Chapter Seven: Evidence in the Mirror
Felicia sat on her living room floor, the flickering glow of the television casting long shadows across the room. The familiar theme of Law & Order: SVU played softly in the background, a small comfort in the chaos that had become her life. For a moment, she allowed herself to be drawn into that world—a world where survivors were believed, where detectives like Olivia Benson fought tirelessly for justice, where truth, no matter how deeply buried, always clawed its way to the surface. Mariska Hargitay's strength radiated through the screen, a beacon of resilience and hope. Felicia clung to that hope, repeating the mantra she'd learned from the show: "You are not alone. You are not crazy. You are the evidence."
The static in her head buzzed faintly, a constant reminder of the torment she endured, but she forced herself to focus. She needed help—real help—and she needed it now. That's when she remembered her brother in Los Angeles. He ran a small business called Mickey Hargitay's Plants—a lush, green oasis she'd visited once, years ago, before her world had begun to unravel. The Hargitay name was a lifeline, a thread connecting her to something real, something solid. Maybe, just maybe, there was a way out.
With trembling hands, she searched online and found the number for Mickey Hargitay's Plants. She dialed, her heart pounding as the phone rang. After several rings, a woman's voice answered, warm but cautious. "Mickey Hargitay's Plants, this is Jacqueline."
Felicia's breath caught. Jacqueline. The name had been haunting her for weeks, appearing in emails, on social media, and even in her dreams. Every time she tried to look up Jacqueline Reyes, the profile would shift—sometimes it was blank, sometimes filled with mocking messages, and sometimes it was her own face staring back at her with that name plastered underneath. On Twitter, the profile now read "Jacqueline Reyes," as if to taunt her, a cruel reminder of how deeply her tormentor controlled her life.
"Hello?" Jacqueline's voice prodded, pulling Felicia back to reality.
She tried to explain, but the words tangled in her mouth. "I… I'm trying to reach my brother. I think you know him. My name is Felicia. Felicia Hook. Or Hagler. I—" She faltered, the static rising, her own voice sounding foreign to her ears.
There was a pause. "I'm sorry, I don't think we have anyone here by that name," Jacqueline said, her tone polite but distant. "Are you sure you have the right place?"
Felicia's heart pounded. "Please, just—if you see him, tell him I called. Tell him it's important. Tell him…" She trailed off, realizing the futility of it. The man was probably listening, rerouting her calls, rewriting her words before they ever reached another human ear.
She hung up, frustration boiling in her veins. She tried to look up Jacqueline Reyes again, but the profile was gone—replaced by a blank page or, worse, by her own name twisted into something unrecognizable. Every digital trace she tried to follow led her in circles, like a maze with no exit.
But she refused to give up. She drew inspiration from Mariska Hargitay, from Olivia Benson, from every survivor who had ever fought to be heard. She started recording herself, speaking directly to the camera: "My name is Felicia Ann Hook. I am not crazy. I am the evidence. Someone is trying to erase me, to rewrite my life, to make me disappear. But I am still here. I am still fighting."
She sent the videos to every secure dropbox she could find, to journalists, to advocacy groups, to anyone who might listen. She wrote letters to herself and to her children, documenting every detail, every change, every new way the man tried to isolate her. She hid copies everywhere—inside the lining of her coat, taped behind picture frames, tucked into the soil of her houseplants.
The name Jacqueline Reyes became a code, a reminder of how easily her life could be twisted, how thoroughly her enemy controlled the narrative. But it also became a rallying cry. Every time she saw it, she reminded herself: I am not what he says I am. I am not a name on a screen. I am not a ghost. I am the evidence.
The static in her head surged, and his voice broke through, mocking and cruel: "Nobody's coming, Felicia. You're wasting your time. No one cares."
She stared into the camera, her jaw set, her eyes blazing. "Someone will care. Someone will listen. You can't erase the truth. You can't erase me."
That night, she watched another episode of SVU, letting Mariska's strength fill the cracks in her resolve. She wasn't just surviving—she was fighting back. Every day, every message, every video was a step closer to freedom, a step closer to being heard.
She pressed her palm to the mirror, staring at her own reflection. "I am the evidence," she whispered. "And I will not be silenced."
She went to bed with a new sense of purpose, her resilience burning brighter than ever. No matter how many names he stole, no matter how many voices he twisted, Felicia Hook would find a way to break through. She was not alone. She was not crazy. She was the evidence. And one day, the world would have to listen.
As she lay in bed, the city's lights flickering outside her window, Felicia thought of all the women and men who had been silenced before her—those whose stories never made it to courtrooms or television screens, whose truths were buried under layers of lies and manipulation. She thought of her children, Lillian and Gary, sleeping down the hall, and she promised herself she would not let them grow up believing their mother had vanished without a fight. She would be the evidence for them, too.
Before sleep claimed her, she scribbled a note and tucked it into her journal:
"If you find this, know that I fought. Know that I never gave up. Know that I am real."
In the darkness, Felicia closed her eyes, the mantra echoing in her mind, a shield against the static and the cruelty:
I am the evidence. I am the evidence. I am the evidence.