just vanished.”

“Edwin, you’re doing everything you can,” she said. “Sometimes these things take time.”

“The detective called yesterday,” I said. “They’re moving my case to the cold files. Twenty years is their limit for active investigation.” My voice cracked. “I watch true crime shows where DNA solves thirty-year-old cases, but we have nothing. He wore gloves. He was careful. I just keep thinking, what if I saw him at a grocery store? Would I even recognize him after all these years? People age. Change.”

“Maybe we should go out together sometime,” she joked. “Two sets of eyes are better than one. We’ll find your parents’ killer at Whole Foods buying organic kale.”

I managed a small laugh. It was nice that she tried to lighten the mood, but I still had no idea why she was really trying to lighten it. She’d been the only person in twenty years who didn’t look at me with pity when I talked about still searching.

The session ended and she checked her phone.

“Oh no, my Uber canceled. Third one today. Surge pricing is insane.”

“I can drive you wherever you need to go,” I offered.

“That’s sweet, but it’s against professional boundaries. I’m already late for my family’s Thanksgiving. You just spent your holiday listening to me talk about murder. Let me at least drive you.”

She hesitated, looking at her phone again.

“The next available car is forty minutes away. I need to stop at the store first. I promised to bring pie, and if I don’t show up with it, my mother will never let me hear the end of it.”

“No problem,” I said.

At the supermarket, she ran in while I waited. The parking lot was nearly empty. Most people were already at their dinners.

When she came back, she was balancing two pies and looked frazzled.

“They only had sugar-free pumpkin left, so I grabbed apple too. My dad’s diabetic, but he’ll eat the regular anyway and blame us for letting him.”

She gave me directions to a nice suburban neighborhood, the kind with basketball hoops in the driveways and those little library boxes on lawns.

“Big family?” I asked.

“Parents, siblings, cousins, chaos,” she laughed. “My dad always makes enough food for an army. Says it’s because he grew up poor and promised himself his kids would never see an empty table.”

When we pulled up to the two-story colonial with warm light spilling from every window, she paused.

“Edwin, I know this is unconventional, but would you like to come in? No one should be alone on Thanksgiving.”

“That’s really crossing boundaries,” I said.

“I won’t mention you’re my patient, just a friend who helped me out. Besides, you could use a normal Thanksgiving after everything you’ve been through. When’s the last time you had one?”

In hindsight, I should have screamed, should have turned around and run to the police. But the loneliness of twenty Thanksgivings without my parents overwhelmed me.

“Okay. Thanks,” I replied.

The house was warm, full of laughter and football sounds. Kids ran around with toy planes. The smell of turkey and sage hit me like a physical memory. It felt like the family gatherings I barely remembered from childhood, before everything went dark.

“Everyone, this is Edwin,” Dr. Foreman announced. “He saved me from being stranded.”

Her mom immediately hugged me, smelling like cinnamon and butter.

“Oh, bless you. Leslie’s always missing dinner because of those apps. Stay. Stay. We have so much food.”

People shook my hand, pressed drinks into my palm, asked about my life. A little girl showed me her drawings. Someone’s grandfather started telling me about his time in Korea. It was overwhelming but nice, like being absorbed into something warm and alive.

“Dad, come meet Edwin,” Dr. Foreman called toward the kitchen. “He’s the one who saved my pies.”

“The pies are saved? Thank God. Your mother would have killed us both,” a voice boomed back.

A man walked out drying his hands on a dish towel. Tall, even at what must be seventy now. Gray hair, though he must have been younger twenty years ago, maybe fifty then.

The kitchen light caught his left hand as he dried it. The scar on his left hand, jagged, old, running from his thumb to his wrist.

My body went cold, then hot. The room started spinning. Twenty years of staring at that scar in my nightmares, drawing it for police sketches, describing its exact curve and length, the defensive wound my mother had given him when she’d grabbed her own knife.

“Nice to meet you,” he said, extending that scarred hand. “Bob Foreman. Thanks for helping my Leslie out.”

I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, just stared at the scar I described to police ten thousand times.

“Edwin,” Dr. Foreman touched my arm. “Are you okay? You look pale.”

I pulled out my phone with trembling fingers, found the photo of the police sketch I always kept—the one I’d shown her dozens of times in therapy—and held it up with shaking hands.

“It’s him,” I whispered.

Dr. Foreman’s voice sounds like it’s coming from underwater, asking if I’m okay, but I can’t make my mouth work to answer. My whole body feels frozen except for my hands, which won’t stop shaking as I stare at that scar.

Bob takes a step toward me with concern on his face, and I finally snap out of it. I mumble something about feeling sick, needing air.

“Sorry,” I say, and I turn toward the front door.

People are watching me stumble through the living room and I hear Dr. Foreman calling my name behind me, but I just keep moving. My legs feel weak and my vision is blurry, but I make it outside into the cold November air.

I fumble with my car keys for what feels like forever before I can get the door unlocked. Once I’m inside, I lock all the doors and sit there, shaking so hard my teeth are chattering.

My hands are trembling as I pull out my phone and find the police sketch I always keep saved. I hold it up and compare it to the mental image I just burned into my brain from seeing Bob.

The scar matches perfectly. That jagged line from thumb to wrist on the left hand. The height matches. He’s tall even at seventy. The gray hair, the way he held himself. Even his voice sounds familiar now that I think about it.

Everything matches the man from my nightmares. The man I watched kill my parents twenty years ago.

I start the car and drive away from that house as fast as I can without breaking traffic laws. Three blocks later, I have to pull over because I’m shaking too badly to see the road straight.

I’m in some random neighborhood parking lot and I grab my notebook from the glove compartment with trembling fingers. I start writing down every single detail I can remember before I forget anything. What Bob was wearing—a blue sweater and khaki pants. His exact words when he introduced himself. The way he dried his hands on that dish towel before extending his scarred hand to shake mine. The precise location of the scar, starting at the base of his thumb and running diagonally across his palm to his wrist. The color of it, that old white scar tissue that stands out against his skin.

