Like most people in New England, the case surrounding missing child Ayla Reynolds has me heartbroken, frustrated and quite angry. I normally tend towards assuming innocence until proven guilty, but I can’t help feel that most of us know who is responsible for Ayla’s disappearance.  The three individuals in the home on Violette street on December 16th have only two story options for that night; Ayla was not in the home that evening and had gone missing well before, and at least one of them knew where she was; Or she was in fact there that evening and at least one, more probably all of them, know what happened to her. At the very least, the one individual who was the most responsible for her, failed miserably to ensure her welfare. More likely than not, he contributed directly to whatever misfortune she suffered.

Late at night when I’m drifting off to sleep, my mind replays my daughters’ voices, a playback of whatever conversations we may have had during the day that concerned or amused me enough to implant them into my memory. Something as simple as my youngest struggling through giggles to tell me a joke she heard on the bus, or my eldest telling me what career she has planned for her future.  Sometimes if I’m over-tired or just worried, I may drift off into uneasy sleep and a father’s fears in the guise of a nightmare creep in, forcing me to watch helplessly as one of them experiences some distress, tearing at my heart until I wake to shake it off.  Even then, I’ll hear their voices in my head as clear as if they were on the edge of the bed looking to me for help.

Does Justin DiPietro hear the echoes of little Ayla in his mind at all? Does he listen, or try to push the voice down into some dark abyss, muffled by guilt and self-loathing? What is she saying Justin? Is she saying “I love you Daddy”? Is she saying “I’m Frightened” or “I’m cold”? Maybe “Daddy, come get me”?

Maybe you just need to focus to hear it Justin.  Are you listening?  Maybe you should just try to recall the last time you heard her voice, maybe that’ll give it some clarity. What did she say the last time you saw your daughter alive? Was it “Good night Daddy”? Or was it “no, daddy, no, please”?

Listen carefully Justin. And get used to her voice. It’s now the soundtrack to a miserable existence.

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