Too Close To Home

I watched part of a show the other day called Girl Taken.

It’s about a seventeen-year-old girl who is kidnapped by her teacher.

I’m not a stranger to this kind of story, so I expected it to play in the background while I figured out how to crochet my latest project—tiny 3D succulents. Something to half-watch. Something distant.

Very shortly in, I realized I had stopped crocheting.

I was fully engrossed—not because of the crime itself, but because for the first time in one of these stories, the behavior of the predator hit too close to home.

Not the kidnapping.

Not the captivity.

Not the rape, the pregnancy, the murder.

It was how he lived among people.

After he kidnapped her, he didn’t disappear.

He didn’t retreat into some shadow life.

He continued teaching.

Continued showing up.

Continued being respected.

He joined the search parties looking for her.

He called her mother to check in, to see how she was holding up.

He interacted with her twin sister—expressing concern, offering comfort.

No one suspected him.

No one questioned that while he was consoling the family, he was actively harming the person they loved most.

He played the part perfectly.

And then there was his wife.

Watching their dynamic was like watching a textbook on abuse unfold in real time—gaslighting, manipulation, guilt, emotional control. He used her love, her patience, her devotion, her desire to please. He used her uncertainty against her.

He explained his absences away.“I’m busy writing my book.”

When she drove out to the cabin where he claimed to be working—where, unbeknownst to her, a young woman was being held captive in the basement—he lied.

And lied.

And lied.

The lies spilled out of him as easily as breath.

She believed him.

She apologized for being lonely.

For missing him.

For asking questions.

She learned quickly that questions were inconvenient.

When the girl finally escaped and named him as her captor, his instinct wasn’t remorse. It was performance.

He told his wife, Surprise. I’ve been so busy. Let’s take a vacation.

When he realized that was a bad idea, he shifted again—minimizing, reframing, warning her that stories were coming, that they were exaggerated, that things weren’t what they seemed.

That’s when I turned it off.

Because suddenly it wasn’t entertainment anymore.

It was recognition.

Holy shit.

The man portrayed in that show wasn’t just a criminal. He was a predator, an abuser, and a highly skilled manipulator—not only of the people closest to him, but of his entire community.

I was not kidnapped.

I was not held captive.

I was not raped.

I was absolutely in a relationship with a predator.

One who said exactly what he needed to say to get what he wanted.

He attended family gatherings with me.

He had my kids over for game nights and dinners.

He installed cameras at my house to help with security.

He worked on my kids’ cars and showed my son basic maintenance.

He asked if I felt safe.

If I felt warm.

If I felt loved.

He bought expensive jewelry.

Let me believe his house was my second home.

That I belonged there.

All while doing what he’d been doing from the very beginning.

Carefully crafting an experience designed to keep me attached.

That’s the part people miss.

Predators don’t look like monsters.

They look like helpers.

Partners.

Good community members.

They hide in plain sight.

And sometimes the most terrifying moment isn’t realizing what they did—

It’s realizing how convincingly they pretended to be someone else—and how easily we all believed them.