My abusive stepdad claimed it was an accident every time he walked in while I changed clothes. After years of it, I installed cameras. I’m Riley and I’m 23 years old. I moved back home last year after college because rent in the city was eating through my savings faster than I could make it. My mom was thrilled.

My stepdad, Brandon, seemed thrilled, too. Maybe a little too thrilled. The first time it happened, I believed him. I was in my childhood bedroom, which my mom had thankfully left exactly as it was, changing after a shower. I had my towel wrapped around me, about to put on my clothes, when the door just swung open. Brandon stood there, eyes wide, hands still on the doororknob.

“Oh god, Riley, I’m so sorry,” he said, backing out immediately. “I thought you were downstairs. I was just looking for the extra towels your mom said were in the closet.” My heart was hammering. I felt exposed and vulnerable, but his explanation made sense. The linen closet was in the hallway, not my room, but maybe he’d been confused.

He’d only been married to my mom for 3 years. Maybe he genuinely didn’t remember the layout perfectly. It’s okay, I managed to say. Just knock next time. Of course, of course. I feel terrible. I locked my door after that. Felt a little paranoid about it, but better safe than sorry, right? The second time it happened 2 weeks later.

I was changing before bed this time. Door closed but not locked because I’d gotten comfortable again. I’d just taken off my shirt when the door opened. Brandon again. Same wideeyed expression. Same rushed apology. Riley, I’m so sorry. I was looking for your mom. I thought she was in here, but my mom was downstairs. I’d heard her talking on the phone in the kitchen literally 5 minutes ago.

She’s downstairs, I said, covering myself with the shirt I’d just taken off. My voice came out harder than before. Right. Right. I’ll just He backed out, closing the door. That night, lying in bed, I tried to convince myself it was another accident. But something felt off. The excuses didn’t quite add up, and there was something about the way he looked at me.

Not shocked, exactly, more like caught, I started locking my door every single time. Even when I was just in my room doing homework or watching Netflix. The third time was what made me absolutely certain. It was a Saturday morning. I’d just gotten out of the shower and was in my room with the door closed and locked. I was literally standing in my underwear about to put on my bra when I heard the doororknob rattle, then a key turning in the lock.

The door opened. Brandon stood there with this key in his hand. And for a split second before his expression changed, I saw it. That look wasn’t surprise or embarrassment. It was disappointment that I was already mostly dressed. Oh, Riley, I didn’t know you were in here, he stammered. But he was holding a key.

A key to my bedroom that I didn’t even know existed. Why do you have a key to my room? I demanded holding my shirt against my chest. It’s just the master key for emergencies. I was looking for Get out, Riley. You’re overreacting. Get out. He left and I sat on my bed shaking. This wasn’t accidents. This was planned. He had a key.

He’d been deliberately walking in on me and I’d been making excuses for him because I didn’t want to believe my stepdad was a creep. I couldn’t tell my mom. Not yet. Not without proof. My mom loved Brandon. She’d been so lonely after my dad passed away when I was 15. And Brandon had seemed like this great guy who made her happy again. If I accused him without evidence, it would tear our family apart.

She might not even believe me. I needed proof. That afternoon, while Brandon was at work and my mom was at her book club, I drove to Best Buy and spent nearly $400 I couldn’t afford on two small security cameras. the kind that look like phone chargers or smoke detectors. One I positioned on my bookshelf, angled toward the door.

The other I put on top of my dresser, hidden behind some books. Both had motion detection and recorded to a cloud service. If Brandon came into my room again, I’d have video evidence. I felt sick doing it. Felt like I was being paranoid, like maybe I was crazy and reading into innocent mistakes. But I couldn’t shake that look on his face when he’d opened the door with the key.

That wasn’t the face of someone who’d made an innocent mistake. I didn’t have to wait long. 3 days later, Tuesday afternoon, I got a notification on my phone while I was at work. Motion detected in bedroom. My stomach dropped. I was at work. My mom was at work. The only person home was Brandon, who’d taken the day off for a dentist appointment.

