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back, my head pounding in time with my heartbeat. He’s right there. The fucker that held Livie while his friend stabbed me repeatedly in the back.
    My hand automatically finds the lump protruding from my pocket. My fingers glide over the reassuring grooves of the knife I have tucked there. It’s always there, just waiting.
    Livie. Livie .
    That familiar ache burns inside my chest, reminding me she’s gone. Reminding me I’m still here. Reminding me of my purpose.
    I backtrack, rounding the house, and head for the front door. I want to look him in the eye. I want to ask him why. And I want him to know he’s going to die just as painfully as Olivia did.
    His hand over her mouth .
    I open the screen door.
    His arm wrapped around her chest .
    I pound my fist against the warped wood.
    Pinning her to him .
    I pull the knife from my pocket.
    Her eyes wide with fear .
    I flip the blade.
    Her cries. Her pleas. Her whimpers of pain .
    My fingers flex around the handle.
    His laughter .
    The door opens and I’m face to face with yet another man responsible for the brutal rape and murder of the love of my life.
    His eyes flick over my face, enlarging with surprise. His stunned silence speaks loudly. His gaze meets mine, filling with tears. This action speaks loudest of all. His head falls forward, tucking his chin into his chest. His shoulders shake as he breaks down, sobbing. Without a word, he takes a step back, allowing me inside.
    I don’t need to ask him if he remembers me. He’s made it painfully clear that he does. And I wonder how his memories differ from mine. He saw it all. He did it all . He was there to watch the life drain from my girlfriend’s beautiful eyes.
    And, God, she was so full of life .
    “How long did it take?” I ask. My voice startles me. Hoarse with emotion. Gruff with restrained anger. Laced with more pain than one man should bear.
    Morrison stares back at me, the tears falling in fat drops. They slide down his cheeks and fold around his chin. His bottom lip quivers. His chest continues to tremble. But he doesn’t answer me.
    “How long did it take her to die?”
    His mouth opens. He tries to tell me, but all that comes out is another sob. With a calm I do not feel, I reach back blindly, and close the door. And then I grab his shirt in my fists, shoving him against the wall of his own home.
    I bet he thought he was safe here.
    “How. Long.”
    He sucks in a breath and wipes at his eyes, never once trying to free himself of my grip. “It was quick,” he croaks.
    I release him and we both stumble away from one another. The blow never gets any easier. Never .
    “I’m sorry,” he weeps. “I’m so sorry. I hate myself every day for what we did. For what I did. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
    He presses his back into the wall and slides to the floor. His head drops once again, his disheveled hair falling into his eyes and covering his face.
    “If you’re so sorry, then why haven’t you turned yourself in? Why aren’t you rotting in a prison cell? Why are your friends still walking around free?”
    “I couldn’t. I’ve thought about it so many times, if for no other reason than to set myself free. To repent. Every time I imagined my parents’ faces, I couldn’t bring myself to do it.”
    “Maybe you should have pictured your parents’ faces before you raped and murdered my girlfriend,” I hiss.
    “It’s no excuse,” he says, his voice a ruff whisper, “but I wasn’t myself back then. I was fucked up. High on meth. I didn’t care about anything or anyone.” He lifts his head, his gaze landing on mine. I don’t hold it. I can’t.
    I squeeze the knife in my hand.
    “I’m clean now. I’m not that same person.”
    I shake my head. I don’t want excuses. I don’t want to hear how hard this has been on him or how much he’s changed. I don’t give a shit if he does or doesn’t destroy himself with chemicals.
    I just don’t care . It doesn’t bring her back.