I write for ten minutes straight without stopping, filling three pages with observations. Then I take photos of my police sketch from multiple angles and start a new document on my phone with today’s date and time. I type out everything again, wanting multiple copies in case something happens to my notebook.

For the next two hours, I just sit in that parking lot going through every memory of my therapy sessions with Dr. Foreman. I told her everything about the case, described that scar in detail at least a dozen times, showed her the police sketch over and over. Did I give her enough information that she should have recognized her own father? The scar is so distinctive. How could she not notice it on her dad’s hand?

My phone keeps buzzing with texts from her. The first one asks if I’m okay. The second says she’s worried. The third says, “Everyone at dinner is concerned and asking about you.” I stare at the messages, but I can’t make myself respond because I don’t know what to say.

Did she know all along that her father killed my parents? Is that why she invited me to Thanksgiving—to see what I would do when I saw him?

My brain keeps spinning with these questions, but I have no answers.

I silence my phone and keep reviewing my memories, trying to remember if she ever reacted strangely when I talked about the scar or the killer’s description.

Around midnight, I finally drive home because I’m exhausted and freezing in my car. But once I get to my apartment, I can’t sleep. I’m too wired. I spend the rest of the night researching Bob Foreman online.

I find his Facebook profile and scroll through years of family photos. I find his address, the same house I just fled from. I find his work history on LinkedIn and see he used to work for a plumbing supply company.

My hands are still shaking as I open Google Maps and start creating a detailed timeline. I mark where my childhood home was, where Bob’s old job was located, where he lived twenty years ago. I screenshot everything and save it all to a folder on my computer.

I find social media profiles for his wife, his other kids, trying to piece together his whole life.

By four in the morning, I have pages of notes and a map showing his known locations over the past twenty years.

At four in the morning, I’m so tired my eyes are burning, but I know I need to contact the police while everything is fresh in my mind.

I find the old email address for Detective Harrison, the officer who originally handled my parents’ case before it went cold. I start drafting an email, and it takes me an hour to get it right.

I attach the police sketch, multiple photos of Bob Foreman from his social media, my detailed notes about the scar, and a full account of how I met him at Thanksgiving dinner. I explain that this is the man from my memory and I’m absolutely certain, even after twenty years. The scar matches perfectly. He’s the right height and age, and he had opportunity because he worked in my neighborhood.

I read the email five times before I finally hit send at five in the morning.

Then I try to sleep, but my brain won’t shut off. I keep seeing Bob’s face every time I close my eyes—that friendly smile as he dried his hands, the way he extended that scarred hand toward me, completely unaware that I recognized him.

My phone rings twice and I see it’s Dr. Foreman calling, but I don’t answer. She leaves voicemails and I listen to them later. Her voice sounds worried and confused, asking what happened, saying we should talk, asking if I’m okay. The second message says she’s really concerned and wants to make sure I’m safe.

I listen to both messages three times, but I don’t call her back because I don’t know what to say. If she knew about her father, then she’s been lying to me for six months. If she didn’t know, then I’m about to destroy her whole family.

Either way, I can’t talk to her right now, and maybe not ever again.

By morning, I’ve maybe slept two hours in short patches filled with nightmares. I check my email and find an automated response saying Detective Harrison retired three years ago. My stomach drops until I read the rest. The message says my email has been automatically forwarded to Detective Randolph in the cold case unit.

Less than an hour later, I get a response from Detective Randolph himself. He says he received my email and reviewed the attachments. He wants to meet with me as soon as possible today if I can manage it. He also asks me not to have any further contact with the Foreman family until we talk.

His quick response gives me the first real spark of hope I’ve felt since I recognized Bob last night. Someone is taking this seriously and wants to help.

I meet Detective Randolph at the police station that same afternoon. He’s younger than I expected, maybe forty, with sharp eyes that actually look at me like I’m a real person with a real case instead of some obsessed victim who can’t let go.

He takes me to a small conference room and spreads out everything I sent him across the table. He reviews my documentation carefully while I sit there trying not to fall apart from exhaustion and stress.

He listens as I walk him through the whole thing—from the therapy sessions to the Thanksgiving invitation to the moment I recognized Bob’s scarred hand. He takes notes and asks questions, but he never once suggests that my memory might be wrong or unreliable after twenty years.

When I finish talking, he looks at me with something like sympathy and says, “This is good work. Really detailed documentation.”

I almost start crying from relief because finally someone believes me.

Detective Randolph explains that while my identification is really strong, they need more than just recognition and a scar to move forward with charges. He asks me detailed questions about my therapy with Dr. Foreman. What exactly did I tell her about the case? Did she ever react strangely when I described the killer or the scar? Did she ask any leading questions or seem interested in specific details?

As I answer his questions, I realize with a growing sick feeling in my stomach that she knew everything about my case. I described that scar to her probably fifteen times over six months. I showed her the police sketch in almost every session. She knew I was looking for a tall man with gray hair and a distinctive scar on his left hand. Her father has all those things, and she never once suggested he might match my description.

Either she’s the most unobservant therapist in the world or she knew something and didn’t tell me.

Detective Randolph stands up and walks to a gray filing cabinet against the wall, pulling out a thick folder with my parents’ names typed on the label. He spreads the contents across the conference table, and I see photos I haven’t looked at in years. Crime scene reports, witness statements, the original sketch I helped create when I was seven.

He pulls out my initial description from twenty years ago and reads it out loud.

“The killer was tall, maybe six feet, with gray hair that looked neat and clean. He had a scar on his left hand, jagged like a lightning bolt, running from his thumb down to his wrist.”

I described how my mother had grabbed a kitchen knife during the attack and managed to cut him before he overpowered her.

Detective Randolph looks up at me and asks me to describe what I saw at Thanksgiving. I close my eyes and picture Bob’s hand as he dried it with the dish towel. The scar was exactly where I remembered, jagged and old, starting at the base of his thumb and running down toward his wrist. The shape matched perfectly, like someone had traced my childhood drawing onto his actual hand.

Detective Randolph nods slowly and says, “This is the strongest lead the case has ever had.”

