Scarlet Letter Prologue through Ch 5

Scarlet Letter Original Manuscript Written By: Victoria B. Rose Prologue I’ve finally gathered all the evidence I need to bring charges against Lance Griffith, a man who thinks he’s entitled to beat his wife. I still can’t believe they let him walk after the last time. Three neighbors reported their 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 it 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 didn’t speak to the police. He had threatened her, and she knew he would follow through. This is exactly why I started down this road. 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 had endured her own abuse, was willing to work with me. We installed security cameras outside her home. She kept the system; I kept access to the feeds until I caught something useful. Eventually, I did: a drunken confession to one of Lance’s friends. Unfortunately, that friend answered with a misogynistic comment about “putting women in their place.” A quick check confirmed he has been single for a long time. No surprise there.

The recording, paired with multiple police reports and recent hospital records, is uploading to 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. 1 The black fabric clings like a second skin, designed to absorb light and make me vanish in the dark. Hazel eyes stare back at me, steady and determined. I run a gloved hand through my deep red pixie cut, take a breath, and steel myself. There is no room for hesitation. A red leather utility belt hugs my waist, its single pouch just big enough for the letter I will leave and the body cam. Invisible scars in my reflection remind me why I am here tonight. I pull on my fitted hood, secure the scarlet cloth over my nose and mouth, and pocket the memory card loaded with evidence. I close the door behind me, adjusting the hood one last time. The summer air is cool on my skin, tingling with electric anticipation. I melt into the night. Every step is a vow for justice. 2 1 My name is Rebecca Noble. Lately, the world has taken to calling me by a different name. This is my story. For ten years, I was married. Ten long, heavy years. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t even good. But it was a choice I made. I knew the rules. I grew up with them carved into my beliefs like scripture. Marriage is sacred.

A covenant with God. A vow never to be broken, no matter the cost. But no one ever told me what to do when that covenant started to feel like a cage. Even as a little girl, I knew I could never break a promise to God, let alone a covenant. That kind of betrayal was unthinkable. Then I watched my mother. I watched her stay. I watched her endure. I watched fights explode into violence until we, the children, were sent outside, exiled from the wreckage. She stayed. And I wondered if there was any other reason to. Or was this just the cost of keeping a covenant? Now I know the truth. She had been convinced that it was okay because it wasn’t as bad as before, or that she somehow deserved it. That the bruises, the screaming, the fear, it was all justified. That was his truth. Back then, my adolescent mind had only one explanation: she stayed because she couldn’t break a covenant with God. That was the only reason that made sense. If I knew then what I know now, I would have begged her to leave. I would have told her that God loves her too much to demand her suffering. That “until death do us part” can mean spiritual death. I would have told her to run before he caused so much damage. Tears prick my eyes. I should have stopped him. I could have tried. 3

“No,” Persephone’s voice echoes in my mind. “Don’t pick up guilt that isn’t yours.” I roll my eyes, but I know she’s right. After almost three years with her as my therapist, I have learned to trust her advice. Back to my marriage. Or my holding cell, as it had begun to feel. It started subtly, creeping in like a slow poison. I laugh bitterly now, thinking about how long it took me to see it. But thanks to EMDR therapy, I can finally say the truth out loud: It wasn’t because I was stupid. It wasn’t because I was weak. It was because he made sure I didn’t see it until the damage had been done. It took three years of sexual abuse before I finally understood. I did not deserve this. Three years of waking up to a violation I never consented to. Three years of begging him to stop, only to have my pleas ignored. Three years of convincing myself that love could look like this, like cruelty in the dark, like a body treated as property, like a marriage that felt more like a prison sentence. When I started self-protection classes, that was the beginning of the end. It wasn’t just my body that grew stronger; it was my mind. With every punch, every strike, every lesson in reclaiming my own power, the fog began to lift. I saw the abuse for what it was, stripped of the excuses I had clung to for so long.

And still, I tried. I sat him down. I laid out the truth, the gravity of what he was doing, the wreckage he was leaving in his wake. I wanted him to see it, to understand, to change. 4 After more than a decade in this relationship, some part of me still hoped it could be saved. If there was even the smallest chance, I had to try. He would sit there, watching me fall apart. Tears streaming down my face as I pleaded for him to hear me, to truly hear me. He’d whisper hushed apologies, shaking his head, calling himself the “worst husband ever.” But they were empty words. Even as he swore it would never happen again, he knew he was lying. He had no intention of stopping. No intention of changing. When the truth finally became unbearable, when I could no longer pretend that love and abuse could coexist, I left. Heart heavy. Soul shattered. But I left. As terrifying as it was, there was an almost immediate change in my mood. It wasn’t until the third day that I was able to name it. The moment I chose to leave, I felt my soul exhale. For the first time in years, I could just be. No more walking on eggshells, scanning his body language for signs of irritation. No more exasperated sighs and eye rolls when I dared to ask for help. I could laugh

