Excerpted from Aftermath Copyright © 2016 by Clara Kenzie and published by F+W Media, Inc. Used by permission of the publisher. All rights reserved.

The reporters’ idle chatter hushes. Cameramen lift their cameras. I count: only seven reporters and six cameramen, but squished together in front of me like this, they look like a hungry monster made of eyes and microphones.

Dad gives them his patented smile, more comfortable in front of a camera than anywhere else. “We’d like to thank you all for coming. You supported us in our time of crisis, and now you’re celebrating with us in our time of joy.”

He goes on, using his stage training to project his voice to the back corners of the room. He talks about how grateful he is to have me home. How very, very proud he is of me, how strong and brave I am. How I’ve given him hope, how I’ve given everyone hope. He doesn’t mention that he’d believed I was dead.

Mom goes next. Though she’s been in several theater productions too, she doesn’t project her voice like Dad did. She speaks to her hands, which are folded primly on the table. “I’d like to give my most sincere thanks to everyone who prayed for us while Charlotte was missing. She’s home now, and I’d appreciate you giving our family privacy while she recovers. She still has a long road ahead of her.”

She stops. That’s it. That’s all she says.

Dad thinks I’m ready to fly around the country as the Ambassador of Hope, but Mom thinks I’m a frail little bird with broken wings.

Silence has blanketed the room, and everyone is looking at me.

Oh. My turn. I take a deep breath and, remembering my own stage training, force myself to look directly at the reporters and smile. I recite my statement, which I wrote last night with Mom’s help. “I’d like to thank everyone for their thoughts and prayers. I’m so happy to be back home with my family. It’s . . .”

The rest of my speech disappears from my head. So many cameras are on me. This press conference is going to be on television, broadcast on every news channel, posted on the Internet. Thousands, maybe millions of people will see me. And they will all be thinking: Victim. Victim. Victim.

I swallow, lick my lips, try again. “I’m so happy to be back home with my family . . .”

He could be watching this press conference, too. He’s going to see me, too.

His hands creep up around my neck.

“It’s, um . . .” I inhale, but air won’t get through and it comes out as a panicked squeak.

Alexa is on me then, grabbing me, hugging me, making a sobbing noise. I hide my face in her shoulder.

The reporters go aww.

They don’t see hands around my neck, cutting off my air. They think I’m so overcome with love for my family that I can’t even speak.

Alexa sobs again, then whispers into my ear, “Just say the word and I’ll end this. I’ll throw a fit and get you out of here. And then I’ll come back and smash every one of those cameras.” She sobs again, loudly.

That’s when I realize: Alexa’s sobs are an act. The reporters don’t know I’m about to lose it, but she knows. She’s trying to help me.

And that’s all I need. My throat opens up, and I can breathe again. “I’m okay,” I whisper back. I clutch her tightly for one second, then we slowly release each other. At the same time, we sniffle and wipe our fingers under our eyes. My tears are real, and I think Alexa’s are too.