What’s the most cold-blooded thing you’ve done with a smile on your face?

The Unlikely Alliance and Found Evidence

And it was only the beginning. Over the next few days, Vanessa’s campaign escalated. She and Dererick appeared on a popular podcast that specialized in exposing false accusations. They told their version of events, painting me as an obsessive ex who couldn’t let go. Dererick cried on Q when describing how his life had been ruined by my allegations, his voice cracking at all the right moments.

The podcast host, a man with a history of dismissing domestic violence claims, ate it up. “This is why we need to be skeptical of women who cry abuse,” he said, his voice smug. “The real victims here are men like Derek, whose lives are destroyed by vindictive exes.” His words slithered through my earbuds as I listened, each one hitting like a physical blow.

The fallout was immediate and devastating. People I barely knew were sending me hateful messages. Old classmates from high school were sharing the videos, adding their own comments about how they always knew there was something off about me. My phone buzzed constantly with notifications. Each one was a fresh wound, a new betrayal from someone I thought had known better.

Even worse, some of the guys from our friend group were starting to waver.

“I don’t know what to believe anymore, Logan texted me.”

“The evidence they’re showing seems pretty convincing.”

His message arrived late at night when the loneliness was already crushing. The betrayal of someone I’d thought was becoming a friend made it almost unbearable. Only Tyrese and his cousin Tyrone remained steadfastly in my corner.

Tyrone came over one evening with takeout and a determined expression. “We need a counter strategy,” he said, spreading containers of Chinese food across my coffee table. The aroma of garlic and soy sauce filling my apartment. “They’re controlling the narrative right now.”

The smell of the food reminded me I hadn’t eaten all day, but my stomach was too knotted with anxiety to feel hungry. Outside, rain had started to fall, droplets racing down my windows and blurring the street lights into smears of color.

“What am I supposed to do?” I asked, pushing the food around with my fork. I’d barely eaten in days. My favorite sweater, once snug, now hung loosely from my shoulders. “If I respond publicly, I looked defensive. If I say silent, I look guilty.”

“It’s exactly what happened before.”

“The difference is now you have us,” Tyrese said firmly. “And we have evidence that Vanessa planned this whole thing.” His voice carried a confidence I wished I could feel. His eyes bright with determination as he pulled out his phone to show me something.

Tyrone nodded, his eyes bright with purpose. “Plus, I’ve been doing some digging.” “That witness in the video, she’s Dererick’s cousin.” “I found pictures of them together at a family reunion last year.” He turned his laptop around to show me the evidence, a Facebook photo album from Johnson family reunion 2022.

With Dererick and the witness standing side by side, his arm around her shoulders, a tiny spark of hope flickered in my chest.

“so we can prove she’s lying.” The rain outside intensified, drumming against the roof in a steady rhythm that somehow made the moment feel more significant.

“It’s a start,” Tyrone said. “But we need more.” “We need to show that this isn’t just about you versus them.” “It’s about a pattern of behavior.” His fingers flew over his keyboard, pulling up more social media profiles, more evidence of connections between the people in Vanessa’s videos.

We spent the next few hours strategizing. Tyrone, who worked in IT, helped me secure all my accounts with stronger passwords. Tyrese contacted the detective who had handled my case, asking if there was anything that could be done about the public smear campaign. The rain continued outside, creating a cocoon of sound around us as we worked. The world beyond my apartment temporarily held at bay.

But just as we were starting to feel like we had a plan, my phone rang with an unknown number.

“Hello,” I answered cautiously. The guys fell silent, watching my face for clues about who was calling.

“Is this Jade?” A woman’s voice, unfamiliar, but somehow weary in a way I recognized. There was a quality to it, a certain flatness, a careful control that I’d heard in my own voice after Derek.

“Yes, who’s this?” I pressed the phone closer to my ear, straining to hear over the rain.

“My name is Hannah. You don’t know me, but I dated Dererick before you did.” The word sent a chill down my spine despite the warmth of my apartment. My heart skipped a beat.