at cheesy jokes without being made to feel stupid for finding them funny. Little by little, I started reclaiming pieces of myself, the things I loved, the things that made me me . Before every waking moment became about keeping him happy, I was finally remembering who I was. And God, it felt good. I wasn’t going to press charges. I told people I didn’t want to ruin his life; I just wanted him out of mine. At first, it was enough to just be out. To be free. However, after months of therapy and continued classes, I knew I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if he did it to someone else and I hadn’t done everything I could to prevent it. So I went to the police station and spoke with the detective on duty. Detective Randy Howell was in his late 30s, but the weight of his job made him seem older. He carried himself like a man who had seen it 5 all and stopped caring long ago. His sharp brown eyes held a flicker of intelligence, but more often than not, they were dulled by indifference. His short, neatly trimmed hair and clean-shaven face gave him an air of professionalism, but there was always a hint of impatience in his expression, like he was already thinking about his next case or maybe just his next coffee. He tapped his pen against the desk while listening, as if waiting

for me to get to the point. His voice was flat, devoid of urgency, the kind that could make even the most harrowing stories sound like an inconvenience. He leaned back in his chair with practiced ease, arms crossed, as if deciding whether my case was worth his time. At one point, he might have been the kind of detective who fought for victims. But now he was just another part of the system. Just one more gatekeeper between survivors and the justice they desperately needed. I told him what I had been through and gave him all the information I could, down to every detail of the last assault. Detective Howell took my statement, asked some follow-up questions, and sent me on my way. He called my attacker in. My then ex-husband said he would never do anything like that. He told the detective I had never confronted him about it, that this was the first time he was hearing about it, and that he simply couldn’t understand why I would fabricate such crazy stories. Then I found the screenshots and recorded conversations. Three different times, I specifically mentioned the rape and called him out on it. In one, he even apologized. This was it. I had him. Or so I thought. I handed over everything. Every piece of evidence I had gathered. A full year of therapy records detailing the wreckage he left behind. I gave it all to the detective, desperate for someone, anyone, to see

the truth. They brought him back in. He sat there, face blank, and lied again. 6 I don’t know what excuse he fed Detective Howell, what pathetic story he spun to explain away the damning proof. But in the end, it didn’t matter. Nothing happened. The prosecuting attorney took one look at the text message, the one where he literally apologized for raping me, and decided it wasn’t enough. I tried to do this the right way to no avail. I went to the city council and told them my story. That got me a meeting with the Chief of Police, who kindly informed me that my attacker has more rights than I do. It didn’t matter how much I gave them. My pain. My evidence. My truth. The prosecuting attorney’s response never changed. “Not enough evidence.” Not enough to press charges. Not enough for justice. Not enough for me. I was devastated. I came home, crawled into bed, and sobbed uncontrollably for over an hour. I just couldn’t understand how they could let him go after I provided information that proved most of his statement to Detective Howell false. I couldn’t get any answers from anyone. It got dark for a while. The sobbing started again when I realized I was not the only one being brushed off like this. The fact that there were other women, other people like me needing justice but failed by the system meant to provide it was too much to take.

Unfortunately, the police department no longer even pretended to care enough about what I had been through to push back against the choices of the prosecuting attorney. Whatever thin veil of concern they once had was gone, swallowed by indifference. I called repeatedly, but the last time I heard, a victim’s advocate was supposed to reach out to me. I have continued to call, but it has been a year and a half and still nothing. I had to find the cracks. The fault lines. The places where the system was breaking down. If I didn’t, I was going to lose my mind. I needed real answers. Not the empty, rehearsed explanations they fed victims to make them go away. I had to get behind those closed 7 doors, to understand what really happened when justice was being weighed and discarded. Maybe if I could see it for myself, I’d find some closure. Maybe I’d finally understand why my evidence, my truth, was never enough. But what I didn’t know then, what I couldn’t have known, was that this decision would lead me down a path I never expected. 8 2 It’s been six months since I started my job as the file clerk for the prosecuting attorney, a truly awful man named Mikel Hall who wields a commanding presence with a robust, stocky build. Standing at 5'6" and weighing enough to fill every room he enters with arrogance, he reminds