I pulled up the live feed on my phone, hands shaking so badly I almost dropped it. Brandon was in my room, but he wasn’t looking for towels or looking for my mom. He was going through my dresser drawers, my underwear drawer specifically, and he was holding his phone taking pictures. I thought I was going to throw up right there in the office break room.

I watched for another 30 seconds, unable to look away as he went through my things, taking photos of my underwear, some of my clothes. Then he left the room, and I just stood there shaking, trying to process what I just witnessed. Part of me wanted to leave work right then and confront him. But another part of me, the smarter part, knew I needed to be strategic about this. I had evidence now.

I needed to figure out what to do with it. I called my best friend, Amber, during my lunch break. Told her everything. She was furious. “Riley, you need to go to the police,” she said immediately. “This is not okay. This is predatory behavior. This is criminal. But what if they don’t take it seriously? What if they say it’s just him being in his own house? It’s not his house.

It’s your mom’s house and it’s your room and he’s taking pictures of your underwear without your consent. That’s absolutely not legal. You need to report this. She was right. I knew she was right. But I was terrified. Terrified of what it would do to my mom. Terrified of the confrontation. Terrified that maybe somehow I’d be blamed or not believed.

But I couldn’t let this continue. What if he escalated? What if he was doing this to someone else, too? That evening, I saved all the footage from the cameras to multiple locations. my computer, an external hard drive, a cloud service, emailed to myself. I wasn’t taking any chances with this evidence disappearing. Then I called the non-emergency police line.

The officer who answered listened to my story and to my relief, he took me seriously immediately. He said what Brandon was doing could constitute voyerism, invasion of privacy, and potentially other charges depending on what else they found. He told me to come down to the station and file a formal report and to bring the video evidence.

I went that night. My mom thought I was meeting Amber for dinner. I sat in that police station for 3 hours going through everything with a detective named Martinez. She was kind but professional, never making me feel like I was overreacting. You did the right thing documenting this, she told me. And you did the right thing coming forward.

This kind of behavior typically escalates. Those words made my bl00d run cold. Escalates. What would have been next if I hadn’t stopped it. They asked if I wanted to press charges. I said yes. The next part was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I had to tell my mom. Detective Martinez offered to be there when I told her, which I accepted.

We went home together that night and I asked my mom if we could talk privately. Brandon was in the living room watching TV. Mom, I need to tell you something and it’s going to be really hard to hear. I started. I watched my mom’s face go from confusion to concern to complete devastation as I explained what had been happening. Showed her the videos.

She cried. I cried. Brandon came in asking what was wrong. And when he saw the detective, I watched the color drain from his face. He knew he was caught. He tried to explain it away at first. said he was just checking on me, just making sure I was safe, that the pictures were accidental, that he didn’t mean anything by it, but Detective Martinez wasn’t having it.

She informed him that the police would be seeking charges, and that he should get a lawyer. My mom just sat there completely silent, tears running down her face. Brandon left that night, went to stay with his brother, claiming he was the victim of a misunderstanding. But my mom didn’t ask him to stay. She just watched him pack a bag, her face like stone.

After he left, she hugged me so tight I could barely breathe. I’m so sorry, she kept saying. I’m so sorry I brought him into our lives. I’m so sorry I didn’t see it, Mom. You couldn’t have known. I should have known. I should have protected you. The investigation moved faster than I expected. Once the police started looking into Brandon, things I never knew about started coming to light.

First, they found more pictures on his phone. Not just of my underwear, pictures he’d taken of me without my knowledge. Me sleeping, me in the backyard sunbathing, me through the window of my bedroom from outside. Some of these pictures went back over a year to before I’d even moved back home. From when I’d just visited for holidays.

I felt violated in a way I can’t even describe. He’d been watching me, documenting me for so long, but it got worse. Detective Martinez called me a week after I filed the report. Said she needed to talk to me and my mom in person. We went back to the station and she had this look on her face that told me the news wasn’t good.

