I could hear the raid unfolding, the screams and heavy footfalls.
It’s not over, the soft voice whispered. Not yet.
Don’s voice was silky. “Put the weapon down, dearest.”
“It’s okay,” Jamie urged. “He’ll be punished.”
I tipped Don’s chin higher, feeling like I did the night I told Cal I wasn’t coming home, and he’d said I was crazy. I didn’t know who to trust. My instincts, or everyone else?
“No,” I said. “I’m not letting him go.”
Jamie’s voice dropped into an even gentler register, the one he used when I scared him. “The FBI will prosecute him, Shay. He’s going to jail for the rest of his life. You did it.” He put his hands up, modeling surrender. “I can see you’re hurt. Your eyes… You’re obviously in shock. I don’t know if you’re thinking clearly.”
He was talking to me the same way I’d talked to Laurel.
“Hand me the ax,” Jamie coaxed. “I’ll make sure he stays here until the feds come down. Please, Shay. Let him go.”
Let him go. That was what the world expected. What they always expect of women—grace, forgiveness, moral superiority. We were supposed to look our rapists in the eyes, the men who’d tortured us, and show them mercy.
“Shay.” Jamie’s voice took on a higher note, pleading. “You need to let them arrest him. It’s the right way.”
“Yes,” Don said softly. “Let justice prevail.”
His eyes sucked me in. My body was tingling. Sweat rolled over my cheeks—or was I crying? In my mouth, the taste of salt.
Jamie pressed his hands together, begging. “If you hurt him, they’ll arrest you. We won.”
“You’ll never win,” Don said. “It’s so much bigger than you or me. You saw what Laurel did.”
Even if the FBI arrested Don, he’d get off, wouldn’t he? Rich, powerful men like him always escaped, because other men wouldn’t judge him harshly. A man didn’t need to be a Pater to feel, deep inside, that small flame of solidarity…
“Shay, you’re scaring me.” Jamie tugged at my arm, but I shrugged him off.
Don had almost destroyed me. Him, and the rest of the ravenous men, hungry since I was young. All my life, they’d shaped my fears and desires, determined when I felt safe and when I was afraid. That was a fucking life sentence.
When would they ever stop?
“Say something,” Jamie pleaded, but he was drowned out by the sound of heavy boots pounding down the stairs.
“Hands up,” a voice barked. Suddenly men flooded the room, their chests thick and square under bulletproof vests, helmets domes of protection, guns drawn high. Yellow letters on their backs screamed FBI.
Don’s smile stretched ear to ear.
“Ma’am,” shouted one of the feds. “I said hands up. Drop the weapon.”
“This is Nico Stagiritis,” Jamie said. “He killed her friend. Please, Shay. Do what they say.”
But I wasn’t listening to them. In my head, a chorus of voices: If the cops aren’t going to do shit, I’ll do it myself. I don’t want to be like the girls who never come back. It’s over. He won’t do it again. You’re communal property, baby. Remember how sweet she was. What a sweet girl, and a sweet friend. A darling daughter.
Just between us girls, the soft voice whispered, I think you always knew where this was going.
Below me, on his knees, Don stopped smiling.
For Laurel, the voice whispered, and everything clicked.