me of the Queen of Hearts from Alice in Wonderland . The urge to respond to his every demand with an exaggerated, “Yes, Your Majesty,” followed by a dramatic curtsy is nearly unbearable. At least the thought of it keeps me entertained. Every word that leaves Mikel’s mouth drips with self-importance, as if he truly believes his voice carries the weight of scripture, his own personal gospel to be revered without question. He wears his dirty blonde hair combed over to hide a deeply receding hairline. But it’s his eyes that stand out most, piercing, icy blue, always narrowed in scrutiny. They sweep over everyone around him with an almost theatrical disappointment, as if he’s constantly surrounded by incompetence, forever burdened by the sheer inadequacy of those beneath him. And in his mind, that’s everyone. Mr. Hall, as he demands to be called by all who dare enter the office, adorns himself only with finely tailored suits that drape over his heavier frame with an air of sophistication and power. A subtle, self-assured smirk often plays on his lips, especially when confronted with what he imagines as weakness in his adversaries. Every day, it gets increasingly difficult to stomach the attitude of dismissal that the justice system seems to have toward people like me, people who were victimized by those they were supposed to trust. There’s invariably a weak excuse for why they won’t take the case, but it soon

became clear why they typically support the predator: birds of a feather and all that. Still, I couldn’t wrap my head around it. How? How could so many people openly admit that the system is broken and yet do nothing? How could they clock in every day, push paper, recite their empty apologies, and pretend they weren’t complicit? Seriously, what is wrong with people who see injustice firsthand and choose to do nothing? 9 I had been working there for two months when I had enough. Woman after woman walked through those doors, their stories hauntingly similar to mine. They weren’t just dismissed; they were re-victimized, their pain reduced to paperwork, their cases discarded with barely a glance, just like mine was. But what crushed me most were the ones who never even called, the ones who had already given up before they tried. They knew the system would fail them. Something had to be done. Someone had to do something. It’s this thought that gets me through. I take a deep breath and push myself harder on the elliptical as Estella Dawn’s I Dare You pulses in my headphones. I do my best to focus only on the surrounding room. The soft lavender walls, the gray concrete floors, and the minimalistic décor of Women’s Fitness Boutique have become like a second home to me. This is where I started pushing my body past what I believed it was capable of.

Yes, I have my self-protection classes, but those push me more mentally than physically, which is so much more important. My physical strength would mean nothing if I hadn’t learned how to function with adrenaline coursing through my veins. “Oh my, God!” Brooklynn’s excited exclamation breaks my reverie. “What is it, Lynn?” I ask, startled by her outburst. She lets out a breathless chuckle, eyes wide with amusement, as she gestures toward the TV mounted in the corner of the gym. “Are you seeing this? It’s happened again!” I follow her finger and see “BREAKING NEWS: SCARLET LETTER STRIKES AGAIN” flash across the top of the newscast. I can’t help but chuckle as I listen to the female reporter cover the story. She almost sounds giddy. “Mr. Lance Griffith is the fourth victim in as many months that police have found. Each one sustained severe bodily injury before being restrained. At each crime scene, police recovered an envelope containing a 10 memory card and a letter on scarlet-colored stationery.” The reporter pauses, a smug smile curling on her lips before continuing. “While authorities refuse to release the contents of these letters, one undeniable pattern has emerged. Every single victim had previously been investigated by police for alleged offenses but never arrested. The discovery of these memory cards has only deepened the intrigue, as each one has contained damning evidence of crimes allegedly committed by the victim.” Brooklynn lets out a low whistle. “This is absolutely insane!”

“Speculation is rampant,” the reporter continues. “Some believe this vigilante may be connected to law enforcement, though the Chief of Police insists they are doing everything possible to apprehend this so-called masked menace. Authorities urge anyone with information regarding the identity of the Scarlet Letter to come forward immediately.” “Rick was telling me about that,” she whispers. “His entire office is buzzing about this vigilante.” Ah, yes. Rick. The lawyer husband of my best friend. I don’t know why, but I never liked the guy. I haven’t spent much time around him, but when I do, something just seems off. Maybe it’s because he’s part of the system? The camera shifts, zooming in on a tear-streaked woman gripping a tissue. “We are now joined by Mr. Griffith’s wife. Mrs. Griffith, is it true that you were the one who found your husband tied up?” My thoughts stop in their tracks as the wife of the “victim” fills the screen. Her shoulders are curled in, she is slouching, and the bruise healing under her right eye is just barely noticeable now, much like the ones on her jaw and arms. “Yes, ma’am, it is,” she quietly stammers. She seems to flinch at the sound of her name. The reporter nods before continuing. “And can you tell us anything about the Scarlet Letter? Did you see her at all?” 11 I hold my breath as I wait for her to respond. How much has she put together? “No,” she whispers.