We’ve been investigating Brandon’s background more thoroughly, she said. And we found that he was actually questioned in a similar incident about 7 years ago before he met your mother. A complaint was filed by his previous girlfriend’s daughter, claiming he’d walked in on her changing multiple times.

No charges were filed because there was no physical evidence and the daughter was too scared to pursue it. My mom made this sound like all the air had left her lungs. There’s more. Detective Martinez continued, “We executed a search warrant on his laptop and phone. We found multiple folders of images.

None of them are illegal in the sense of explicit content of minors, but they’re all voyuristic in nature. Pictures taken without consent, mostly of young women in various states of undress or in private moments. Some appear to be taken through windows, some in changing rooms, were working to identify the victims. I felt dizzy. This wasn’t just about me.

Brandon was a serial predator. He’d been doing this for years, probably longer than seven years. And somehow he’d managed to avoid consequences until now. How did my mom not know about the previous complaint? I asked. It never went anywhere officially. No arrest record, no charges. If she’d done a background check, it wouldn’t have shown up.

My mom was crying again. He seemed so normal, she whispered. So nice. How did I not see this? Because predators are good at hiding, I thought. They’re good at seeming normal and nice. That’s how they get away with it for so long. The case built over the next 2 months. The district attorney decided to charge Brandon with multiple counts of voyerism, invasion of privacy, and unlawful surveillance.

The evidence was overwhelming. The videos I’d captured, the photos on his phone, the testimony from his ex-girlfriend’s daughter, who’d finally agreed to come forward after all these years. The pattern of behavior. His lawyer tried to get him a plea deal, but the DA wasn’t interested in going easy. This wasn’t a one-time mistake.

This was a pattern of predatory behavior spanning years and multiple victims. During this time, something else happened that I didn’t expect. Other women started coming forward. One was a woman named Jessica who’d lived in Brandon’s apartment building 5 years ago. She’d always felt like someone was watching her through her ground floor window, but could never prove it.

When she saw Brandon’s name in the local news about the charges, she recognized him. She’d seen him hanging around outside her building multiple times, always with his phone out, claiming he was taking pictures of the architecture. Another was a former co-orker named Britney, who’d reported to HR that Brandon had made her uncomfortable, always finding excuses to be near her desk, commenting on her appearance, once following her to her car after work.

HR had given him a warning, but nothing more. She’d eventually quit because of how uncomfortable he made her feel. The more the investigation uncovered, the clearer it became that Brandon was a serial predator who’d been carefully operating for years, always just barely staying on the legal side of things until now. My mom filed for divorce immediately.

She was devastated, but she was also angry. Angry at Brandon for betraying her trust and for praying on her daughter. Angry at herself for not seeing the signs, though I kept telling her there was no way she could have known. “He was so careful,” she said one night over wine. Weeks into the investigation, he never did anything obvious when I was around.

He played the perfect husband, the perfect stepdad. I thought you moving back home made him happy because he cared about family. I didn’t realize he was happy because he had access to you. The guilt she felt was immense, and I spent a lot of time trying to help her understand that this wasn’t her fault. Predators are master manipulators.

That’s their whole strategy. The trial took almost a year to actually happen. Brandon’s lawyer kept filing motions, trying to get evidence suppressed, trying to delay, but eventually it went before a judge. I had to testify. had to sit in that courtroom and describe what he’d done, knowing he was sitting right there watching me.

It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, but I held my head high and told the truth. The other victims testified, too. Jessica, Britney, his ex-girlfriend’s daughter, whose name was Emma, and who broke down crying on the stand, describing how she’d felt violated and unsafe in her own home, just like I had, Brandon’s lawyer tried to paint us all as liars, as women conspiring together for attention or money or revenge.

But the evidence didn’t lie. the videos, the photos, the pattern of behavior spanning years and multiple victims. It was incontrovertible. The jury deliberated for less than four hours. Guilty on all counts. I cried when the verdict was read. My mom cried. I saw Emma crying in the back of the courtroom.