He explains that most eyewitness identifications after twenty years would be questionable, but the scar is so specific and distinctive that it gives my testimony real weight. He points out that I described the scar’s exact location and shape before I ever met Bob, which means I couldn’t have been influenced by seeing him. The height matches too, accounting for twenty years of aging. Bob would have been about fifty when my parents were killed and now he’s seventy. Exactly the right age progression.

Detective Randolph tells me he believes me completely and he’s going to do everything possible to build a case, but I need to understand how careful we have to be. He leans forward and his voice gets serious.

“You cannot have any contact with Dr. Foreman or anyone in her family. You cannot approach Bob directly or try to talk to him. Any contact could compromise the entire investigation or put you in danger if Bob realizes you recognized him.

“If he knows we’re looking at him, he could destroy evidence or flee.”

I nod and say I understand, but inside I’m fighting the urge to drive back to that house and confront him. Part of me wants to grab him by that scarred hand and demand to know why he killed my parents, what they ever did to him, why he destroyed my entire life.

Detective Randolph seems to read my mind because he says he knows how hard this is. But I’ve waited twenty years and I need to wait a little longer to do this right.

I promise him I won’t make contact, and I mean it, even though every cell in my body wants to scream at Bob until he confesses.

Over the next few days, my phone keeps buzzing with messages from Dr. Foreman. The first one just asks if I got home safely from Thanksgiving. Then she starts asking if I’m okay because I seemed upset when I left. By the third day, she’s sending longer messages saying she’s worried about me and asking if something about meeting her family triggered bad memories.

I stare at each message and want to type back that her father is a murderer, that he killed my parents while I watched from a closet, that she’s been helping me search for a killer who was sitting at her Thanksgiving table.

But Detective Randolph’s warning stops me every time.

Finally, she sends a text saying she’s concerned about my well-being and asking if our session last week triggered something she should know about. I type and delete about ten different responses before settling on something brief.

I tell her I need to take a break from therapy for personal reasons, and I’ll reach out when I’m ready.

It feels like a lie, but it’s the closest I can get to the truth without compromising everything.

She responds immediately, asking if there’s anything she can do to help, but I don’t reply.

That weekend, I pull out all the boxes of my parents’ belongings that I’ve kept in my closet for twenty years. I go through every photo, every document, every scrap of paper, looking for any connection between my family and Bob Foreman.

My hands shake as I look at pictures of my parents smiling at birthday parties and holiday dinners, knowing I might finally be close to getting them justice. I find my dad’s old work calendar and flip through the months before the murder, looking for any appointments or notes about plumbing repairs. There’s an entry from three months before they died that just says “plumber coming for kitchen sink.”

My heart starts racing because that could have been Bob. That could have been when he first came to our house and learned the layout.

I take photos of the calendar page and send them to Detective Randolph with a message explaining what I found. He calls me back within an hour and his voice sounds excited.

He says he’s been reviewing Bob’s background and found that twenty years ago, he worked for a plumbing supply company that serviced our neighborhood. This means Bob had legitimate reasons to be in the area and would have known the layout of houses like ours. He probably serviced dozens of homes on our street over the years.

My stomach drops because this makes it even more real. Bob wasn’t some random intruder. He was someone who had access to our home, who my parents probably let in without question because he was there to fix something.

Detective Randolph keeps talking and explains the legal challenges we’re facing. Twenty years means most physical evidence is gone or too old to be useful. My eyewitness testimony as a seven-year-old will be questioned by defense lawyers who will say childhood memories aren’t reliable.

“We need something concrete to build probable cause for a DNA warrant,” he says.

He suggests I write down every detail I remember about that night, no matter how small, because something might provide a new angle for the investigation. He says to include everything, even things that seem unimportant, because you never know what detail might matter.

I spend the entire evening writing, filling page after page with details I’ve tried to forget for twenty years. The sound of my mother screaming from the kitchen. The smell of blood that filled the house. The way the killer moved through our home like he knew exactly where everything was, not bumping into furniture or hesitating at doorways. The moment my mother grabbed a knife from the counter and fought back, managing to slash his hand before he overpowered her.

I remember hiding in the closet with my hand over my mouth, watching through the crack in the door as he gripped the knife with that bleeding hand. I can still see the blood running down between his fingers as he stood over my parents.

The writing process leaves me emotionally destroyed, crying so hard I can barely see the keyboard. But Detective Randolph said every detail helps, so I keep going.

When I finally finish, it’s three in the morning and I’ve written twelve pages. I email everything to Detective Randolph and collapse into bed, too exhausted to even take off my clothes.

Two days later, there’s a knock on my apartment door in the middle of the afternoon. I look through the peephole and see Dr. Foreman standing there looking worried.

She knocks again and calls my name, saying she’s concerned because I missed our scheduled session and won’t return her calls.

I open the door, but don’t step aside to let her in. She immediately notices something is wrong, probably because I look like I haven’t slept in days. She asks if this is about Thanksgiving, if meeting her family was too much for me.

I have to physically grip the doorframe to stop myself from screaming at her about her father. My jaw clenches and I can feel my whole body shaking with the effort of staying calm. I tell her I need space and start to close the door. She puts her hand out to stop it and says we should talk about whatever is going on, that she’s here to help.

I shake my head and tell her again that I need space, then close the door while she’s still talking. I hear her stand there for a minute before finally walking away.

That night, I decide I can’t just wait around for the police to build their case. I need to do something active, something that feels like progress.

I search online for private investigators who specialize in cold cases and find Priscilla, who has good reviews and a website full of solved cases. She’s expensive, charging $200 an hour, but I’ve been saving money for years specifically for anything that might help solve my parents’ murder.

I call her and explain the situation, leaving out the part about recognizing Bob at Thanksgiving because I don’t want word getting out. I just say I have a suspect and need someone to verify his background and movements from twenty years ago.

Priscilla says she can help and we schedule a meeting for the next day.

When I meet her at a coffee shop, she’s younger than I expected, maybe thirty-five, with sharp eyes that remind me of Detective Randolph. She takes detailed notes as I explain about Bob working for the plumbing company and the timeline of events.