“I didn’t see her.” I feel myself relax. But the reporter isn’t satisfied. Her eyes narrow slightly, her voice pressing forward, searching for cracks. She wants more. “What about your husband, Mrs. Griffith? Did he tell you anything about his attacker?” Lisa flinches at the question, her posture shrinking. “Please, call me Lisa,” she says quickly, as if the mere association with his name is suffocating. That’s a good sign. She’s distancing herself. She’s finally done with him. This time, she won’t go back. She takes a shaky breath, composing herself before continuing. “Lance told me someone broke into the house and attacked him,” she says, voice uneven. “But…” she hesitates, then steels herself. “I received an airdropped video to my phone shortly after I got home.” The reporter leans in. So do I. “It showed Lance attacking someone outside.” Silence. “I already gave the video to the police. There’s no audio, but it looks like body cam footage from the person he attacked. They didn’t go after him. They just…” She exhales. “They defended themselves.” The reporter casts a knowing glance at the camera before turning back to Lisa, her voice dripping with suggestion. “It sounds like you’re on the Scarlet Letter’s side, Lisa.” 12 Lisa doesn’t hesitate. She simply nods. No fear. No second-guessing. Just silent, unwavering agreement. The reporter senses her window closing. Lisa is almost done. But she pushes anyway, her voice soft, hopeful, coaxing. “Lisa, is there anything else you’d like to say?”

For a moment, Lisa hesitates. Then something shifts. Her shoulders square. Her spine straightens. The quiet, uncertain woman they expected to interview is gone. Instead, she stands taller, stronger, her gaze locking onto the camera with a newfound fire. Lynn and I both lean in. Both curious, but for entirely different reasons. “Scarlet Letter, if you’re listening, thank you.” My mouth goes dry. “Thank you for fighting for us when the justice system just acts like we’re making it up to get atten—” Static. The screen abruptly cuts back to the newsroom, the anchors scrambling to regain control. Lynn lets out a sharp, explicit outburst of frustration, but I barely register it. Because in that moment, I realize Lisa wasn’t just grateful. She was hopeful. And that means I’m doing the right thing. “I’m sorry,” the male news anchor lies through a smile, “but we seem to be experiencing some technical difficulties.” Did I imagine his female co-anchor rolling her eyes? 13 He clears his throat and continues, his tone noticeably more cautious. “Mr. Lance Griffith has reportedly been taken to Twin Mountains Memorial Hospital to be treated for his injuries. Once stable, he will be questioned by police regarding his alleged crimes and the so-called ‘irrefutable’ evidence found at the scene.” The way he emphasizes “irrefutable” makes my stomach turn. Like he doesn’t believe it. Like it’s all some overblown misunderstanding rather than undeniable proof of what these men have done. The female co-anchor, jaw tight, suddenly jumps in.

“If I were Mr. Griffith,” she says, her voice clipped but controlled, “I would start to panic, seeing as how the first three men found by Scarlet Letter are currently behind bars awaiting trial.” She tilts her head, lips curving slightly. “It seems this vigilante is doing a better job getting dangerous criminals off the streets than—” She flinches. Her hand flies to her earpiece, fingers pressing against it as if absorbing some heated directive from behind the scenes. She exhales sharply, then plasters on a very large, very fake smile. But her tone is dripping with annoyance. “Not that we here at Twin Mountains News condone this type of irresponsible vigilante behavior,” she adds, voice laced with barely concealed sarcasm. “Justice should be left to those in the justice system.” This time, the eye roll is undeniable. Brooklynn snorts beside me. “She said that like she actually believes it.” I respond with a nervous laugh. It’s all I can muster, because that guy’s skepticism isn’t just insulting. It’s dangerous. It’s people like him that are why I have to exist or Scarlet Letter does. 14 “Can you believe this, Becca?” Lynn nearly shouts, gripping my arm in excitement. “A real vigilante and she’s an absolute force!” Her expression shifts, irritation flickering across her face. “But seriously, do they really expect people to believe that excuse? ‘Technical difficulties’?” Her face tips upward in an exaggerated eye roll. “Who’s falling for that?”

“Right?” I roll my eyes too, layering my voice with sarcasm. “Totally not obvious at all.” I shrug, forcing a casual tone I do not feel. “But yeah, someone had to do something. Who knows? Maybe she’s just as unhinged as they are.” Keeping Lynn in the dark has been one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. She would love this. She would throw herself into it wholeheartedly. And that’s exactly why I can’t let her know. There will be consequences if anyone finds out who I really am. I won’t let her get caught in the crossfire. Lynn huffs, unconvinced. “Maybe. But you have to admit, it’s impressive. I wonder who she’ll go after next?” That’s the question, isn’t it? Except I already know the answer. I’ve known for over a week. Lynn and the rest of the world will find out soon enough. I’ll never forget the day I discovered what he had done.

