Episode Eight:Buried Proof
905 Words
The post went live at 9:03 a.m.
By noon, it had over 4,000 shares.
By four o’clock, it had tripled.
People weren’t just reading Jace’s words—they were commenting, reposting, and tagging.
The painting he chose as the image was one he hadn’t named until now.
A swirl of ash, flame, and tangled limbs. The caption beneath read:
“I was manipulated. I was silenced. I was made to believe it was my fault. It wasn’t. I’m not looking for pity. I’m claiming truth. For me. For others like me. I won’t be silent again.”
It was raw.
It was honest.
And it shook everything.
At first, it felt empowering.
Jace watched the comments roll in. Dozens of people saying they believed him. That they’d been through it too. That his bravery made them feel seen.
But not everyone was kind.
Some asked for proof.
Some accused him of attention-seeking.
Some—using fake names and blank profiles—defended Lucas. Claimed it was a smear campaign.
We sat on the couch that evening, his phone face-down on the table.
He hadn’t looked at it in over an hour.
“I thought it would feel better,” he said quietly.
“Doesn’t it?”
He shook his head. “I feel... exposed.”
“You told the truth.”
“Now everyone gets to decide what that truth means.”
He didn’t sleep that night.
Neither did I.
He lay in bed, eyes open, staring at the ceiling while the world debated whether his pain was valid.
I held his hand. He didn’t squeeze back.
In the morning, the cease and desist arrived.
It came by courier. Hand-delivered. Clean white envelope with crisp lettering.
Jace opened it with steady hands.
I read over his shoulder.
You are hereby directed to immediately remove any and all statements made regarding Lucas Avery, including but not limited to those published on i********: and affiliated press materials, which may constitute defamation and cause significant harm to Mr. Avery’s personal and professional reputation.
Failure to comply will result in legal action.
At the bottom: Lucas’s attorney’s name.
Jace dropped the letter on the table.
I waited for him to react.
But he didn’t.
He just walked to the sink, filled a glass with water, and drank it slowly.
Then said, “He’s scared.”
“You think this is him bluffing?”
“I think this is what abusers do when their mask slips.”
I took a photo of the letter.
Forwarded it to a lawyer I knew from work. Not a criminal specialist, but sharp. Ethical.
She called me back within an hour.
“I can refer you to someone who handles cases like this. You have options.”
Jace listened while we spoke.
When I hung up, he looked at me and asked, “Do we fight?”
I didn’t hesitate.
“Yes.”
We met with a legal advocate two days later.
She was blunt, compassionate, and confident.
“You did the right thing coming forward,” she told Jace. “That cease and desist is meant to silence you. Nothing more. If you want to pursue action of your own, we can counter.”
“Will it help?” Jace asked.
“It might,” she said. “But it will also get uglier.”
“I can handle ugly,” he replied.
Later that night, I caught him looking through the old messages again.
The ones from Lucas.
He didn’t flinch when I sat beside him.
“I didn’t delete any of it,” he said. “Part of me always knew I might need proof.”
“Do you regret posting?”
He looked up. “No.”
I kissed his knuckles. “Then we keep going.”
The story reached a national blog the next day.
Not a gossip site.
A publication known for spotlighting survivor stories. They interviewed Jace by email, then called to verify everything. He gave them a copy of the letter. The messages. The images.
And when the article dropped, it all changed.
People started sharing their own experiences with Lucas.
Artists. Assistants. Models. Students.
What was once a whisper became a chorus.
That night, while Jace painted with the studio window cracked open, I got a message.
No name. Just a number.
He didn’t just hurt him. He hurt others. I have proof. Meet me tomorrow. Alone.
Attached: a still frame from a video.
A younger Jace, slumped on a couch.
Lucas’s hand on his face.
I showed it to Jace.
His face went still.
“That night,” he said. “That was the one I couldn’t remember.”
“You want to see the full video?”
“No,” he whispered. “But I have to.”
We met the source the next morning.
It was a woman in her late twenties, dark hoodie, nervous eyes.
“I dated Lucas once,” she said. “Barely. But I saw things. Saved things. This was on an old drive I didn’t even realize I still had.”
She handed over a flash drive.
“I don’t want anything. Just... help stop him.”
That night, we watched the video.
And when it ended, Jace said nothing.
But his hands were shaking.
Because there, on the screen—
Was everything he’d feared.
And everything we now had the power to bring into the light.
- Writer
