By the time we crossed the Florida state line, it felt like the car itself exhaled. Home. I could finally breathe without feeling like someone was chasing us.
But the battle wasn't finished.
The weeks after we got back were a blur of counseling appointments, police follow-ups, and meetings with victim advocates. Every time my daughter had to retell her story, I could see how it drained her - but she kept showing up. Brave. Determined. Stronger than she knew.
The traffickers had been charged with kidnapping, false imprisonment, assault, and human trafficking. The prosecutors warned us that cases like this could drag on for years, that the system moved slow.
I remember thinking, That's fine. God's already ahead of them.
Months passed. My daughter started laughing again, slowly. She went back to some of her old hobbies. She was learning to live without fear hanging over her shoulder.
And then, one Tuesday afternoon, my phone rang. The voice on the other end was the prosecutor.
"Mrs. Wilkins," she said, "I thought you'd want to be the first to know - he took a plea deal today. Twenty-five years. No parole."
For a moment, I couldn't speak. I just let the words sink in.
Twenty-five years.
Twenty-five years where he couldn't touch another girl.
Twenty-five years where he'd have nothing but time to think about what he'd done.
When I told my daughter, she sat very still. Then she nodded.
"Good," she said. "He can't hurt anybody else."
Sheryl was in the room when I got the call. She raised her hands toward the ceiling. "Look at God! Won't He do it?"
"Yes, He will," I said, my voice thick. "He already did."
That night, I sat on the porch with my Bible in my lap, flipping to Psalm 18:48:
He delivers me from my enemies;
you exalt me above my foes;
from a violent man you rescue me.
It wasn't just a verse - it was our story.