-------------------------------------------------------------------- I sat in my car, gripping the steering wheel, my knuckles turning white as I forced myself to take slow, measured breaths. The heavy weight in my stomach refused to lift, a quiet but insistent warning that something was wrong—that something bad was going to happen today. 15 I tore my gaze away from the dashboard and found myself glowering at the glass-paneled door ahead—the one that bore the name Mikel Hall, Prosecuting Attorney. My dislike for it, for him, burned so fiercely that I almost believed I could set it ablaze just by staring. I try to visualize myself walking in, taking in the cream-colored walls, the stained burgundy carpet, and the same look on everyone’s faces, showing that they are all equally bored, and I cringe internally. At least it’s Friday. In the short time I’ve worked here, I’ve only seen one person dare to stand up to Mikel Hall—Jessica Cruz, his assistant. She’s a rare force in this office, a woman who refuses to be intimidated by his overbearing presence. If she had applied after he was elected, there’s no way he would have hired her. He surrounds himself with people who obey, not those who challenge. But Jessica? She knows her worth. She knows her voice matters. And despite his barely concealed attempts to find a reason to fire her, he hasn’t succeeded—because she’s good at her job, and he knows it. She was the first to befriend me here. The only one, if I’m honest.

For the past six weeks, her desk has been empty while she’s been on maternity leave. The office has felt colder without her. But now, as I see her walk through the door, a rare, genuine smile tugs at my lips. Standing at a mere 5'3", Jessica’s presence defies her height, radiating a fiery energy that demands attention. Her ebony hair, cut into a bold pixie style, frames a face adorned with a pair of piercing, dark eyes that seem to hold the intensity of a wildfire. Her olive skin carries a glow of determination. Dressed in sleek, form-fitting attire that accentuates her petite figure, Jess's wardrobe mirrors her bold and unapologetic personality. You would never guess that she had just had a baby. Every step she takes exudes a confidence that contradicts her size, as if daring anyone to underestimate her. In a room full of towering figures, Jess's presence is the one that demands acknowledgment. I’m so glad she’s back today. She makes it easier to be here. 16 The day progresses without much incident. Though I am looking as much as I can without drawing attention, I am not finding any good marks for my next target. The cases coming across today seem to be pretty cut and dry and all minor incidents. Nothing that would appear to require a different approach to justice. As I stand outside Mr. Hall’s office, methodically filing case after case, Jessica storms past me, her expression tight with urgency. A file

clutched in her hand, her movements are brisk—determined. Then, without hesitation, she pushes open the door to Hall’s office without knocking. I freeze. Jessica knows better. Everyone does. Interrupting Mr. Hall, even when he’s doing nothing more than playing solitaire on his computer, is a risk few are willing to take. Yet, she doesn’t hesitate. Something must have happened. As she turns to close the door, her eyes flick to mine—and widen in alarm. A chill runs down my spine. Just minutes ago, we were gushing over pictures of her baby girl. What changed? The door clicks shut, but the look she gave me lingers. Something’s wrong. I just don’t know what yet. "That’s one hell of a coincidence!" I hear Jessica’s voice rise to a volume I have never heard her use before. "Two people who have never met accusing the same person? You really believe that?" I can hear Mr. Hall respond, but can’t make out what he’s saying. By the tone she responds with, it’s not what Jessica was hoping to hear. The back and forth continues for a few more minutes. I don’t realize I am 17 listening so intently that I had begun leaning towards the door until Jessica opens it and pauses with her hand on the doorknob as he calls after her. "This doesn’t concern you, Jessica. You’d be wise to focus on your work and remember the confidentiality clause in your employment

contract." I can’t see him, but Jessica seems to be laser focused on me. I watch as Jessica closes her eyes, her body tense, before she draws in a deep breath. When she turns to face him, her voice is so calm, it borders on chilling. "I assure you, Mikel," she spits his name like a curse, daring him to call her out on it, "I will remain professional, but you're making the wrong choice. Again. And I truly hope I’m here to watch when it comes back to bite you." The words hang in the air, thick with warning, as she shuts the door behind her and goes straight to her office. I watch through the window as she slams the file onto her desk, the impact sharp and final. In the next breath, she buries her face in her hands, her shoulders trembling. It takes a moment for the reality to sink in—she’s crying. The tears are fleeting, but the weight behind them is undeniable. As quickly as the emotion erupts, she wipes her eyes and snatches the file back up. She flips through the pages with growing agitation, her head shaking in disbelief, her anger simmering beneath every page she turns. This isn’t like her. Not at all. I keep wanting to check on her, but she doesn’t give any sign she wants to be seen—just sits there, hunched over her desk, combing through case files with an intensity that screams stay away. Her silence is

