2. Privacy? What Privacy?

Marcus

On some level, it was Glenn. The reason of your downfall. Yes. The kind, friendly Glenn, all smiles and little jokes and smooth, velvety talk to make you feel good about yourself and at ease and to keep your mind off the fact that you were posing in rather seductive, one could almost say slutty manner. The Glenn who is such a "wiz" with a camera as well as post-processing the images that he captured your immense, incredible beauty in a breathtaking manner.

I never noticed you in any of the clothes’ adds or other usual stuff that you did. Not that I don't occasionally flicks through them, but... no. It was Glen's website. Dandygirl. A site perhaps fully legal but of very dubious moral standing. A site that doesn't mention the brand of the clothes you wear, because no one gives a shit about that. A site specifically for perverts who wanna leer at very pretty, very underage girls, relatively guilt free because it's not kiddie porn and it's not illegal, at least, so they all hope. Most sites of this sort, usually marketing themselves as "child modelling" which basically means "lots of images of different levels of suggestiveness and erotic nature showing off kids in age inappropriate clothes such as bikini and lingerie". I've seen it all. Most of it is on my drive. Sandra. Katia. Gwen. Breeze. Lily. Bambi. Nicole. Lauren. Sammie. Alexandra. You can pretty much tell a pedo from a normal guy by just speaking these names. They will mean nothing to a normal guy. They will likely make even a "closet", careful, law-abiding pedo blush or smile knowingly or scratch his twitching cock, depending on his nature. Each name, or most of them, anyway, a face. A preteen, little-girlie outline. A bikini-clad butt. A world onto itself, semi-legal, or temporarily legal, until the site owner gets busted, which, especially in the states, they always seem to come to in the end. No surprise there. The money in there is too huge a temptation. A business of custom shoots that include even lewder photos and nudes thriving in the background. People raking in cash by shit loads. Until the custom sets get uploaded on torrents and warez sites. Until a fed agent downloads them. Recognises the girl, or just follows the watermark, if the maker of the set had been that stupid. And puts an end to that particular guy, or team of people, making a space for another one to pop up. There were many. There are a few. There will always be one.

But no one is as good, as tasteful, as good at keeping things so innocent that you could probably frame most of those pictures and get away with displaying them in your office (unless you were a teacher or something, duh...) as Glenn. And as far as you, *Laura V*, are concerned, there's no shady business on the background. I hacked both his server and his personal computer, so I should know - no dodgy custom sets. He makes a guy's cock twitch with the way he portrays the girls, but they are always dressed... enough. He shoots a lot of girls. And he shoots you, too, for this website. You don't even know just how very famous you are in certain circles. Just like ten to five years ago every pedo knew who Sandra model was, now, pretty much every single online pervert knows the cute face and butt of Laura V. You're fucking googleable under that name. Glenn rakes in money big time, even though most of your images are easily obtainable via other means, accessible even to those of us who would never ever use a credit card to pay for something as compromising as an access to this kind of website.

I also spot something that raises my eyebrow, when I remote scan his disk for erased files. Your old friend has a darker side to him, after all. He takes jobs your mum and dad would certainly not approve of, nor would the authorities, for that matter. Boys seem to be his speciality when it comes to darker shit, very young boys with nothing on but latex and leather and rope and hurt-marks. But he never mixes the legal and illegal stuff, he never blurrs the boundaries. You will not know about this side of him, I'm sure. It's funny; I don't know this guy who unwittingly serves you to me almost on a silver platter, or don't think I know, until on one of the erased picturs, I recognise a pet of a friend, and it all clicks in place. I do know him. Only under a different name, a nickname, obviously, and not face to face. He's got some intense business ties with one of my rare good, secret friends. How interesting, but of little relevance just now. I decide to let it be. I have to focus on *you*.

With an access to his server, I have every single image of your ever taken by him. I know his address. I needed help from an even more tech savvy guy, but money... Money gets things done. And enough money gets whatever done, no questions asked. With an access to his email, I soon knew your town, even address, your mum's bank account number... And who would have guessed. You only live a couple hours drive away from where I live. How convenient.

I was obsessing about you so much that I would go get you even you you were in New Mexico and me in North Dakota, but I am in luck. I came over your images several hundred times over and now I am fed up. I am determined to get my hands on you. I am determined to fill my empty dungeon. To finally give it a purpose.

