Rose Maura Lorre

I Was Kidnapped As a Child -- Here's What Happened

On the day I was kidnapped, as my abductor drove us down the Garden State Parkway, I pressed my toes against his car window so someone would see. Because this was 1982, his sedan boasted front-row bench seating; by his command, my 7-year-old frame was splayed across it, my head wedged at his hip, my feet skimming the passenger-side door. When he’d yanked me neck-first into his car less than an hour prior, he’d jammed my body against the floorboards (too young to know that word, I thought of it as the pit) and kept me there a while, steering with his left hand while his right pressed on my head.

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