We’d formed a strange bond, all of Brandon’s victims. A support system born from shared trauma. Sentencing came 2 months later. The judge was a woman in her 60s named Judge Patterson. And she did not hold back. “Mr. Donovan,” she said, looking at Brandon with disgust. You have shown a pattern of predatory behavior that is deeply disturbing.

You have violated the privacy, safety, and trust of multiple young women over many years. You have taken advantage of your position in their lives to prey on them. This court takes these crimes very seriously. She sentenced him to 5 years in prison. And upon release, he would be required to register as an offender. The kind of offender whose information would be public.

The kind of offender who’d have to notify neighborhoods when he moved. The kind of offender who’d have restrictions on where he could live and work. His life as he knew it was over. I felt a weight lift off my shoulders when she read that sentence. It wasn’t just about punishment, though. That was part of it.

It was about the fact that he’d be monitored. That other potential victims would be warned. That there was now a permanent record of what he’d done. Brandon looked smaller somehow as they let him away in handcuffs. Not the confident, charming man who’d won over my mom. Not the friendly stepdad who’d seemed so normal, just a pathetic predator who’d finally faced consequences.

Outside the courthouse, my mom hugged me tight. I’m so proud of you. She said, “You were so brave. You saved yourself and probably countless other women he would have victimized if this had continued. Emma came up to us, her own mom beside her. Thank you for coming forward, she said to me. When I reported him years ago and nothing happened, I thought I’d imagined it.

I thought maybe I was overreacting. Seeing that you’d experienced the same thing, having the evidence you captured, it validated everything I felt. It gave me the courage to speak up again. We hugged. These strangers connected by trauma and survival. The aftermath of the trial was complicated. Life didn’t just go back to normal.

How could it? My mom sold the house. said she couldn’t stand living there anymore. Not with the memories of Brandon in every room. We moved to a smaller place across town, just the two of us, and started rebuilding our lives. She went to therapy. So did I. Separately and together. We had to work through a lot. Her guilt, my trust issues, the ways this whole experience had changed how we saw the world.

About 6 months after Brandon was sentenced, something unexpected happened. I got a message on social media from a woman I didn’t know. Her name was Madison. I don’t know if you remember me, her message started. We met briefly at a coffee shop about 2 years ago. You were there with a man you introduced as your stepdad.

I’m reaching out because I saw the news about his conviction and I think you should know something. My hands were shaking as I read on. That day at the coffee shop after you left, your stepdad came back. He said he forgot his phone, but he didn’t just get his phone and leave. He asked for my number. Said he was asking for a friend who owned a business and was looking to hire.

I gave it to him because it seemed innocent enough, but then he started texting me. Nothing overtly inappropriate, but there was something off about it. He’d ask what I was doing, where I was, send compliments that felt too personal for someone who barely knew me. Eventually, I blocked him because it got too weird. But I never reported it because I thought maybe I was overreacting.

Seeing the news about what he did to you and others, I realized now that I was probably being groomed or tested in some way. I thought, “You should know.” I felt sick. It was even worse than I’d thought. Brandon hadn’t just been praying on women in his immediate circle. He’d been constantly on the lookout for potential victims, testing boundaries, seeing who would be receptive to his manipulation.

I thanked Madison for reaching out and told her she could still file a report if she wanted to, that it could be added to his case file even though he was already convicted. She said she’d think about it. That message stayed with me. How many women had Brandon approached? How many had he made uncomfortable? How many had he successfully manipulated or victimized before someone finally stopped him? Then about a month after that, an even bigger bombshell dropped.

Detective Martinez called me, said she’d discovered something during a deeper investigation into Brandon’s past and wanted to tell me in person. I met her at a coffee shop, my mom with me for support. We’ve been building a timeline of Brandon’s movements and activities over the past decade, Martinez explained.

