Guest post written by author Brooke Beyfuss
Brooke Beyfuss is a freelance writer who lives in Woodbridge Township, New Jersey with her husband, daughter, and far, far too many pets. She graduated from Rutgers University with a BA in psychology and comparative literature, despite failing pre-calculus three times in a row. As a freelance writer, her audiences have run the gamut from holistic healers to adult entertainers. After We Were Stolen is her first novel.
In the true-crime community, absolutely nothing beats the realization of a best-case-scenario. True-crimers are a ravenous bunch, and new information is their nutrition, their sustenance. When a case gets cracked wide open or a mystery is finally solved—especially when a victim is recovered alive, they’re not just sated, they’re scarfing down their favorite dessert. True-crime fans love to see a headline heralding the sudden resolution of a cold case that dragged on for years or a breaking news banner announcing that an abducted child has been found safe.
And that’s a good thing, right? It’s wonderful to share in genuine joy, tap into empathy, and send love and good vibes into the universe.
For the public, yeah…it’s great. But for the victim who was pulled from darkness and thrust into the limelight? Not so much.
We live in an era of armchair detectives and Reddit sleuths. I myself have spent far more time than I’d like to admit devouring true crime podcasts and making my own speculations, listening to the same cases again and again, searching for even a tiny crumb of new information. Curiosity? Obsession? I really can’t say, but I do know that every time there’s a break in a major case it feels very much like a personal victory. A happy ending means we all get to be part of the story, we all enter the narrative—we’re no longer spectators diving down an endless rabbit hole; that’s our best friend who escaped the shackles of a dark basement. It’s our child who was found safe after days lost in the woods.
When I was drafting my debut novel, After We Were Stolen, I started to think about what that kind of attention would look like on the receiving end—to be an ordinary person made extraordinary via horrific trauma. To be defined by it. I thought about what it might feel like to emerge from years of terror and violence and abuse only to find yourself…famous.
It sounded horrible.
Trauma is a very personal experience and working through it is a private process. But high-profile true crime survivors also have to deal with millions of people who not only have a vested interest in their experience—a well-deserved reward for hours of deep thoughts and speculation—but who also feel entitled to every single detail. Did they not spend weeks reading about the case? Did they not offer up their theories, set up Google alerts, and scour message boards for clues? Yes, they did! They deserve to know!
Right?
I can only imagine the tremendous relief that must come from rescue or escape. The warm, bundled-up feeling of finally being safe and sound. The simple acts of holding your loved ones and going to sleep in your own bed. But it’s certainly not that’s simple, and I really wanted to explore that.
Of the two rescued teenagers in After We Were Stolen, it’s not Avery, the protagonist, who gets the biggest dose of the crimelight. It’s her younger brother, Cole. Abducted as a toddler, he became the focus of a national search that persisted for years. When he stumbled out of the ashes of a cult fifteen years later, a crime on top of a crime on top of a crime, millions of people went into a joyous frenzy. Their baby had been found. And he had so many stories to tell.
Cole as a character was very easy to channel, but he still surprised me. As I was writing his biological parents, his perspective wouldn’t allow me to portray them as anything but villains. He slapped every single helping hand extended to him. He was acerbic, defiant, and terrified…after being rescued. Before setting foot out the door. And without realizing that the world was right outside, waiting to receive him.
I didn’t show much of what happens to him, though there are hints. Ultimately, I was writing Avery’s story, and while Cole plays a huge role in her life, part of that role is to disappear for a second time. But long after he left the page, as I walked Avery through both trauma and healing, I couldn’t help but wonder what he must be going through. Reunited with strangers. Free in theory but trapped by the public’s expectations. Reborn into a life he never asked for.
Real-life survivors, particularly the most high-profile and traumatic cases, don’t usually get the opportunity to stay off the page. Their celebrity is inevitable.
It was a painful thing to speculate. And it must be excruciating to endure.
