Page 121 of The Vixen

According to Monterey Police, a jogger found Whitmore’s body partially submerged in the surf at approximately 6:15 a.m. Emergency responders arrived on the scene shortly after and confirmed she had been deceased for several hours. A handwritten note, believed to be hers, was found nearby on the damp sand.

Whitmore, a longtime Monterey resident, is believed to have entered the water late Monday night after filling her coat pockets with stones. A handwritten note was recovered nearby, though its contents have not been publicly disclosed. Police described it as brief and personal.

“This appears to be a deliberate act,” says Detective Mark Hensley of the Monterey Police Department. “At this time, we do not suspect foul play.”

Whitmore is survived by her husband, Gerald 'Gerry' Voss, and her 18-year-old son, Sawyer Voss. Neighbors described her as a lively, warm woman who was deeply devoted to her son. In recent years, some noted a change in her demeanor, attributing it to ongoing personal struggles.

If you or someone you know is struggling, help is available. The National Suicide Prevention Lifeline provides 24/7 support at 1-800-273-8255.

“Mr. Hansley?” Persephone softly nudges my shoulder. “The horn blared. We’re required to leave for the arena as soon as we hear it.”

Shifting my tongue, I search for moisture along my cheek. But find nothing. I clear my throat and try to swallow before yanking the article from the wall, a metal tack clinging to ripped flimsy paper. It crinkles in my fist and tears at the corner as I shove it down my pocket.

“It’s all right. I know a shortcut,” I tell Persephone. She gives me a rumpled face but doesn’t protest as I fling open the door at our feet and start down the ladder. There’s a moment of hesitation where I think she’ll refuse to follow, but twelve years of indoctrinated submission are hard to break free from.

“Come,” I say, firmly enough that I fight a wince.

She lowers herself without a word.

The next fifteen minutes happen on autopilot.

We drop to the bathroom where I rip the board from under the sink. A minute later, I’m ignoring Persephone’s protests while I lead her into the tunnel. So much has changed since the last time I crawled through this dirt, and yet it feels nearly the same.

Running for my life.

Captive in tow.

The nagging feeling that something is wrong.

Not a trap this time, but a reluctance just the same. A pit in my gut that seems to stiffen my limbs and dull my reflexes. I crawl right through a spider web and brush it away as an afterthought. I hear Persephone’s anxious whine and forget that I should comfort it.

It isn’t until I heave myself out of the tunnel and find Liberty anxiously waiting on the other side that I’m conscious enough to school my expression.

And it isn’t enough.

“Did something happen?” Liberty asks, her pitch high.

I only answer by helping Persephone out of the tunnel. She glances between Liberty and me before pulling her jacket tight and hurrying toward the treeline, probably just nervous to get to the ceremony, but this freaks Liberty out. Her eyes pop as she looks between me and Persephone.

Why does it feel like time is slowing?

“Sawyer.”

I touch the pocket with the article.

What would’ve happened had I not found it? No doubt as soon as Liberty and I leave, she’ll contact the authorities. No doubt they would’ve searched every inch of the compound and found my name, along with my mother’s.

The press would want someone to blame for my wickedness.

They’d find it in the scar on my arm, the perspective of my elementary teachers, the reports filed by CPS. A child kept from school; a child with wild stories and confusing injuries.

My faults are mine, but I’ve spent nights praying they’d blame it all on my father.

They wouldn’t.

“Sawyer, what are you doing?!”

My eyes refocus on Liberty. She’s full-blown panicking now, her feet pointed in the direction of Persephone. I turn my head. Persephone is almost out of sight.