thick, the air around her heavy with something I can’t quite place. It isn’t until fifteen minutes before my shift ends that she finally emerges from her office. She doesn’t look any better—still visibly shaken, still wearing that stormy expression. The tension in the room tightens, and I wonder what it’s going to take for her to finally let it out. 18 "Hey Jess, are you okay?" I ask out of concern. Her voice is flat, emotionless. "I'm fine," she says, but the words feel hollow. "There's a stack of files on my desk that need to be handled before you leave. I know it’s Friday, but they have to be sent out first thing Monday morning." She stares at me intensely, as if she is trying to convey more than just her words. It’s so frustrating to know I’m missing something, but it doesn’t feel like I can ask her. We stand there looking at each other, the weight of the moment hanging between us as she lifts her purse onto her shoulder and rests her hand on the door. Then, looking as if disappointed, her posture sags. Her head lowers, her shoulders slump—the air seems to thicken. She looks out the door, and I wonder what she’s staring at so intently. Suddenly, her voice drops to a whisper. "I'm sorry, Becca," she says, and it’s clear—the apology goes beyond the work. Without another word, she pushes the door open, and fulfills her desperate need for escape.

If she weren’t so upset, I would have protested. As it is, I still groan inwardly as I go into her office to grab the files from her desk. There’s a mountain of them. It’s overwhelming, and I know it will take at least another hour of tedious work. The office is silent, and I’m the last one here. I leave the stack on top of the file cabinet, my eyes lingering on the mess, before I walk over to grab my phone out of my bag. "Hey, love! You on your way home yet?" my husband, Oliver, answers after the first ring. I can’t help but smile at his voice. "Hey! Not quite. Jess gave me another hour’s worth of work as she was leaving. Looks like I’m going to be a little late for dinner tonight," I begrudgingly relay as I start walking back towards the front. "Oh man! That’s got to be frustrating. You're the only one there, then?" he asks. He knows Jess and I are usually the last ones to leave. 19 I set my phone down and switch to speakerphone, the hum of the empty office pressing in on me as I start working through the files. "I am now." A brief pause. I already know what’s coming. "Find any targets today?" I laugh, though it’s lighter than I want it to be. I always knew he’d be supportive when I decided to take this new path, but I never

imagined how eager he’d be to get involved. I pull another file from the stack, flipping through the drawer to file it away. "Not today, babe." As I pick up the next file, a piece of paper slips from it, fluttering to the floor. "Okay. I’m sure it won’t be long before something catches your eye. The world is, unfortunately, filled with terrible people doing terrible things and getting away with it. How was work today?" I bend to retrieve it, but the moment my fingers close around it, I freeze. I hear his voice, but I can't respond. Because something just caught my eye. Everything stops. The weight of the world presses down on me as I read the summary page that fell from the file. In an instant, everything makes sense—why Jessica acted the way she did, why she was so visibly shaken. I sink to the floor, the paper trembling in my hands. My legs give way, as if the truth itself has stolen the strength from my body. The realization floods through me, and I feel the cold edge of a truth too unbearable to ignore. INCIDENT/INVESTIGATION REPORT Agency Name – TWIN MOUNTAINS POLICE DEPARTMENT Date/Time Reported – 10/17/2023 11:10 Mon Crime Incident(s) – Rape Victim – BENNET, ELEANOR RENEE, Age – 35, Sex – F 20 Address – 25 WILLOW LANE, Twin Mountains, AR Officer Responding – Detective Howell REPORTING OFFICER NARRATIVE On 10-17-2023, I took a rape report, which occurred at 25 Willow Lane.

I spoke with Eleanor Bennet at the Twin Mountains Police Department. Ms. Bennet wished to file a report for being raped by her ex-boyfriend. Ms. Bennet stated that she awoke the morning of 10/07/2023 to find her then boyfriend inside her. She immediately told him to stop. Ms. Bennet stated that he responded by stating that she was causing him undue harm by rejecting him in such a manner. Ms. Bennet advised that she immediately ended the relationship. Ms. Bennet stated that she had been speaking with a friend about the situation and that the friend urged her to file a report. I have attempted to contact the ex-boyfriend, Dexter Blackthorn, via telephone. I left a message for Mr. Blackthorn to contact me back. I will follow up with interviewing Mr. Blackthorn about the allegations made against him. Nothing further. His name might as well have been in bold for how quickly it jumped off the page at me. I can’t breathe. I’m having my first panic attack in months. This can’t be happening. "Babe? Are you okay? Becca!" Oliver’s panicky voice breaks through my spiral. "Becca! Are you there!?" "I’m here," I breathe, "No. I’m not okay. I’ll explain when I get home." I know he is worried, but I need time to process this before I tell anyone. His pause shows more understanding than I anticipated. "You found him, didn’t you, your next target?" Can I handle him being my target? Can I control myself? "I don’t

know yet. I gotta go," I can’t disguise the emotion in my voice or bring myself to look away from the name. 21 "Okay. I love you! You are so strong and you can do this! I am here for you if you need me! I will see you when you get home. Take time to process, and we will talk about it when you are ready." His words, full of unwavering support, are what finally break me. Tears spill over, hot and relentless, as I cling to the phone. "Okay," I manage to whisper, barely audible, before I hang up. I read it again. And again, my eyes get stuck on the name. His name.

