Dear Erik,
Hi. Do you remember me? I’m the girl from Prescott, Arizona — the lonely cheerleader who began writing to you when I was 16 years old. It’s been over 30 years since we last spoke, so I won’t hold it against you if you have no memory of me. I’m guessing you had a lot of girls corresponding with you. (But I was your favorite, right?)
Every time you’ve been brought up in casual conversation over the past three decades — whether in reaction to news about your case or the release of some new documentary — I have stayed silent, effectively lying by omission. Being linked to an infamous murderer who killed his parents doesn’t mesh well with my image as a suburban mom who plays tennis at the local country club, organizes charity events and volunteers at my children’s school.
I have two daughters, ages 22 and 20. Recently, on a trip to pick up my oldest from college, I wound up alone in a hotel room while she went out with friends for one last hurrah. As I was looking for something to watch on TV, the trailer for your Netflix documentary popped up. I considered clicking “play,” wondering if I might learn something about what drew me to reach out to you all those years ago.
In truth, I have long avoided watching anything that has to do with you and your case. Though I learned many years ago that you had lied to me about your innocence, I still felt a softness and compassion toward you. Discovering this deception didn’t change my desire to preserve the innocence of that time, when I reached out to you, teenager to teenager.
