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and sobs.
I crawled into her bed and lay there in her arms every day while
she recovered at the hospital; physically, at least. At moments,
she’d coo at me like I was the baby, calling me Emma in her dreams.
Even her breast milk began to leak.
    We
buried Emma beside Dad. The little square piece of marble looked
odd beside his, but at least he wasn’t alone. A wreath made of
fresh daisies I’d picked hung on the cross above her tombstone. My
mother stood over the grave for hours, holding onto her swollen
tummy as if Emma were still in there. She finally collapsed onto
her knees. I will never forget that image. The worst part of the
funeral was seeing Wright, the righteous man, standing beside some
of the other town’s folk, watching me and my mother. Little did he
know my fear of him had passed the minute I vowed to never be
afraid of a man.
    The
unborn child was the last piece of my father that my mother and I
had, and Wright robbed us both of that child. He robbed my mother
of a daughter, and me of a sister. I often wondered whether Emma
would have had my father’s eyes or his blond streak of hair, a
birthmark among the light brown locks. I figured her hair would
have curled like mine, the way our mother’s did. But now I wouldn’t
have a sibling to laugh, walk to school, or share my secrets with.
I couldn’t give her my dolls or teach her the alphabet.
    My
mother was never the same after that. She stopped making waffles
from scratch and went through the motions of life for me—the coward
who’d let her down. After that dreadful day my mother would jump at
the slightest of sounds and wake up in the middle of the night to
check the locks. Everything collapsed that day. Wright ripped out
our hearts, tore apart our family, and instilled rage I’d never
forget. I carried the guilt for not helping my mother through my
schooling as a cop, needing to prove myself worthy.
    Soon
after the funeral we moved to a new town on the other side of the
country, on the east coast. I was sure no one knew when we left or
to where. My mother only packed a suitcase, took my hand, and
called a cab. She left everything else behind, even my father’s
car. She walked Millie to a neighbor’s house. I missed the dog, but
didn’t dare tell Mom. She had enough to deal with.
    After a few bus and train rides, we arrived at what was
supposed to be a new beginning – except Wright seemed to have come
along with us, in both our memories. So, life after that wasn’t
peachy. She lived in constant mourning and fear. He’d taken
everything away: my sister, my mother’s strength and love for life,
my childhood, and I was sure my father’s life as well.
    My
mother still lives in a tiny apartment. Never trusting Wright, I’ve
moved her over a dozen times since I left for school. He found us
twice before, but now I had the means to make sure he wouldn’t find
us again. I knew he looked for her. And I’d go to hell and back
before I let him find her. She was bolted under ten locks and
chains, with a bottle of tequila on the kitchen table.
    “ It’s the only thing that makes me forget,” she told me when I
was older. So I bought her a bottle once in a while if she’d
promise me she’d only drink with me, so we could both forget. She
kept the promise. At one point I told her I’d make things right,
but I think she’d had too many shots to remember.
    I
hated Wright. I despised him with a passion, and the day he’d pay
for his sins was coming. I’d build my strength, knowledge, and
connections, and when the time was right, I’d strike back. I’d take
his life with no evidence, just the way he took the lives of my
unborn sister and my father. And I’d make sure he knew exactly who
I was when I slit his throat. Payback was a bitch. And I was coming
head on.

CHAPTER 4
     
    At four a.m.
on Tuesday morning, my eyes felt like someone had poured coffee in
them. The door lock clicked and Laura came in from her night shift.
She was wearing her