“Hannah,” Tyrese and Tyrone exchanged glances, picking up on the change in my tone. “I saw the videos they’re posting about you.” “It’s the same playbook he used with me.” “The gaslighting, the public smear campaign when I tried to leave.” “I never filed a police report, but I should have.”

Her voice cracked slightly on the last words, heavy with regret. Tears welled in my eyes.

“Why are you calling me?” I grabbed a tissue from the box on my coffee table, dabbing at my eyes before the tears could fall.

“Because I believe you and I want to help.”

The simple declaration, I believe you, hit me harder than I expected. After days of being called a liar, of having my experience questioned and dismissed, those three words felt like oxygen when I’d been drowning. Hannah wasn’t the only one. Over the next few days, three more women reached out.

All former girlfriends of Derrick’s, all with similar stories. None had filed reports, but they all recognized the tactics being used against me. The pattern was so clear, so consistent, it was like they were all describing the same nightmare.

Grace had dated Dererick in college. He’d isolated her from friends, then convinced everyone she was mentally unstable when she finally left him. She described how he’d gradually separated her from her support system. First, with small comments about her friends.

“Do you really think she has your best interests at heart?”

Then with more direct manipulation: “Instead of staying with me, we’re done.”

Heather had only gone on a few dates with him. But when she tried to break it off, he’d shown up at her workplace so often she had to change jobs. “He’d just be there,” she’d told me over the phone, her voice still tense with the memory. In the parking lot or the lobby or sitting at a table in the cafe across from my office, always with some excuse about just happening to be in the area.

And Laura had the most disturbing story. Dererick had threatened to release intimate photos of her if she told anyone about his behavior. “I was so ashamed,” she admitted when we met for coffee. “I blamed myself for trusting him with those pictures.” “It took me years of therapy to understand that the shame belonged to him, not me.”

“He’s a textbook abuser,” Grace told me over coffee. She’d driven 2 hours to meet me in person, her eyes haunted with memories I understood too well. The cafe was quiet in the mid-afternoon lull, just a few other customers tapping on laptops or reading books.

“And Vanessa is either his victim or his accomplice. Either way, they’re dangerous together.”

For the first time in weeks, I felt a glimmer of hope. I wasn’t alone. I wasn’t crazy. And most importantly, I had witnesses who could corroborate that Dererick had a pattern of abusive behavior. The weight that had been crushing me began to lift slightly, allowing me to take a full breath for the first time in what felt like forever.

But just as things were looking up, Vanessa escalated again. I was at Tyrese’s apartment going through the evidence we’d collected. When his phone buzzed with a notification, his face went pale as he read it. The color draining away so quickly I knew it had to be bad.

“What?” I asked, instantly alert. The comfortable feeling of safety I had in his apartment evaporated in an instant.

“Vanessa just posted your address and work schedule on Twitter.” His voice was tight with controlled anger, his fingers gripping his phone so hard his knuckles turned white.

My blood ran cold. “She what?” The room seemed to tilt slightly. The familiar surroundings of Tyrese’s living room, the gaming posters on the walls, the mismatched furniture, the stack of textbooks from his night classes, suddenly feeling strange and distant.

“She framed it as a warning to people in the area to be careful around an unstable person, but it’s basically an invitation for harassment.” He showed me the screen where Vanessa’s tweet displayed my full address and the days and times I usually worked at McDonald’s, all under the guise of public safety.

I grabbed my phone, hands shaking, and sure enough, there were already strange cars driving slowly past my apartment complex. According to my neighbor’s texts, someone had taped a note to my door with the word liar scrolled across it in jagged red letters. The photo my neighbor sent showed the paper fluttering in the breeze, the red ink looking uncomfortably like blood against the white of my door.

“You can’t go home,” Tyrese said firmly. “You’re staying here tonight.” His tone left no room for argument, and honestly, I didn’t have the energy to protest.