I spend a shitload of cash on private-eye type equipment, mostly legal. I spend even more on outright illegal stuff. I start from a distance. Binoculars, tree from which I can just about make out the corner of your street. Days and days of waiting. And then, bingo. I spot you, in flesh, for the first time. Off to school. Half a mile away, I'd be just a grey dot in the lush greenness of the crown of the tree in which I'm hiding even if you looked directly at me. I'm invisible. Quite an achievement, for a guy of my size and looks.

I grow bolder. I find a property for sale in the neighbourhood from which I can see your drive, your front lawn. Of course I break in... I get a first picture of you not taken by Glenn. Soon I have a decent collection. I wait for a stormy, rainy, sleeting nasty hell of a night and at 3:30am, with the town dead to the world and me being literally the only person outside, I tag your mum's car with a GPS tracker. I place spying cameras around the property. I attach a very nearly invisible cam to the gutter of your neighbor's house. A live stream of your bedroom - pointed directly into your room. An eavesdropping device near your window which will make me overhear most of what goes on in your room if I need to.

And then it goes fast. I find you on Facebook. Bad girl, way too young for that! Anyway, good for me. Soon I'm in, reading your Facebook statuses, private messages, and only days later, emails as well. Your phone is harder, but not impossible once I have access to your email.

I now have a huge part of your life in front of me like an open book, and I read hungrily. I often spend the whole day spying on your activities as you do them and then re-play and re-read some stuff later, at night, to make sense of them. I start learning the patterns of your mum, brothers, far-away dad, you, your friends, school, people who surround you as you go through your life. I make spying on you a full time job with plenty, plenty of overtime, and a major investment, too.

But even being close to you like this, just in virtual reality and the occasional glance though a lens makes my heart beat. I'm on the right track. I can't give up. I want you. You're totally worth any and all risk that I will have to undertake so that I can have you.

I know your size now, and I know I'll make my move soon, otherwise I'll go crazy. I can't keep this up for too long; long enough will reduce the risk of being caught when I grab you, too long and I could get busted before I even make my move, and leave too much of a trail from just my preparation, and I don't want that. So I start the shopping. Clothes, toys, all sorts of implements, customised for your size. Delivered into an anonymous P.O. Box from other states, from Japan, Europe... from whoever is willing to make and sell such shit. I haven't even laid a finger on you and you have already cost me tens of thousands of dollars, and that's not counting any costs related to the making of the dungeon itself.

But your big, doe eyes, gorgeous shiny soft hair and the cutest face on the planet haunts me. If all I could do was to rape you and then shoot myself to avoid the consequences, I would seriously consider doing just that. But as the patterns surrounding you emerge and clear, I get clearer and clearer an image of what and how I could do to actually get away with kidnapping you.

Laura

There's no possible way I could have caught you, known about you, or had any idea that you were reading all of my Facebook posts and texts. How could any 11-year-old girl know that she was being stalked by a rich, high-tech, computer-savvy older man? She couldn't. And I didn't.

In the days and weeks leading up to my abduction I just followed my ordinary routine. I went to school, dance, soccer practice, and photo shoots. I talked to my friends, texted and posted to them -- lots of Snapchat and Twitter. Just trivial stuff. Girl stuff. Oh, there was plenty about boys, but almost all of it was G-rated. Most of my girlfriends have to let their parents see their cell phones and computers so they can monitor what they're doing on line. Even the school says it can confiscate cell phones and iPods at any time to see whether we're "sexting" or going to banned websites.

I'm pretty lucky, because my Mom doesn't do that. She's pushy and demanding, but at least I have my privacy. But I still can't text bad stuff to my friends. They'll get in trouble and then I'll get in trouble, like that time Marissa Snapchatted a selfie of her bare boobs to Melinda Roberts, whose Dad was watching over her shoulder at the exact, precise moment that Melinda was trying to explain that Snapchat was harmless, and nobody ever did anything bad on it. Well, Mr. Roberts wasn't happy when he saw that picture. (At least he claimed he wasn't happy. He spent the better part of the next three hours trying to recall the picture and researching on the internet how to retrieve deleted Snapchat images.) Melinda's phone was confiscated. Marissa's Mom got a call. It was all a bad outcome. Melinda got in more trouble than Marissa, though. That Marissa always manages to stay one step ahead of trouble, even when she causes it.