She says she’ll start by verifying his work history and movements twenty years ago, staying within legal bounds but maybe finding things faster than the police.

Within three days, she calls with her first report. She confirms Bob was definitely working in my neighborhood during the time of the murders. His route included houses on my street and the plumbing company’s records show he did service calls at multiple addresses within two blocks of where I lived.

She also found something interesting in his employment records. Bob left that job suddenly two months after my parents were killed, citing “family reasons” on his exit paperwork.

Priscilla says the timing could be coincidental, but combined with everything else, it feels significant.

I immediately call Detective Randolph to share what Priscilla found, and he agrees the timing of Bob leaving his job is worth noting. He says he’s building a timeline of Bob’s life around the murders, and every piece helps establish opportunity and suspicious behavior. He sounds energized, like we’re finally making real progress after twenty years of nothing.

Two days later, he calls to say he’s meeting with the assistant district attorney, Dan, to discuss what we’d need to move forward with charges. I ask if I should come and he says not yet, that this is just preliminary strategy.

The next afternoon, he calls back and explains what Dan told him. Even with my identification and Bob’s presence in the neighborhood during the murders, they needed something physical to build a prosecutable case. Dan suggested looking into whether any evidence from the original crime scene was still preserved somewhere, because modern DNA testing could extract profiles from samples that were too degraded twenty years ago.

Detective Randolph says he’ll start checking the cold case storage facility to see what might still exist.

That night, I can’t sleep because every time I close my eyes, I see Bob’s scarred hand reaching toward me.

The next morning at the grocery store, I see an older man with gray hair and my chest gets tight. My hands start shaking. I have to leave my cart and walk outside to breathe.

It keeps happening over the next few days. Any man with gray hair or visible scars on his hands makes my heart race and my vision narrow.

I wake up three or four times a night checking that my apartment door is locked, then checking again ten minutes later because I can’t remember if I’d actually checked or just thought about checking.

I know I need help, but going back to Dr. Foreman is impossible and the idea of explaining everything to a new therapist makes me want to throw up. Instead, I go online and order a security system with door sensors and cameras.

When it arrives, I spend six hours installing it and testing it, then checking the locks again anyway because the cameras don’t feel like enough.

Priscilla calls while I’m checking the locks for probably the twentieth time that day. She’s been digging into Bob’s financial records and found something interesting. He paid for almost everything in cash and kept a very low digital footprint, which she says could be normal for someone his age who doesn’t trust technology, but it could also suggest someone who was careful about leaving traces of his activities.

She’s going to keep looking for any unusual patterns around the time of my parents’ murders—any large cash withdrawals or unexplained expenses.

I feel this grim satisfaction hearing that we’re building the case piece by piece, even though each piece feels tiny compared to what we need.

The next day, I get an email from Dr. Foreman saying she’s filed a formal notice that I’ve terminated therapy. She offers referrals to three other therapists who specialize in trauma and says she hopes I’ll continue getting help. Her tone is professional, but I can sense hurt underneath the careful wording, and part of me feels guilty for ghosting her after she’d been so supportive for six months.

But then I remember her father’s scarred hand drying that dish towel and the guilt disappears. She had to have known or she was dangerously blind to details that any therapist should notice.

Two days later, Detective Randolph calls to say the DNA retesting has been approved and samples are being sent to the lab. He warns me that even with modern technology, twenty-year-old evidence might be too degraded to yield useful results. He also explains that if we do get a DNA profile from the killer, we’ll still need a sample from Bob to compare it to, which means building enough probable cause for a warrant.

The legal process feels endless, but I understand it’s necessary to do everything right so nothing gets thrown out later on technicalities.

Priscilla calls me the next afternoon to say she’s tracked down Bob’s supervisor from twenty years ago, a retired guy named Frank who remembers Bob pretty clearly from that time period. She says Frank described Bob as reliable but quiet, not much of a talker. However, around the time he quit, Frank noticed scratches on Bob’s arms and that he seemed more on edge, more distracted.

Priscilla asks if my mother hurt the killer anywhere besides the hand, and I tell her I don’t remember seeing anything else, but I was hiding in a closet and could only see so much.

She says this new information might help establish a pattern of injuries consistent with my mother’s attack.

I pass everything on to Detective Randolph, and he adds it to the growing file of evidence against Bob.

Three weeks after that call, he asks me to come to the courthouse because the judge is hearing arguments about the DNA warrant.

I sit in the courtroom while Dan presents our case, laying out my identification of Bob, his presence in the neighborhood during the murders, the suspicious timing of him quitting his job and moving, and the co-worker’s statement about scratches on his arms.

Bob’s attorney argues that this is all circumstantial and based on unreliable childhood memories. The judge listens to both sides for over an hour, asking tough questions about the strength of the evidence.

When she finally rules, granting the warrant based on the totality of circumstances, I feel this huge wave of relief wash over me. Twenty years of searching and we’re finally going to get concrete answers.

Two days later, two detectives go to Bob’s house early in the morning to serve the warrant. Detective Randolph calls me right after to say Bob complied with the swab collection but immediately asked for his lawyer. His attorney showed up within thirty minutes and Bob refused to answer any questions without counsel present.

The lawyer makes a statement to the detectives calling this a case of mistaken identity based on unreliable childhood memories, but the warrant is valid and they have the sample.

Now comes the hardest part: the waiting.

The lab technician tells Detective Randolph it will take six to eight weeks to process and compare the samples because they’re backed up with cases.

Six to eight weeks feels like forever.

I try to maintain some kind of normal routine—going to work, seeing a new therapist, Michelle, for trauma counseling twice a week—but I’m obsessively checking my phone every few minutes for updates. Every time it buzzes, I grab it, hoping for news from Detective Randolph.

Every day feels like a year as I imagine finally getting confirmation that Bob killed my parents.

Michelle helps me understand that this waiting period is its own kind of torture. Different from the twenty years of not knowing, but just as hard in its own way.