-------------------------------------------------------------------- "Earth to Becca!" Lynn says as she waves her hand in front of my face. "You okay, Becs? You kinda zoned out for a minute." The concern is evident on her face. "Yeah, sorry," I force a smile, struggling to return to the moment. "It’s just… all this," I gesture toward the TV, "it’s heavy. The world is messed up." She nods knowingly, her expression darkening. "You got that right. I wonder who she is. Maybe we should see if she takes requests for targets," she teases with a playful wink. "Who knows," I respond, trying to keep my voice neutral, though I can't help but smile at her attempt to lighten the mood. She knows what I’ve been through—what I still carry with me. But this? This is different. For the first time, I know too much about my target before I even start. I know how he manipulates. How he can twist reality to make you question your sanity. I can see the way his eyes gleam with superiority when he thinks he’s untouchable. The arrogance in his posture when he thinks the world bends to his will. And I know the feeling of his presence closing in, invading without consent. The way he made me feel small, powerless, and like nothing I said or did mattered. 22 The one thing I don’t know, I will learn when this investigation reaches its climax. I will learn what it looks like when my ex-husband—Dexter

Blackthorn, the last man who thought he could break me—realizes he’s nothing. I’ll be there to watch his world shatter, his illusion of control crumble. I’ll be there when he finally faces the truth: that this time, he’s the one who’s utterly undone. And no amount of manipulation or power can save him now. 23 3 The drive from the gym to Persephone’s office is eerily quiet, a stark contrast to the storm raging in my mind. I’m not looking forward to this meeting. Lisa’s words loop in my head, a relentless echo of why I started this. I couldn’t keep watching. Couldn’t sit by as case after case—clear, undeniable cases that should be prosecuted—were carelessly tossed into the "to file" box, condemned to collect dust instead of justice. It’s never been about finding criminals to investigate. They’re everywhere. The real challenge is sifting through the wreckage, determining which monsters are the most dangerous, the most likely to strike again. And making sure they never get the chance. This target is different. More than any before, he is personal. But if I’m going to succeed, I have to treat him like any other. No emotion. No vengeance. Just precision. If I let my desire for vengeance cloud my judgment, I’ll make a mistake—one I can’t afford. The anticipation coils in my stomach, a twisted mix of exhilaration and dread. This is the one I’ve been waiting for. The one I never thought I’d get the chance to face.

But doubt keeps closing in on me. I have to get to the bottom of this. That’s what I hope to accomplish here today. Persephone knows there’s a new target, but I’ve kept his identity to myself. I wanted to say it out loud, to watch her expression shift as the weight of it settles in. This is my first appointment since discovering the truth, and I’m not sure which of us will be more eager to see how this plays out. In spite of my trepidation, a slow smile creeps across my face as I pull into her office parking lot. This is going to be interesting. I walk into the classically decorated lobby to the friendly face of Emily, the receptionist. She usually has her long blonde hair pulled into a ponytail, but today, it’s twisted into a bun. 24 "Good morning, Mrs. Noble," she greets me. "Persephone is finishing up with a client and will be out to get you in just a moment." "Good morning, Emily. Thank you. I like the bun! It looks good on you," I respond kindly as I go to sit in the waiting room. The stone tile floors of the lobby give way to the beige carpet of the waiting room. As I walk in, dark neutral colors surround me, as does some light classical music. Four deep red covered high back chairs adorn each corner of the little room. I take a seat on one of the three

cream-colored benches and look down at the rows of assorted mental health magazines strewn about the table. Persephone doesn’t keep me waiting long. The door to the waiting room swings open, and she gestures for me to go ahead. She exudes a quiet strength, her presence both grounding and warm. Her shoulder-length curls, deep red and tightly wound, frame her face like flickering flames. The color contrasts beautifully with her pale skin, which carries the soft translucence of porcelain. Large, round glasses frame her expressive eyes, the lenses slightly magnifying the depth of her gaze—always perceptive, always searching for the truth beneath the surface. She dresses in muted earth tones—olive greens, warm browns, and deep ochres—clothing that drapes comfortably yet deliberately, giving her an air of effortless wisdom. Her style is practical but elegant, reflecting both her nurturing nature and her unshakable resolve. Whether it's a soft-knit cardigan layered over a flowing blouse or a well-worn pair of leather boots, every piece she wears seems to tell a story, much like the woman herself. Her sharp gaze flickers with curiosity—maybe even suspicion. She knows me too well. Knows that silence isn’t my style. But she says nothing as I walk past. Normally, I’d fill this short walk with conversation, small talk, anything to break the tension. But today, words feel dangerous. One slip, one misplaced emotion, and she’ll see right through me before we even make it to her office. 25