The thought of returning to my apartment, of wondering if someone was watching the building or waiting for me, was too much to bear. That night, huddled on Tyrese’s couch with a blanket pulled up to my chin, I felt more alone than ever. Even with friends supporting me, even with other women coming forward, Vanessa and Dererick seemed to be winning.

They had the platform, the audience, the resources. All I had was the truth, and it didn’t seem to be enough.

The apartment was quiet, except for the occasional car passing on the street below, and the soft hum of the refrigerator. Tyrese had gone to bed hours ago, but sleep eluded me completely. Every noise made me tense. Every shadow seemed threatening.

“I can’t keep living like this,” I whispered to the dark room. The words hung in the air, a confession to no one but myself. The blanket Tyrese had given me smelled like fabric softener and faintly of his cologne: comforting scents that should have helped me relax, but couldn’t overcome the anxiety coursing through me.

My phone lit up with a text from an unknown number. The blue light illuminated my face in the darkness, casting eerie shadows across the unfamiliar ceiling.

“I know what Dererick did to you. I have proof. Meet me tomorrow at Riverside Park, 2 p.m. by the fountain.”

I stared at the message for a long time, my mind racing. Who could it be? Another of Dererick’s exes? Someone who had witnessed something? Or was it a trap? Dererick or one of his friends trying to lure me out? The possibilities kept me awake until dawn began to lighten the sky outside Tyrese’s windows.

I showed the text to Tyrese in the morning. “It’s a trap,” he said immediately. “Don’t go.” He was making coffee in his small kitchen. The rich aroma filling the apartment and almost, but not quite masking the smell of fear that seemed to cling to me these days.

“But what if it’s not? What if someone really does have evidence?” I leaned against his counter, watching as he poured the dark liquid into mismatched mugs. The morning light streamed through his kitchen window, creating patterns on the worn linoleum floor.

“Then they can send it to you.” “Meeting a stranger in a park after Vanessa just doxed you? No way.” He handed me a mug. His eyes serious with concern. The coffee was hot and strong, exactly how I liked it. Tyrese had been paying attention to these small details about me.

He was right, of course, but desperation makes you consider options you’d normally dismiss. I couldn’t go back to my apartment. I couldn’t go to work. My life was unraveling, and I needed something, anything, to turn the tide. The walls felt like they were closing in, options disappearing one by one.

“I’ll go with you,” Tyrone offered when I called him. “We’ll scope it out first. Make sure it’s safe.” His voice was calm and practical, offering a solution rather than just pointing out the dangers. Tyrese reluctantly agreed to the plan, but insisted on coming too.

“Safety and numbers,” he said grimly. He spent the next hour outlining a detailed plan where each of us would position ourselves, what code words we’d use if something seemed off, exactly how long we’d wait before approaching.

The next day, we arrived at Riverside Park 30 minutes early. The day was overcast but warm, the park less crowded than usual due to the threatening rain. Tyrone positioned himself on a bench with a clear view of the fountain, pretending to read a book. Tyrese and I took a walking path that circled the area, keeping our distance but maintaining visual contact.

At exactly 2 p.m., a woman approached the fountain. She was in her 40s, well-dressed with an anxious expression as she checked her watch repeatedly, her fingers fidgeting with her purse strap. Her hair was styled in a neat bob and she wore a light cardigan despite the warmth of the day as if she needed the extra layer for security.

“I don’t recognize her,” I whispered to Tyrese. We were partially hidden behind a large oak tree, watching from about 50 yards away. A couple with a stroller passed between us and the fountain, momentarily blocking our view.

“Me neither. Let’s wait and see who she meets.” Tyrese’s hand rested lightly on my back, a reassuring presence as we observed the woman, but no one else approached. After 10 minutes, the woman took out her phone, frowned at it, then sat down on the fountain’s edge. Her shoulder slumped slightly, and she glanced around with increasing frequency, her movements becoming more agitated.