During one session about four weeks into the waiting period, the ethics board reaches their decision about Dr. Foreman. Matteo calls me to explain that they’ve found she violated professional boundaries by inviting me to her family’s Thanksgiving dinner. The board issues a formal reprimand that will stay on her record and requires her to complete additional training on therapeutic boundaries before she can return to full practice. She’s allowed to keep her license, but this violation will be permanent.

I feel satisfied that there are consequences for what she did, though it seems pretty minor compared to what her father might be facing.

Around the same time, Priscilla finishes her investigation and meets me at a coffee shop to hand over her final report. It’s this thick binder documenting everything she’s found about Bob over the past few weeks: the timeline of his movements twenty years ago, maps showing his work route through my neighborhood, copies of employment records showing when he quit, the co-worker’s statement about his scratches and stressed behavior, financial records showing when he sold his house.

She’s compiled it all into a professional dossier that strengthens our case. She tells me she’s confident we have the right person and she hopes the DNA will confirm it.

Her certainty helps me get through the endless waiting, gives me something to hold on to when the doubt creeps in.

Michelle spends several sessions helping me prepare for both possible outcomes: what if the DNA matched, and what if it didn’t? We work on coping strategies for either scenario because she wants me ready emotionally regardless of the results.

During one session, I realize something that hits me hard. I’d spent twenty years building my entire life around finding this killer. My whole identity was wrapped up in being the boy whose parents were murdered, the witness who never gave up searching. I wasn’t sure who I’d be once this was resolved one way or another. What would I do with myself if we got justice? What would I do if we didn’t?

Michelle says this is actually a sign of growth—that I’m starting to think beyond the case for the first time in two decades.

About five weeks into the waiting period, Dr. Foreman sends a request through Matteo asking if I’d be willing to meet with her in a mediated session. She wants to apologize directly and explain that she’d never made any connection between my case and her father.

I’m pretty reluctant because I don’t really want to see her or hear her excuses, but Matteo suggests it might provide some closure for both of us, help us both move forward. I think about it for a few days and finally agree to meet in his office with him present as a neutral party.

The mediation happens on a Tuesday afternoon in Matteo’s conference room. Dr. Foreman is already there when I arrive, and she looks terrible, like she hasn’t been sleeping. Her eyes are red and she starts crying almost immediately when I sit down.

She apologizes for the boundary violation and insists she’d never suspected her father of anything. She says if she’d made any connection between my descriptions and her dad, she would have referred me to another therapist right away.

I want to believe her, but I’m also really angry that she hasn’t been more careful with all the details I’ve shared. I tell her that even if she didn’t know, she should have recognized that inviting a patient to family dinner was crossing a line.

We talk for over an hour and don’t resolve everything, but by the end, I feel slightly less betrayed. At least she seems genuinely sorry and genuinely shocked about her father.

Seven weeks after the DNA sample is collected, Detective Randolph finally calls. His voice sounds carefully neutral when I answer, which immediately makes my stomach drop.

He says the lab has finished processing and comparing the samples. The DNA from under my mother’s fingernails is a partial match to Bob. It’s consistent with him being the person who left that DNA, but the sample is so degraded and incomplete that it isn’t conclusive enough to be certain beyond reasonable doubt.

While the DNA doesn’t exclude Bob, it also doesn’t definitively prove he was there that night.

My heart just sinks because this isn’t the clear answer I desperately needed after waiting seven weeks.

Detective Randolph can hear the disappointment in my voice, and he tries to explain that partial matches have led to convictions before when combined with other evidence. But I know what this means. It isn’t the smoking gun we’d hoped for.

The next day, I meet with Dan at his office to discuss what the partial match means for the case. He explains that it isn’t enough by itself to guarantee a conviction at trial. Any decent defense attorney could argue contamination, degradation over twenty years, or even coincidental similarity.

He says he needs to decide whether to charge Bob based on the totality of all our evidence or wait and see if anything else turns up. He’s leaning toward charging him because when you put together my identification, Bob’s opportunity and presence in the neighborhood, the suspicious timing of his life changes, the co-worker’s observations, and the DNA consistency, it creates what he calls a prosecutable case.

He says juries have convicted on circumstantial evidence before when the circumstances all point in one direction. But he wants to be honest with me that this isn’t a guaranteed win. There’s real risk that a jury might not convict based on what we have.

I leave his office feeling this weird mix of hope and dread, knowing we’re close but not certain we’ll get there.

The next day, Detective Randolph calls and asks me to come by the station. I drive over feeling heavy, like the partial DNA results have taken all the hope out of me.

He sits me down in the same conference room where we’ve gone through the original case files and pulls out a folder. He starts showing me other cases where partial DNA matches combined with witness testimony have led to convictions. He walks me through three different murder trials where juries have found defendants guilty based on circumstantial evidence that looks a lot like ours.

He points to the timelines, the witness statements, the forensic analysis that isn’t perfect but paints a clear picture. He tells me he’s worked cases for fifteen years, and the evidence we have against Bob is strong. Really strong.

The partial match isn’t ideal, but when you add my identification, Bob’s presence in the neighborhood, his sudden job change, the co-worker’s statement about scratches, and the timing of everything, it creates what prosecutors call a compelling narrative.

He says juries convict on circumstantial evidence all the time when the circumstances all point in the same direction.

I want to believe him, but twenty years of disappointment have taught me nothing is guaranteed. I’ve watched enough true crime shows to know that cases that seem solid sometimes fall apart in court.

I thank him and leave feeling slightly better, but still scared we’ll come this far only to lose at trial.

That afternoon, Bob’s attorney holds a press conference that plays on every local news channel. I’m at home when my phone starts buzzing with notifications. I turn on the TV and see this slick guy in an expensive suit standing in front of microphones.

He says his client, Bob Foreman, completely denies the allegations and maintains his innocence. He calls the DNA match coincidental and says the sample is so degraded that it proves nothing. Then he goes after me directly, saying childhood memories are notoriously unreliable and that I’ve been influenced by twenty years of obsession with finding my parents’ killer.

He suggests I’ve convinced myself Bob is guilty based on a common scar and my desperate need for closure. He says his client is a loving father and grandfather who’s never been in trouble with the law, and this is a case of mistaken identity driven by a traumatized witness who can’t let go.

