Scarlet Letter - Prologue

I’ve finally gathered all the evidence I need to bring charges against Lance Griffith, a man who feels entitled to beat his wife. I still can’t believe they let him walk after the last time. Three neighbors called in concerns, but police let him go because he volunteers at the local homeless shelter. He’s a “well-respected man of the community.” Too often, the justice system looks the other way, or doesn’t look hard enough, when the accused doesn’t fit the “typical criminal” profile. Lance convinced detectives that his wife was mentally ill and that he deserved praise for “taking care of her.” Of course she wasn’t going to talk to the police. He had threatened her, and she knew he’d follow through. This is exactly why I started down this road in the first place. The truth is, we can’t count on the justice system to protect us. Sometimes it tries. More often, it fails. Luckily, one concerned neighbor, a widow who’d endured her own abuse, was willing to work with me. We installed security cameras outside her house. She got to keep the system, and I got access to the feeds until I caught something useful. Eventually, I did: a drunken confession to one of Lance’s friends. Unfortunately, that friend responded with a misogynistic comment about “putting women in their place.” A quick check confirmed he’s been single for a long time. No surprise there.

The recording, paired with multiple police reports and recent hospital records, is loading onto my body cam’s memory card while I get ready. I stand before the full-length mirror, adjusting the collar of my long-sleeved jumpsuit. The black fabric clings like a second skin, made to absorb light and make me almost invisible in the dark. Hazel eyes stare back at me, steady with determination. I run a gloved hand through my deep red pixie cut. I take a breath, steadying myself. There’s no room for hesitation. A simple red leather utility belt hugs my waist, holding a single pouch just big enough for the letter I’ll leave and the body cam. Invisible scars in my reflection remind me why I’m here tonight. I finish with a fitted hood and a scarlet cloth over my nose and mouth. I pocket the memory card loaded with evidence. I pull the door closed, adjusting my hood one more time. The summer air is cool against my skin, tingling with electric anticipation. I vanish into the night, each step a silent vow for justice.