I couldn’t save her
I knew my friend was in danger but what happened to her was beyond my worst nightmares
There’d been an incident. Then I recognised the street name...
Pushing my shopping trolley down the supermarket aisle, I looked around at the unfamiliar faces.
‘I used to know everyone in this town,’ I thought to myself.
It was autumn 2011, and I’d just moved back to my home town in New Jersey after living away for years.
It was strange, knowing a place so well and yet feeling like a bit of a spare part.
Then I turned the corner and saw a face I did remember.
One I knew almost as well as my own. ‘Tara!’ I cried. ‘Jen, is it really you?’ she laughed.
Next thing I knew, I was hugging the best friend I’d ever had.
Me and Tara O’Shea had grown up on the same street, living in each others’ pockets.
A year older than me, she was always the loud, confident one, whereas I was shy and timid around boys.
But she’d always looked after me.
My parents divorced when I was 12, and I’d stayed with
Tara’s family for months. ‘We’re like sisters,’ Tara had told me. ‘I wish you could stay here forever.’ Back then, I thought we’d always be that close.
But life had got in the way. Tara had fallen pregnant at 14 and her life was soon wrapped up in taking care of her baby girl.
I missed her, but when I moved away after leaving school, it got even harder to stay in touch.
I’d thought about Tara a lot over the years, wondered if she’d settled down with anyone, had any more kids.
Now, after bumping into her, I could finally ask those questions.
We swapped details and arranged to meet up.
And when we did, it was as if no time had passed.
Chatting 10 to the dozen, I filled in Tara about my husband and my job as an admin assistant.
She told me she was married, too, to Jeremiah Monell, 26, and had four kids.
We vowed never to lose touch again, and would meet for walks in the park or trips to a local coffee shop.
I didn’t meet Jeremiah, but I reckoned they seemed happy – especially when Tara announced that she was expecting her fifth child.
But as we began to grow close again, I noticed she wasn’t the same confident, chatty girl I’d idolised growing up. She was constantly checking the time, worrying about getting home late, nervy when the phone rang and Jeremiah’s name flashed on the screen.
‘You can talk to me,’ I reassured – and, over time, Tara opened up.
‘Jeremiah sometimes hits me,’ she whispered.
She admitted he was controlling – and verbally abusive, too.
I felt anger rising as she told me that he wouldn’t let her work, kept her from friends.
‘You don’t have to put up with that!’ I said. ‘Leave him.’ She shook her head.
‘It’s not that simple,’ she sighed. ‘I’m worried about what he’ll do.’
I sensed Tara didn’t want to say any more, and when we met up, I didn’t push her. ‘All I can do is be there for her,’ I thought.
Over the next few years, Tara rarely talked about Jeremiah.
I think she used our meetups as an escape from all that.
But she was there for me when I split from my husband while pregnant in 2013.
And she was full of tips and hand-me-downs when my girl Artolyssa arrived.
‘I couldn’t have done it without you,’ I said.
I just hoped she was OK. Then, in April 2016, Tara came to see me at home.
‘I’ve thrown him out,’ she told me. ‘I’ve got a restraining order.’
‘Good for you!’ I said.
‘You know where I am if you need me.’
I didn’t know what the final straw had been. I was just glad
that it was finally over. Except, it wasn’t. Jeremiah had access to the kids, so Tara had to see him.
‘I’m still living in fear,’ she confessed to me.
‘Bring the kids and come and stay with me,’ I said to her once. ‘We can be like sisters again.’
She smiled but refused, not wanting to impose.
That November, we met at my place again. Tara seemed happier. She’d started waitressing and was reconnecting with her friends.
‘I can’t wait for Christmas,’ she grinned, spilling her plans for her little ones.
‘I like seeing that smile back on your face,’ I told her happily.
We said goodbye, promising we would get together again soon.
But, in December, I was at work when my phone pinged with a notification from a local Facebook page.
There’d been an incident, an area had been cordoned off.
Scanning the story, I recognised the street name – it was where Tara lived!
A horrible feeling began to sweep over me.
Are you OK? I texted her. I sent several more – got no reply.
Panicking, I sent a message to a man posting regular updates on the page.
My friend Tara lives there,
I wrote.
Seconds later...
I’m so sorry. She died, the man wrote.
He said she’d been a victim of domestic violence.
Jeremiah!
Tara’s worst nightmare – and mine – had come true.
And I hadn’t been able to save her.
I broke down at my desk. Wanted for murder, Jeremiah had gone on the run.
I went on the local news, pleading for help finding him. Drove to Tara’s house several times and sat outside, sobbing.
A couple of days later, we held a heart-wrenching memorial service.
I couldn’t stop thinking about her kids growing up without their beautiful mother.
Two weeks later, Jeremiah was tracked down and arrested.
Tara and Jeremiah’s son, then 12, and daughter, then 5, went to live with a relative. Tara’s other kids were older.
In January this year, Jeremiah Monell, 34, appeared at Cumberland County Superior Court, New Jersey, charged with Tara’s murder.
The jury heard Monell had gone to fix Tara’s car and see the kids that day.
Later that night, their 12-year-old had woken up and seen his father choking his mum, then grabbing a knife and stabbing her 90 times.
After, Monell smoked a cigarette before telling his son, ‘You shouldn’t have seen that.’
The poor boy had cried himself to sleep, waking up to find his mother’s body covered with a blanket.
Waking up his sister, he then ran to a neighbour, who called the police.
Monell was found guilty of first-degree murder, jailed for life without parole.
But it doesn’t feel like justice as we’ll never have Tara back.
Tara’s mum and I remain close and talk about her all the time. I miss her every day. Now I’m speaking out to help raise awareness for other victims of domestic violence.
I couldn’t save my lovely friend. I just hope her story can save someone else.