Dec. 2, 2009— -- Melissa Moore had spent her entire life hiding her identity, until now. In her new book, "Shattered Silence," Moore describes what life was like for the daughter of serial killer. From innocent beginnings to uncovering the truth, Moore provides the reader with a raw journey that's sure to thrill.
Life finally seemed to settle into a smoother and easier routine. Every morning, I climbed out of bed, ready to tackle sixth grade. Every day I would come home to play in the neighborhood until bath time, and then it was straight to bed. It was all routine now, even sharing my bed with Carrie and my room with Jason. As a new little family, we were making it on our own.
Over the last couple of months, I had slowly but surely given up on my father getting back together with us permanently. I learned to honor his journey, and I accepted that he wouldn't be with us except for occasional visits. Between those visits and our new home, I did not think there was anything more we needed. The little brown rental home on Nordin Street was what had become permanent, and it felt like a place of safety.
One early morning when the weather couldn't decide if it was late winter or early spring, I woke up to a really queasy stomach. Not sure if I would make it through the day without the threat of spewing on a bus driver, teacher, or classmate, I decided to run the risk of missing school, and went back to bed. My mother had left for work. Jason and Carrie had caught the bus, and the house was now empty and quiet.
Missing any kind of school was a first for me. Confident that I was of age and therefore quite capable of taking care of myself, I knew I shouldn't be worried about being all alone in the house. Had I been worried at all, the flulike cramping and nausea would've drowned it out. After I went back to sleep for a while, I felt a bit better. From the bed I shared with Carrie, I grabbed the large comforter and my pillow and traipsed out to the front room to lie on the couch.
As I lay down, I was glad it felt less isolated out here. This way I knew I would hear my brother and sister coming home from school when it was time. I also knew I would be able to hear the noises of anyone else if they came by. I was wondering if I ought to turn the TV set on when suddenly my mind was filled with the image of a man trying to break into our home. I was defenseless. Over the years, I had learned that sometimes these images and pictures were not just reactions to my fear, but were valid. I attempted to relax—to tell myself that it was all in my head—but the fear made me anxious, and I had a hard time resting on the stiff couch. To make matters worse, there was a large, clear-glass, square window cut right into the door. This made it so I could see anyone who came to the door. Unfortunately, that meant they could see me as well.