And we’ve connected him to several unsolved cases of voyerism and stalking in three different states. My mom gasped. Three states. Brandon moved around a lot before settling here. We initially thought it was for work, but now we believe he was moving whenever he got too much heat in one location. In Oregon, there was a complaint filed against him by a tenant in a building he was managing.

She claimed she found a camera hidden in her bathroom. Brandon denied it, said the previous tenant must have left it, and the investigation went nowhere because they couldn’t prove he’d installed it. He quit that job and moved to Nevada shortly after. In Nevada, there was a complaint from a gym member who found someone taking pictures in the locker room.

Security footage showed someone matching Brandon’s description. But by the time they identified him, he’d already canled his membership, and moved again. Then he came here, met your mother, and settled down for a bit. We think he felt safe here, established, which is why he started getting bolder. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

This wasn’t just a pattern of behavior. This was practically a criminal career. Are you going to reopen those cases? I ask. We’re working with authorities in those states now. Some of the evidence has been lost or degraded over time, but there might be enough to file additional charges.

At minimum, it’ll be added to his record. My mom looked pale. I married a monster, she whispered. You married a man who lied about who he was. Martinez corrected gently. That’s not your fault. Over the following weeks, more information trickled out. More victims came forward. Women who’d encountered Brandon in different contexts, different cities, different phases of his life.

Some had tried to report him at the time and weren’t believed. Some had been too scared. Some had convinced themselves they were overreacting. But they all had similar stories. Brandon making them uncomfortable. Brandon violating boundaries. Brandon taking pictures or videos without consent. Brandon being where he shouldn’t be.

Seeing things he shouldn’t see. It was overwhelming and heartbreaking and infuriating all at once. One afternoon about 8 months after the trial, I got a call from Emma, the woman who’ testified about Brandon’s behavior toward her years ago. I wanted to tell you something, she said. I’ve been thinking a lot about everything that happened and I realized something.

When I reported Brandon back then and nothing was done, I spent years doubting myself. I thought maybe I’d made it up or exaggerated it in my head. I developed anxiety and trust issues. I struggled in my relationships, but seeing you come forward, seeing you believed, seeing him actually face consequences.

It’s changed something in me. I feel like I can finally let go of the guilt and shame I’d been carrying. So, thank you. Thank you for being braver than I was. You were brave. I told her you reported it. That took courage even if the system failed you. and you came forward again for the trial. That took even more courage. We’re both brave, she said.

All of us are. Everyone who spoke up, everyone who came forward, we stopped him together. She was right. It hadn’t been just me. It had been all of us. Every woman who’d reported him testified against him shared her story. We’d created a wave he couldn’t escape. Life moved forward slowly.

My mom started dating again very cautiously after about a year. She was terrified of making the same mistake, of being fooled again, but she was trying to reclaim her life and her happiness. I supported her though I thoroughly vetted anyone she went out with, probably more than was reasonable. I eventually moved out of our shared apartment and into my own place.

Got a promotion at work, started feeling safer in my own skin again. The therapy helped. So did time. So did knowing that Brandon was locked away and wouldn’t be able to hurt anyone else for a good long while. About 2 years after the trial, I got another unexpected message. This time from a journalist who was writing a story about repeat predators and how they navigate the legal system.

She’d heard about Brandon’s case and wanted to interview me. At first, I said no. I didn’t want to relive it all. Didn’t want my name in the news. But then I thought about all the women who’d come forward after hearing about the case, about Madison reaching out, about the Oregon victim and the Nevada victim finding the courage to speak to police again because they saw someone else had been believed.

I agreed to the interview on the condition that my last name wouldn’t be used and that the focus would be on systemic issues, not just my personal story. The article that came out was powerful. It detailed how Brandon had slipped through cracks in the system for years, how victims weren’t believed or followed up with, how predators learned to game the system and stay just barely on the legal side until they can’t anymore.