Which is not to say that I haven't done or seen anything on the Internet. In fact, I've done and seen a lot. Nude pictures. Sex pictures. Strange and weird fetish sex pictures. But to me, it's kind of boring. One sleepover we girls just surfed the Internet, looking at anything we wanted because there were no nanny controls on the computer. And you know what? It got boring. Really boring. I couldn't wait to stop and do something else.

But I do like to talk to my girlfriends on my cell phone, and text with them. In the second last full month before my abduction, I racked up over 2,700 separate texts in 30 days, and Mom was not happy. Mostly she was mad because Dad pays my cell-phone bill (it's part of the deal when they got divorced) and he was not happy. I never heard anything from him, but I did from Mom. So my texting went way down. But at least my phone minutes are unlimited in my Friends circle.

Mostly we talk about cute boys at school, and cute actors on Disney Channel, and cute boy bands and singers. I can talk about Justin Bieber until my lips fall off. I mean, I know that a lot of my friends think that Justin is so yesterday, but I think he's way more talented than a lot of the other pretenders out there. Justin was the first real, huge modern pop star. He was discovered on the internet when he was like 13. He was even talented then. At 13! I've seen all of his old Youtube videos. If you watch them, you'll totally get that he has talent even if you don't like his kind of music. People who say he doesn't have talent are just haters. It's one thing to say that you don't like that kind of music, but even if you don't, Justin still has more talent than any other artist in his genre. Not to mention that he's unbelievably cute and adorable.

I even saw his naked butt. Justin's that is. He was at his grandmother's house and decided to surprise her on her birthday with a singing naked telegram. He is so funny! One of his stupid friends took the picture of his butt and sold it, probably for a lot of money. So his naked butt got splashed all over the Internet. But -- OMG -- if you haven't seen the picture, he has The. Most. Amazing. Butt. Ever. I'm serious. I am not kidding. He also has tattoos, which I wish he didn't. But I think it's his life to live and people should just stop telling him what to do all the time.

Looking back on it I only remember one weird thing before I got abducted. About three weeks before it happened, we had a super loud, super crazy rain storm, with all kinds of thunder and lightning. It was pitch black out, but the storm woke me up. I could hear the pitter patter of bare feet running quickly down the hall as my little brothers took off for Mom's room to snuggle in bed with her. Part of me really wanted to do that, too. But I'm 11. I mean, you can't do little-kid stuff when you're almost grown up, even if you want to.

So I stayed in bed, just lying there, cringing a little as the lightning flashed, counting and waiting for the thunder. I had like six of my stuffed animals either in or on the bed with me, and I clutched Maurie, one of my stuffed rabbits (I have seven of them, by the way), just a little closer. Anyway, the rain was coming down so hard on the window that for a second I thought it was open. I got out of bed with Maurie, and went about halfway to the window, just to check, when the lightning suddenly flashed again. And this time, I was kind of looking at the window, and out it, and the lighting lit up the entire side of my next-door neighbor's house. It was bright as day for a split second. And I swear, I saw the shape of something -- it looked like a man, dressed all in black -- on the lower part of the roof. Near the gutter. But still up high. Like he climbed up there or something.

When I saw that my mouth opened wide in disbelief, as my blood ran cold. I backed up. Right into the side of my bed. I quickly jumped back in bed and under the covers. I'm still not sure what I saw. For a few seconds after the bright flash of lightning, I could see the image of that dark shape like a photo imprint in my eye. It looked like a man. My heart was racing. I looked over at my clock radio: It was 3:30 in the morning. Why would anyone be up on a roof at 3:30 a.m. in a rain storm? Maybe my neighbor had a leak? No, that is just plain silly. I tried to calm myself down. It couldn't be a man, I told myself, because it is pouring out and people don't go up on roofs in the middle of a thunder-and-lightning storm. For any reason.

It was really weird, and kind of scary, but after a few minutes my heart rate started to go back down, as the thunder started to move off into the distance, rumbling deeply, and the storm moved away. I fell back asleep shortly after that, my long hair splayed on the pillow, my face angelic, pure, and so young. By morning, I'd largely forgotten what I'd seen, and after a few seconds of chiding myself for being a baby, I forgot about it altogether.