“I think she’s the one who texted you,” Tyrese said. “She looks like she’s waiting for someone.” A light drizzle had started to fall, droplets catching in my hair and on my eyelashes. “But the woman made no move to leave or seek shelter, or she’s bait, and someone else is watching to see if I show up.”

I scanned the surrounding area: the playground to our left, the jogging path to our right, the row of trees behind the fountain. Any of those places could conceal someone watching us. We debated for another 5 minutes before I made a decision.

“I’m going to talk to her.” “You stay back and watch.” “If anything seems off, call me immediately.”

The rain was falling more steadily now, creating small puddles on the path and darkening the woman’s cardigan with moisture. Before Tyrese could protest, I walked toward the fountain, my heart pounding in my ears. Each step felt like it took enormous effort. My legs heavy with fear but propelled forward by desperate hope. The woman looked up as I approached, her eyes widening in recognition.

“Jade?” she asked tentatively. There was something familiar about her features, something I couldn’t quite place, but that nagged at the edges of my memory.

I nodded, keeping a safe distance. “You wanted to meet me?” I remained standing while she sat, giving myself the advantage of height and a quicker escape if needed. She glanced around nervously, her hands twisting together.

“Yes, first period. I’m Dererick’s mother, Patricia.” The words hit me like a physical blow, and I took an involuntary step backward. My heart nearly stopped.

“His mother?” The resemblance was clear now. She had the same shaped eyes as Dererick, the same slight dimple in her left cheek when she frowned.

“Please don’t leave,” she said quickly, seeing my expression. “I’m not here to defend him.” “I’m here because I can’t stay silent anymore.” Her voice cracked on the last word, and I saw genuine anguish in her eyes.

Patricia had been watching the videos her son and Vanessa were posting. At first, she’d believed Dererick’s version of events, that I was unstable, that I’d made false accusations. But then she’d found something while cleaning his old room at her house.

The rain fell around us as she spoke, creating a curtain of sound that made our conversation feel private despite being in a public park. “A journal,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “Dererick kept a journal during your relationship.”

“He he wrote about what he did to you in detail.” “How he planned it, how he enjoyed it, and you weren’t the first.” She clutched her purse tighter, her knuckles white with tension.

My legs felt weak. I sank onto the fountain edge, keeping distance between us. The stone was cold and wet beneath me, but I barely noticed.

“Why are you telling me this? He’s your son.” The sound of the fountain’s water mixing with the rainfall created a constant white noise around us.

“Because it’s wrong,” she said simply. “What he’s doing to you is wrong.” “What he did to those other girls was wrong.” “I’ve enabled him for too long, making excuses, believing his lies.” “I can’t do it anymore.” Her face showed the weight of her guilt. Lines of sorrow etched around her eyes and mouth.

She reached into her purse and pulled out a small black notebook worn at the edges. “Here, it’s all in here.” “Pages 43 through 67 are about you specifically.” The journal was slightly damp from the rain. Its cover darkened with moisture.

I stared at the notebook, afraid to touch it. “Why would you give me this? He’s your son.” A raindrop fell from my hair onto my cheek, mimicking a tear I was too shocked to shed. Patricia’s eyes filled with tears.

“because I failed as a mother. I didn’t raise him to be this person, and I can’t let him destroy another young woman’s life.”

Her voice broke completely on the last sentence, and she covered her mouth with her hand, trying to compose herself. I took the notebook with shaking hands.

“Have you read all of it?” The cover was smooth and cool against my palm, innocuous looking for something that contained such darkness.

She nodded, looking ashamed. “Yes, it’s disturbing.” “He needs help, professional help, and you need protection from him.” She stood up, adjusting her purse strap on her shoulder.

“I’ve made an appointment with a lawyer tomorrow.” “I’m going to make a formal statement about finding the journal.” “It won’t undo what he’s done, but maybe it will help stop what he’s doing now.”