After it published, I got dozens of messages from other survivors. Some shared their own stories. Some thanked me for speaking up. Some just wanted to connect with someone who understood. One message stood out. It was from a woman named Hannah who said she’d been Brandon’s girlfriend about 15 years ago before the ex whose daughter eventually testified.

She’d broken up with him because something felt off, though she couldn’t articulate what. After reading the article, she’d started thinking back and realized there’d been signs. He’d been intensely interested in her college-aged niece, always suggesting the niece should come stay with them, asking about her, finding excuses to be around when she visited.

“Nothing ever happened that I know of,” Hannah wrote. “But reading about his pattern of behavior, I realize now that he was probably testing boundaries, seeing if he could gain access to younger women through me. I broke up with him before anything could happen. But I feel guilty that I didn’t see it for what it was.

If I’d reported my suspicions, maybe he would have been stopped sooner.” I wrote back and told her the same thing people had told me. This wasn’t her fault. Predators are skilled at hiding their true nature. The only person responsible for Brandon’s actions was Brandon. But her message made me think about how many close calls there might have been.

How many times Brandon had tested the waters, been shut down, and moved on to easier prey. How many potential victims had escaped simply by trusting their gut that something was off. 3 years after the trial, Brandon came up for early release consideration. It was denied. His behavior in prison had been problematic. He’d been caught trying to communicate with some of his victims through third parties, violating restraining orders.

He’d gotten into fights with other inmates. He was not a model prisoner, showing remorse and rehabilitation. The parole board extended his sentence by 2 years. When I heard that news, I felt a grim satisfaction. He’d tried to play the system, even from inside prison, and the system had finally said no.

My mom and I watched the parole hearing via video link. We’d both submitted victim impact statements arguing against early release. When they announced the denial, my mom grabbed my hand and squeezed. “It’s really over,” she said. said. He can’t hurt anyone anymore. Not for a while, at least, I said, because I knew that eventually he’d be released.

Eventually, he’d be back out in the world, albeit registered and monitored. The thought still scared me, but not like it used to. I’d learned I was stronger than I’d known. We all had. 4 years after everything started, I got news I wasn’t expecting. Brandon had passed away in prison, not from violence like you might assume, from a heart attack, sudden and unexpected.

He was only 52. My first emotion was relief, and then I felt guilty about feeling relief. But my therapist told me it was normal and okay to feel relief that someone who’d harmed me was gone, that I didn’t have to feel bad about not mourning him. My mom’s reaction surprised me. She cried, but not from sadness.

I’m crying because I wasted 3 years of my life with a monster, she told me. I’m crying because I’m relieved he’s gone, and I hate that I feel relieved. I’m crying because this whole nightmare is finally truly over. We didn’t go to his funeral. I heard later that almost nobody did. his brother, who’d maintained Brandon’s innocence throughout everything, and a handful of other family members who either believed him or felt obligated. But that was it.

The news of his de@th spread through the network of survivors. Emma called me. So did Jessica and Britney. Madison sent me a message. We all had complicated feelings about it, but underlying them all was that same sense of relief. He couldn’t hurt anyone else now. Not ever. About a month after Brandon d!ed, I was cleaning out some old boxes in my closet, stuff I’d kept from when we moved out of the old house.

I found an old journal I’d kept during my first year of college before Brandon was even in our lives. I flipped through it, reading entries about classes and friends and the boy I’d been dating and normal college stress. My life had been so simple then, so uncomplicated. There was an entry from Thanksgiving of my freshman year where I’d written about how excited I was that my mom had finally started dating again.

She seems really happy. I’d written, “I hope this guy Brandon treats her well. She deserves someone good after everything with dad.” Reading that, knowing everything I knew now was surreal. Past me had been so hopeful, so naive. I wanted to reach back through time and warn myself, but I couldn’t. None of us can.

I thought about how different my life had been because of Brandon. How the trauma had changed me, shaped me, made me more cautious, but also stronger. How it had affected my relationships, my trust, my sense of safety in the world. But I also thought about the good that had come from stopping him, the other women who wouldn’t be victimized by him because he’d been caught, the awareness raised about these patterns of predatory behavior, the connections I’d made with other survivors.