I feel rage building in my chest as I watch him tear apart my credibility on television. My hands are shaking so bad I can barely hold the remote.

I call Dan immediately and he can hear how upset I am. He tells me to breathe, that this is standard defense strategy and we shouldn’t respond publicly. He says the case will be decided by evidence presented to a jury, not by media statements and press conferences. He reminds me that defense attorneys always attack witness credibility because that’s their job and it doesn’t mean the jury will believe them.

He says we need to stay focused on building the strongest possible case and not get distracted by public relations battles.

I try to calm down, but seeing myself portrayed as some obsessed, unreliable witness on TV is harder than I’d expected.

Over the next week, Dan reviews all the evidence and makes his decision. He calls me in for a meeting and explains that instead of filing charges directly, he wants to present the case to a grand jury.

He says this will give him the chance to present all our evidence in a controlled setting without the defense being able to challenge it yet. If the grand jury finds probable cause, they’ll issue an indictment and then we’ll move forward to trial.

He starts preparing me to testify again, this time in much more detail about the murder itself and my identification of Bob.

We spend hours going over my testimony, practicing questions and answers, making sure I can walk the grand jury through every moment of that night.

He explains that the grand jury process is secret, which means I won’t have to face Bob or his attorneys. It’ll just be me, the prosecutors, and the grand jurors.

He warns me it’ll be emotionally difficult to relive that night in such detail, but it’s necessary to help the jury understand exactly what I witnessed and why I’m so certain about the identification.

I tell him I’m ready to do whatever it takes.

The grand jury testimony is scheduled for two weeks out, which gives me time to prepare mentally. Michelle helps me work through the anxiety of having to describe my parents’ murder in detail to strangers. She teaches me grounding techniques for when the memories become overwhelming.

On the day of my testimony, I arrive at the courthouse early. Dan meets me outside the grand jury room and goes over everything one more time.

Then I walk in and see twenty-three people sitting in rows watching me. I take my seat and Dan starts asking questions.

I testify for three hours straight, walking them through every single detail of that night. I describe hiding in the closet, hearing my mother scream, watching through the crack in the door as the man with gray hair moves through our house. I explain how my mother grabbed a knife from the kitchen and fought back, how she slashed his left hand before he overpowered her.

I tell them about watching him stab my parents, about the scar I saw on his hand as he gripped the knife, about memorizing every detail of his face because even at seven, I knew I needed to remember.

Then I walk them through recognizing Bob at Thanksgiving, seeing that exact same scar, feeling my body go cold with the certainty that this was the man from my nightmares.

The grand jurors ask me thoughtful questions about the scar, about my certainty, about whether I’d had any doubt when I saw Bob. I answer every question as honestly as I can, explaining that I’d spent twenty years remembering that scar, and there’s no question in my mind it’s the same one.

After I finish, Detective Randolph testifies about the investigation and every piece of evidence pointing to Bob. Priscilla testifies about the timeline she’d documented and Bob’s suspicious behavior. Dan presents the DNA results and brings in an expert to explain what a partial match means and why it’s significant, even though it isn’t conclusive.

The whole process takes most of the day. I go home exhausted and emotionally drained from reliving the worst night of my life.

Then I wait.

The grand jury deliberates for two days while I barely sleep. Every time my phone rings, I jump. Finally, Detective Randolph calls with news. The grand jury has returned an indictment against Bob for two counts of murder in the first degree.

I start crying right there on the phone. Twenty years of pain and frustration pouring out. He tells me Bob is being arrested right now and will be held on high bail because of the severity of the charges and the risk he might run.

His family is still claiming his innocence, but he’s going into custody to await trial.

I hang up and just sit on my couch crying for an hour. After twenty years of searching, the man who killed my parents is finally being charged.

Within hours, the arrest hits local news and my phone starts blowing up. Reporters call, email, and show up at my apartment building. Everyone wants to interview me about the cold case that has finally been solved after two decades.

I ignore all the requests because Dan has warned me not to talk to media before trial, but I can’t help watching the news coverage. They show Bob’s mug shot next to old photos of my parents that must have come from the original case files. They call it a breakthrough in a twenty-year-old cold case. A son who never gave up searching for justice.

It feels weird seeing my story on TV, seeing my parents’ faces on the screen.

That week, I have a session with Michelle and we talk about the complex feelings I’m dealing with. Relief that Bob has been charged. Vindication that people finally believe me. Grief that is somehow sharper now that justice is actually happening. Anxiety about the trial, about what will happen if a jury doesn’t convict.

She helps me process all of it and reminds me that whatever happens, I’ve accomplished something remarkable by getting this case reopened and charged.

Over the next few weeks, Bob’s attorney files a bunch of motions trying to get evidence thrown out. He wants to suppress my identification testimony, arguing it’s unreliable. He wants to suppress the DNA evidence, claiming it’s too degraded to be meaningful. The court schedules pre-trial hearings, and I have to sit through days of expert testimony.

Memory experts talk about how childhood memories change over time. DNA experts debate the significance of partial matches. The defense brings in their own experts who question everything. But Dan fights back hard with his own experts, who explain why my memory is reliable and why the DNA evidence matters.

After weeks of hearings, the judge makes her rulings. Both my identification testimony and the DNA evidence will be admissible at trial. The defense can challenge their reliability in front of the jury, but the evidence won’t be suppressed.

Dan calls it a major victory for the prosecution. I feel relieved, but also know the real battle is still coming.

Around this time, Dan approaches Bob’s attorney with a plea offer. He proposes that Bob plead guilty to two counts of murder in the second degree instead of first degree, and in exchange, he’d get concurrent twenty-year sentences instead of consecutive life terms.

The attorney takes the offer to Bob but comes back saying his client refuses. Bob is maintaining his innocence and demanding a trial.

Part of me feels disappointed because a plea would have meant certainty, no risk of acquittal. But another part of me wants him to face a jury and be publicly convicted for what he did to my parents. I want twelve people to hear all the evidence and declare him guilty.

The trial is scheduled for four months out, which means more waiting.