As Patricia walked away, Tyrese and Tyrone rushed over. I showed them the notebook, and we flipped through it together, right there in the park, huddled under a tree for shelter from the rain. What we found was sickening.

Dererick had meticulously documented his abuse, not out of guilt, but as some kind of trophy collection. He described how he’d isolated me, manipulated me, hurt me, and he’d done the same to others before me.

The pages were filled with his neat handwriting, detailing incidents I had tried so hard to forget. This included the time he’d accidentally spilled hot coffee on my lap when I’d tried to leave during an argument.

Also the night he’d held my wrist so tightly they bruised, then convinced me I’d done it to myself in my sleep. He also detailed the calculated way he’d turned my friends against me, telling them I was becoming unstable and needed space.

Most disturbing of all were the recent entries about Vanessa. He wasn’t dating her because he cared about her. He was using her as a weapon against me.

“V is the perfect tool,” he’d written. “So desperate for attention, she’ll do anything I ask.” “Once I’m done with Jay, I’ll break V the same way.”

The words were chilling in their calculated cruelty, written with the same detached tone he might use to describe a business strategy.

“We need to take this to the police,” Tyrese said immediately. The rain had plastered his hair to his forehead, but he didn’t seem to notice or care. His focus was entirely on the journal and what it meant for our situation.

“but I hesitated. What if they don’t believe it’s real? What if they think I wrote it myself?” The fear that had become my constant companion surged again, whispering all the ways this could go wrong.

“It’s in his handwriting,” Tyrone pointed out. “and his mother can testify that she found it in his room.” He had opened his jacket to shield the journal from the rain, protecting the evidence that might finally vindicate me.

“Would she, though? Would she really testify against her own son?” The question hung in the air between us, as heavy as the rain clouds overhead.

We decided to scan every page of the journal first, creating digital backups. Then, Tyrone, who had a friend in the police department, arranged for us to meet with a detective who specialized in domestic violence cases. The rain had stopped by the time we reached the police station, but puddles dotted the parking lot, reflecting the gray sky above.

Detective Noak was a stern-faced woman with kind eyes. She listened carefully as I explained the situation, taking notes and occasionally asking clarifying questions. Her office was small but organized with file folders stacked neatly on her desk and domestic violence resource posters on the walls.

When I showed her the journal, her expression darkened. “This is extremely concerning,” she said. “Not just the documented abuse, but the current harassment campaign.” “The doxing alone is potentially criminal.” She flipped through the journal, her frown deepening with each page.

“So, you can help?” I asked, trying not to sound too desperate. My hands were clasped tightly in my lap to keep them from shaking, my nails digging into my palms.

“We can certainly investigate,” she said carefully. “But I want to be honest with you.” “Cases like this are complicated.” “The journal is compelling evidence, but we’d need his mother to confirm its authenticity, and even then, it might not be enough for criminal charges without additional evidence.” The fluorescent lights of her office cast harsh shadows, highlighting the lines of concern on her face.

My heart sank. “So, there’s nothing you can do?” The familiar feeling of helplessness threatened to overwhelm me again. The brief hope I’d felt at finding the journal starting to fade.

“I didn’t say that,” Detective Noak replied. “We can start by issuing a cease and desist order regarding the harassment, and I can help you file for a restraining order against both Dererick and Vanessa based on the doxing incident.” She pulled out some forms from her desk drawer. Her movements efficient and purposeful. It wasn’t everything I’d hoped for, but it was a start.

As we left the police station, I felt a strange mix of emotions. Relief that someone in authority was finally taking me seriously, but frustration that justice still seemed so far away. The sky had cleared somewhat, patches of blue appearing between the clouds, mirroring my cautious optimism.

“What now?” I asked Tyrese as we walked to his car. The parking lot was still wet from the rain. Puddles reflecting our images as we passed.

“Now we use what we have,” he said firmly. “The journal, the restraining order, the other victim’s testimonies. We build our case piece by piece.” His confidence was reassuring, a solid presence beside me when everything else felt uncertain.