5 years after I’d first set up those cameras in my bedroom, I was invited to speak at a conference about violence prevention, they wanted survivors to share their stories, to help train law enforcement and social workers on recognizing predatory patterns and taking victims seriously. I almost said no. Standing up in front of hundreds of people and talking about the worst experience of my life seemed terrifying.

But then I thought about Emma trying to report Brandon years ago and not being believed about all the women who’d reached out to me saying they’d been afraid to speak up. I said yes. Standing on that stage, looking out at all those people, I was nervous. But then I started talking and something shifted. I told them about the accidental walk-ins that weren’t accidental, about trusting my gut when something felt wrong, about the importance of documentation and evidence, about the courage it takes to report someone, especially when it’s

someone close to you. After my talk, I was swarmed by people wanting to thank me, share their own experiences, ask advice. One woman, probably in her 40s, grabbed my hand with tears in her eyes. My daughter has been telling me her stepdad makes her uncomfortable, she said. I’ve been telling her she’s imagining things, that he’s just trying to be a good parent.

But hearing your story, I realize I need to listen to her. I need to trust her instincts. Thank you for potentially saving my daughter from what you went through. I hugged her, this stranger, and told her to believe her daughter, to take it seriously, to not make the mistakes so many people had made with Brandon. That moment made everything worth it.

The trial, the publicity, the painful retelling of my trauma. If it helped even one person, one potential victim, it was worth it. Detective Martinez was at the conference, too, speaking on a different panel about investigative techniques. We had coffee afterward catching up. You know what the most important part of your case was? She asked me. The cameras. The evidence.

Too many times these cases come down to he said, she said, and predators know that. They bank on it. But you documented everything. You were smart and strategic. You didn’t just survive him. You built the case that stopped him. I just wish I’d done it sooner. I said before he could violate more women. You did it when you were ready and when you had enough evidence to make it stick.

That’s what matters. A few months after the conference, I got an email from a university asking if I’d be interested in consulting on their campus safety protocols. They wanted to create better systems for students to report this kind of behavior and have it taken seriously. I said yes to that too and then to another university and another.

I started doing this work regularly, consulting and speaking and training all while keeping my regular job. It became this unexpected second career born from trauma but transformed into purpose. My mom fully supported it even though it meant talking about what happened over and over. You’re turning something horrible into something helpful.

She told me your dad would be so proud of you. That h!t me hard because I rarely thought about my dad anymore. He d!ed when I was 15, almost a decade before all of this. Sometimes I wondered what he would have thought about Brandon, whether he would have seen through him somehow. But mostly, I was just sad he wasn’t there to see me now, to see how I’d taken something terrible and found meaning in it.

On the 6-year anniversary of the day I’d set up those cameras, I was at my apartment living my life, working at my job, planning a vacation with my boyfriend, Marcus, who I’d been dating for 8 months, and who knew everything about my past and loved me anyway. I thought about Riley from 6 years ago, terrified and unsure, setting up cameras in her childhood bedroom.

I thought about how brave she’d been, how smart. I wanted to tell her that it would be okay, that she’d survive this, that she’d become someone strong and confident and whole. The trauma would always be part of my story, but it wasn’t the whole story anymore. It was just one chapter in a much longer book. That night, I got a message from a woman I’d never met before.

She said her name was Claire, and that she was one of the women from Brandon’s past that investigators had tried to connect with, but who’d never responded. She’d been too scared, too ashamed, convinced that what had happened to her wasn’t bad enough to report. “But I saw you speak at a conference last month,” her message said.

A colleague attended and told me about it. I looked you up and realized you were talking about the same Brandon who’d victimized me years ago. I didn’t know he’d d!ed until now. And I didn’t know so many other women had come forward. I spent years thinking I was the only one. That maybe I’d imagined it or exaggerated it. Reading about everything about all of you who spoke up, it’s made me realize I wasn’t crazy.