I try to focus on living my life instead of obsessing over the upcoming trial. I keep seeing Michelle regularly, and she helps me understand that regardless of what a jury decides, I’ve already accomplished something important. I’ve given my parents a voice after twenty years of silence. I’ve fought for them and gotten their case reopened and charged. That matters whether or not we win at trial.

I start trying to build a life beyond this case, making plans that aren’t centered on finding my parents’ killer. It’s hard but feels necessary.

One day, I get an email from Dr. Foreman. She says she’s sorry for everything that has happened and that she’s cut off contact with her father. She says she believes me and hopes I get justice, but she’s also dealing with the pain of learning her father might be a murderer. She says she understands if I never want to speak to her again, but she wanted me to know she’s thinking of me.

I read the email twice and then close it without responding. There’s nothing left to say between us. Our relationship as therapist and patient is over and I need to focus on the trial ahead. I appreciate that she believes me, but I can’t carry her pain on top of my own.

I have to focus on getting through the next four months and preparing to face Bob in court.

Three months pass in a blur of preparation sessions with Dan. We meet twice a week in his office, going through every detail of my testimony until I can recite it in my sleep.

He plays the role of the defense attorney, asking hostile questions designed to shake my confidence and make me doubt my own memories. The practice is brutal but necessary. He warns me that the defense will try to suggest I’ve been coached or that my memory is unreliable after twenty years.

We work on staying calm when questioned, acknowledging what I’m not certain about while maintaining confidence in what I know for sure: the scar, the face, the way he moved through my house that night. Those details have never wavered.

Dan teaches me to pause before answering, to think carefully about each question, to avoid getting defensive or emotional even when the questions feel like attacks.

By the time the trial date arrives, I feel as ready as I can be, though my stomach still twists with anxiety every time I think about facing Bob in court.

The trial starts on a Monday morning in late March. I sit in the courtroom gallery during jury selection, watching twelve strangers get questioned about their ability to be fair and impartial. It takes two full days to seat the jury and two alternates.

Then come opening statements.

Dan stands before the jury and tells them about a seven-year-old boy who watched his parents get murdered, who hid in a closet and saw every detail of the killer’s face and hands, who carried that memory for twenty years until a chance encounter brought him face to face with the man who destroyed his family.

He walks them through the evidence they will see, the witnesses they will hear from, the DNA results that support my identification.

Bob’s attorney counters by talking about reasonable doubt, about how childhood memories fade and change over time, about how a partial DNA match isn’t proof of anything. He suggests I’ve become so obsessed with finding a killer that I’ve convinced myself Bob is guilty based on a scar that thousands of people might have.

The jury listens carefully to both sides, their faces neutral and unreadable.

My testimony starts on Wednesday morning and lasts two full days. Dan walks me through that night step by step, asking me to describe what I saw from the closet, how my mother fought back, how the killer moved through our house like he knew the layout.

I explain recognizing Bob at Thanksgiving, the moment I saw his scarred hand and knew with absolute certainty it was him.

The direct examination is difficult but manageable because Dan and I have practiced it so many times.

Then comes cross-examination, and it feels like getting attacked.

Bob’s attorney suggests I’ve spent twenty years building a fantasy about finding my parents’ killer, that I’m so desperate for answers I latched onto the first person with a scar on their hand. He asks if I’ve ever seen other people with hand scars and mistaken them for the killer.

I stay calm and explain that this isn’t just any scar. It’s distinctive and specific, jagged and running from thumb to wrist in a pattern I have drawn for police sketches a thousand times.

He asks how I can be sure my memory hasn’t changed over two decades, if I might be remembering the police sketch instead of the actual killer. I look directly at the jury and tell them I’ve had nightmares about that scar for twenty years, that it’s burned into my brain, that seeing it on Bob’s hand was like looking at a photograph I’d carried in my mind my entire adult life.

The jury seems sympathetic, several of them nodding slightly as I speak, but I can’t tell if they believe me.

Detective Randolph testifies next, walking the jury through the investigation and every piece of evidence pointing to Bob. He explains how Bob worked in my neighborhood twenty years ago, how he had opportunity and access to houses like ours, how he left his job abruptly two months after the murders.

Priscilla takes the stand and presents her findings about Bob’s suspicious behavior and life changes right after my parents were killed.

The DNA expert spends hours explaining the partial match from under my mother’s fingernails, why it’s significant even though it’s not complete, how it’s consistent with Bob being the contributor but can’t definitively prove it due to sample degradation.

Bob’s former coworker testifies about seeing scratches on Bob’s arms around the time he quit. Scratches Bob claimed were from work, but the timing matches my mother’s defensive wounds.

Dan builds a strong case piece by piece, showing how everything points to Bob, even though no single piece of evidence is conclusive on its own.

The prosecution rests after five days of testimony, and I feel cautiously hopeful that the jury has heard enough to convict.

Bob testifies in his own defense, which surprises me because Dan has said most defendants don’t take the stand. He sits calmly in the witness box and claims he has no memory of ever meeting my parents, that he serviced dozens of houses in that neighborhood over several years and can’t remember specific addresses.

He admits the DNA could be his but suggests it’s coincidental, that he might have had innocent contact with my mother at some point during a service call. He says he left his job because his wife was sick and needed him home more, that the scratches were from plumbing work in tight spaces.

His testimony is smooth and practiced, his voice steady and reasonable. But I watch the jury studying his left hand as he gestures, their eyes drawn to that distinctive scar over and over.

His attorney tries to make him seem like an innocent grandfather being wrongly accused, but I can see doubt in some of the jurors’ faces as they compare his hand to the photos of my police sketches displayed on screens around the courtroom.

Closing arguments happen on a Friday afternoon. Dan walks the jury through every single piece of evidence one more time, asking them to consider the totality of what they have heard. A distinctive scar that matches perfectly. Opportunity and presence in the neighborhood. Suspicious behavior and life changes right after the murders. DNA consistent with Bob being the killer. And most importantly, a seven-year-old boy’s memory that has never wavered in twenty years—not once, not ever.

He reminds them that circumstantial evidence is still evidence, that they don’t need a confession or perfect DNA to find someone guilty beyond reasonable doubt.

