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For the rest of the party, Hannah stayed by my side while I covertly gathered as much information as I could. By the end of the party, I had everything I needed to find Uncle Matthew and make sure he never took pictures of his niece again.

It killed me to leave her, but there was nothing I could do in that moment. I didn’t promise to protect her. I did what was expected and socially acceptable. I told her to tell her parents. Technically, Hannah didn’t tell me anything other than her uncle took pictures of her all the time—playing, eating, changing clothes, bathing.Vomit.

Perhaps it was judgy of me, but I couldn’t think of one valid reason for Uncle Matthew to be taking photos of Hannah while she was exposed. Icouldthink of many invalid reasons. And every single one disgusted me.

I should have spent the drive home talking myself out of doing something irrational. But I didn’t. Instead, I calmed myself by organizing my thoughts and creating a plan. My previous therapists would’ve been equally proud and horrified. I was using their tools, but I was using them to possibly plan a murder and get away with it.

When I reached my house, I went straight to my laptop and started digging. I wasn’t an expert by any means, but I could usually find the information I was searching for, and I could get into most personal email accounts.

Thankfully, Birdie wasn’t home. I didn’t have the mental capacity to hold a superficial conversation with her. Not that talking about my day with my grandmother was superficial. But I felt a sense of urgency I couldn’t ignore.

It took less than an hour to confirm Matthew Heinz was the piece of shit I thought he was. He was also an idiot who knew nothing about cybersecurity, making it easy to guess his password—his niece’s name and birthdate.

Gross.

I didn’t even have to piece anything together. Matthew didn’t speak in code or try to disguise his actions. He’d been selling pictures of Hannah online, but he was also in the process of finalizing the sale of his niece.

The. Sale. Of. His. Niece.

A familiar feeling washed over me. I’d only felt it once before—right after my uncle killed my mother. It was unmistakable—an irreversible decision, a murderous determination, an undeniable need to kill him. Matthew Heinz was going to die, and I was going to be the one to kill him.

Inhaling deeply, I quickly considered the ramifications. If I got caught, I would end up in prison again, probably for the rest of my life. But I couldn’t find it in me to care. I was triggered, and I knew it. The adrenaline rushed through me, like it did every time I thought of Uncle Chet. Closing my eyes, I remembered the way the blood poured from his neck while he stared at me in disbelief.

“I will kill you every night in my dreams forthe rest of my life,” I vowed before plunging the knife into his abdomen.

Fuck. Once again, I tried to pull myself together. My hands shook as I rolled a joint, which pissed me off even more. When I finally got it rolled, I couldn’t find my lighter. Then, I snagged my fingernail on my jeans and ripped part of it off. “Fuck!” I screamed and smacked my hand on the counter several times.

I was close to losing it.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I drew in a deep breath and brought the joint to my lips. As I met my own eyes in the mirror, I flicked my lighter and vowed over the dancing flame, “Matthew Heinz will die tonight.”

THREE

KALANI

Thirty-two-year-old Matthew James Heinz was in town for his niece’s birthday. I assumed he was staying with his sister, Hannah’s mother, but I was pleased to find out he had reserved a room at a family-owned hotel in Kahakai. Unfortunately, he had a ticket for a flight departing at four, which didn’t leave me much time to work with.

I did as much research as I could before I had to get ready to leave. Dressed in all black, I drove to Kahakai armed with a basic idea of the hotel layout and a large knife. My plan was simple—park at the bar across the street, let myself into Matthew’s hotel room, slit his throat, see myself out, drive home, dispose of all evidence.

That last part is where I went wrong the first time. I probably would’ve gotten away with it if I’d cared about the aftermath, but at the time, I just wanted him dead. So, hours after I killed my uncle, I was found in my bedroom—wearing a shirt soaked with Chet’s blood and holding the knife I used to slit his throat.

They said I was in shock. That I had a mental crisis in response to severe grief. It was a trauma response. The excuses and diagnoses were endless. It wasn’t any of those things. I wasfucking pissed. Chet killed my mother. I didn’t see him steal her life and ruin mine, but I heard it. Then, I saw her. I would kill that wannabe motherfucker over and over again if I could just like I do every night in my mind before I fall asleep.

The drive to Kahakai was a blur. All of it was—parking, walking across the street to the hotel, finding Matthew’s room, and reaching for my lock picking set.

Then a hand covered my mouth from behind and an arm went around my waist as I was pulled firmly against a large body. “Make one sound and I’ll snap your fucking neck.”

Without a single sound, I slipped the knife from my pocket and stabbed the man behind me, sinking the blade into his thigh.

“Fuck!” he roared and released his grip on me.

I held on to the knife and shoved myself backward once to push him away from me before I ran like hell.

“Holy fuck! Holy fuck! Holy fuck!” I chanted—maybe out loud, maybe not—as I sprinted through the trees.

“Sugar!” I heard someone yell in the distance.

“Find him!” he bellowed. “Fucking find him! God damn it!”