He really was a predator. And even though it’s too late for me to press charges or testify, it helps just knowing I wasn’t alone. Thank you for being brave enough to speak up. You helped me heal wounds I didn’t even realize were still open. I read her message three times, tears streaming down my face.

This this was why it had all been worth it. Not just the justice and the conviction and stopping Brandon, but this helping other survivors realize they weren’t alone. They weren’t crazy. They weren’t to blame. I wrote back to Clare, thanked her for reaching out. Offered to connect her with some of the other survivors if she wanted.

She took me up on it. Last I heard, she’d joined our informal support group and was doing better. 7 years after everything started, I was invited to testify before a state legislative committee about strengthening laws around voyerism and surveillance crimes. They were considering new legislation that would make it easier to prosecute cases like Brandon’s would require law enforcement to take complaints more seriously, would close some of the loopholes he’d exploited for years.

I testified alongside Emma and several other survivors. We told our stories, explained the gaps in the system, advocated for change, and a few months later, the legislation passed. When the governor signed it into law, they invited us to the signing ceremony. Standing there watching the pen move across the paper, I felt this overwhelming sense of accomplishment.

We’d done it. We’d taken our trauma and turned it into something that would protect other people. After the ceremony, a reporter asked me how it felt to see this through from beginning to end. It doesn’t end. I told her, “Healing isn’t linear, and the work of protecting potential victims is ongoing, but this feels like a significant milestone.

Like, we’ve taken something terrible and created something meaningful from it. That’s the best any of us can do with our pain.” The article that came out from that interview went viral. My inbox flooded with messages again. And this time, they weren’t all from survivors. Some were from parents asking how to talk to their kids about these issues.

Some were from young women asking how to trust their instincts. Some were from men asking how to be better, how to call out predatory behavior when they saw it. It struck me then how much the conversation had shifted. When I’d first reported Brandon, I’d been terrified nobody would believe me. Now, 7 years later, people were actively seeking information on how to prevent this kind of abuse and how to support survivors. Things were changing.

Slowly, yes, but changing. Today, eight years after I set up those cameras, I’m 29 years old. I still work my regular job, but I also run a nonprofit focused on supporting survivors of voyerism and surveillance crimes. We provide legal resources, therapy referrals, and support groups.

We train law enforcement and schools. We advocate for policy change. Emma works with me. So does Jessica. We’ve built something real and lasting from our shared experience. My mom is remarried now to a genuinely good man named Robert who treats her like a queen and who I’ve thoroughly vetted and approved of. She’s happy. Genuinely happy.

She’s forgiven herself for bringing Brandon into our lives, though it took years of therapy to get there. I’m engaged to Marcus. We’re getting married next year. He knows everything about my past. Knows that sometimes I still get triggered by things. Knows I’m hyper aware of boundaries and consent in ways other people might not be.

He loves me not despite my trauma, but as a complete person who’s been shaped by many experiences, both good and bad. Sometimes people ask me if I regret setting up those cameras. If I wish I’d just moved out instead of gathering evidence and going through the hell of the legal system and all the publicity that followed. The answer is no. Never.

Not for a second. Because Brandon had been praying on women for probably decades before I stopped him. And if I hadn’t gathered that evidence, if I hadn’t pressed charges, if I hadn’t pushed through the trial and the testimony and everything that came after, he would have continued. He would have found new victims.

He would have hurt more women. Setting up those cameras was the smartest, bravest thing I ever did. It saved me. And it saved countless women who’ll never know how close they came to being Brandon’s victims. My stepdad accidentally walked in on me changing until I set up cameras and proved it wasn’t an accident at all. And now he’s dead, but his name remains on that registry.

A permanent reminder of what he really was. A warning to anyone who might look him up. A validation to every single woman who ever felt uncomfortable around him and was told she was imagining things. We weren’t imagining anything. We were right all along. And finally, finally, we were believed.