Bob’s attorney spends two hours arguing reasonable doubt, attacking every piece of evidence as insufficient or unreliable, suggesting the prosecution is asking them to convict based on childhood memories and coincidences. He tells the jury they can’t send a seventy-year-old man to prison for life unless they’re absolutely certain, and the evidence doesn’t support that level of certainty.

The jury gets the case at four in the afternoon, and the judge sends them home for the weekend, telling them to begin deliberations Monday morning.

Those three days of waiting are torture, worse than the months leading up to trial because now it’s completely out of my hands.

The jury deliberates for three full days. I spend those days in a conference room near the courtroom, unable to eat or focus on anything except waiting for news. Dan warns me that a long deliberation could mean they’re struggling to reach agreement. But it could also mean they’re being thorough and careful.

Every time my phone buzzes, I jump, thinking it’s the call saying they have reached a verdict.

Finally, on Wednesday afternoon, the call comes. The jury has a verdict.

I rush back to the courtroom, my heart pounding so hard I can barely breathe. Everyone takes their seats and the judge brings the jury in.

The forewoman stands and the judge asks if they have reached a verdict. She says they have.

The clerk reads the charges and asks for the verdict on count one, murder in the first degree.

“Guilty.”

Count two, murder in the first degree.

“Guilty.”

I break down crying right there in the courtroom. Twenty years of grief and rage and frustration pouring out as the word “guilty” echoes in my ears.

Bob shows no emotion as the verdict is read, just sits there with his hands folded on the table, but I see his family crying in the gallery behind him.

The judge thanks the jury and schedules sentencing for two weeks out. Dan puts his hand on my shoulder as I sob, telling me we have done it. Justice has finally been served.

I can’t speak, can barely process that after two decades of searching, Bob has been convicted of killing my parents.

Sentencing day arrives two weeks later, and I’ve prepared a victim impact statement. The judge allows me to speak before imposing sentence.

I stand at the podium and look directly at Bob as I talk about how his actions destroyed my childhood. How I spent twenty years haunted by nightmares and consumed by the need to find him. How he stole my parents from me and left me alone in the world at seven years old.

I describe the therapy, the sleepless nights, the constant fear that he would never be caught and my parents would never get justice.

My voice shakes, but I make it through the entire statement without breaking down.

Bob stares at the table the whole time, never once looking at me.

His attorney asks for leniency based on Bob’s age and lack of prior criminal history, suggesting concurrent sentences would be appropriate. Dan argues for the maximum, pointing out the calculated nature of the crime, the fact that Bob evaded justice for two decades, and the devastating impact on me and my family.

The judge takes less than five minutes to decide. She sentences Bob to two consecutive life terms without possibility of parole, saying the brutal murder of two people in their own home, combined with twenty years of evasion, warrants the harshest penalty available under law.

Bob is seventy years old. He will die in prison.

As the bailiffs lead him away in handcuffs, I feel a weight lift from my chest that I have been carrying since I was seven years old.

After the sentencing, I drive to the cemetery where my parents are buried. I haven’t visited their graves since the trial started because I wanted to wait until I could tell them it’s over.

I kneel between their headstones and tell them that their killer has finally been brought to justice, that Bob has been convicted and will spend the rest of his life in prison, that I have never given up on them and never will.

I cry as I speak, but they’re different tears than before. The grief is still there, will always be there, but it isn’t mixed with helpless rage and frustration anymore. I’ve done everything in my power to get them justice, and I’ve succeeded.

They can rest now. I can rest now.

I stay at the cemetery for over an hour, just sitting with them, feeling a sense of peace I haven’t experienced since I was seven years old.

The trauma will never completely go away, but it has transformed into something I can carry without it consuming me.

My next therapy session with Michelle focuses on processing everything that has happened and thinking about what comes next. She asks me how it feels now that the trial is over and Bob is in prison.

I tell her it feels strange, like I have been holding my breath for twenty years and can finally exhale. But I also feel lost because I have spent my entire adult life defined by being a victim and a witness, by searching for my parents’ killer. And now that is done. I don’t know who I am when that isn’t my primary identity anymore.

She says that’s completely normal, that I’ve spent so long focused on one goal that reaching it leaves a void I will need to learn to fill with new purposes and relationships.

She encourages me to explore interests I’ve neglected while consumed by the case, to build friendships and maybe even romantic relationships, to think about career goals beyond just surviving.

The idea of having a future not centered on the past is scary but also exciting.

For the first time in twenty years, I can imagine building a life that isn’t defined by what Bob took from me.

Three weeks after the sentencing, I find a cold case advocacy group that meets downtown every Tuesday night. I walk into my first meeting and see about fifteen people sitting in a circle, all of them carrying the same kind of weight I’ve been carrying for twenty years.

The facilitator asks if anyone wants to share, and I raise my hand before I can talk myself out of it. I tell them about my parents, about the twenty-year search, about recognizing Bob at Thanksgiving dinner.

When I finish, a woman across the circle starts crying because her sister was murdered eighteen years ago and the case is going cold, too. After the meeting, she asks me how I kept going, and I tell her exactly what Detective Randolph told me about documenting everything and never giving up.

Over the next few months, I become a regular at those meetings, sharing my experience with DNA evidence and court procedures, helping families understand what to expect from the legal system.

It gives me something I hadn’t expected—a way to turn all that pain into something useful for other people.

Six months after Bob’s conviction, I’m sitting in a coffee shop filling out an application for the state university’s criminal justice program.

My nightmares have gone from every night to maybe once a week. And when they come now, they’re different. Less about helplessness and more just memories I can wake up from.

I have actual friends now, people from the advocacy group and a few co-workers who invite me to things. And I actually go instead of making excuses.

Last weekend, I went to a barbecue and laughed at stupid jokes and didn’t think about murder once.

I still visit my parents’ graves every Sunday and tell them about my week, about the families I’m helping, and the classes I’m planning to take.

The grief lives in me, but it doesn’t run my life anymore.

I got them justice, and now I’m building the kind of life they would have wanted for me.