So I keep my mouth shut, my heartbeat thrumming in my ears, and walk in front of her down the hall, waiting for the safety of closed doors before I let the truth out. Persephone barely has the door shut before she’s watching me closely, reading me like she always does. "You okay?" Her voice is gentle but probing. I just nod, swallowing back the storm inside me as I take my seat. She doesn’t push, but her sharp gaze lingers as she lowers herself into her chair, waiting. I inhale deeply, trying to summon my resolve, my courage. As I do, my eyes wander around Persephone’s office, a space that has become as familiar as my own home. It hasn’t changed much since the first time I sank into this deep blue sofa, struggling to find the right words. The room is a blend of warmth and organized chaos, carefully curated to feel safe without being sterile. The walls are painted in a muted taupe, neutral and calming, with a few framed posters of Howl’s Moving Castle — her favorite movie—adding a personal touch. One entire wall is dedicated to play therapy, lined with rows of plastic bins stacked on shelves, each labeled with its contents: miniature figures, dollhouses, sensory bins filled with sand and tiny tools for shaping it, and a collection of puppets with expressive faces. A child-sized table and chairs sit nearby, perpetually scattered with coloring books, markers, and half-used modeling clay.

In the corner, a small tent lined with soft cushions provides a retreat for young clients who need a quiet place to gather themselves before opening up. Persephone’s desk is a mess of controlled chaos—papers spread in loose piles, sticky notes stuck haphazardly to the edge of her desk, and several open books stacked on top of each other. A half-empty coffee mug sits dangerously close to a stack of files. Despite the clutter, everything has a purpose, a rhythm that makes sense only to her. A small lamp on her desk gives off a warm glow, making the space feel cozy despite the mess. The air carries a faint scent of coffee, evidence of caffeine-fueled focus. It’s a space that is well-used, 26 well-lived-in—a reflection of someone deeply invested in their work, where healing happens in between the mess. The silence stretches between us, and finally, Persephone pushes gently. "What is it, Becca? What happened?" She’s seen me like this before—knows when something big is sitting on my chest, waiting to be released. I drop my gaze to my lap, fingers twisting together, trying to contain the tremor in my hands. But her silence, her unwavering eye contact, pulls the truth straight from me before I can second-guess it. "It’s him." Two words, and her expression flickers. She doesn’t speak, doesn’t push, just waits. I force myself to look at her, to let her see the fury, the disbelief, the inevitability of what comes next.

"The new target," I say, voice barely above a whisper. "It’s Dexter." She takes a minute to reign in her emotions, but I watch each as they cross her face. I don’t say anything else as I wait for her to process all the same emotions I went through. Shock, excitement, recognition, anger, disappointment, heartbreak. It’s this one that causes her to speak. "If he's your next target, that means—" Persephone's words trail off, but I see it. The moment it clicks. The moment the disgust settles deep in her features, twisting into something darker. "He's done it again." Her breath hitches, and then, just as quickly, fury ignites in her eyes. "Surely they can’t just let him go now!" Her voice rises, sharp with disbelief. "They have the pattern. The evidence. This is exactly what they needed—exactly what they wanted! And they’re still not—" She cuts herself off with a frustrated exhale, hands clenched into fists. "Ugh! They can’t just…." But we both know they can. And they have. 27 "His ex-girlfriend filed a report." My breath shudders. "He did it to her too. The follow-up report came across two days later. He denied everything again. Because it’s all he said-she said…" "There’s not enough evidence to prosecute." She finishes my sentence, looking like she just tasted something unpleasant. "Yeah." That lone word is the breaking of the dam of emotions and desperation I have been holding in. I cannot hold back the tears for a moment longer.

I hear Persephone take a deep breath and exhale slowly, regaining her own calm. Persephone studies me, her voice gentle but firm. "I was just about to ask how you're handling all of this. It has to be a lot for you." "It is," I choke out, my words barely making it past the sobs racking my chest. "I tried to stop this. I tried to keep this from happening. I told them. I warned them. And they did nothing ! Nothing!" My hands clench into fists, nails digging into my palms. "This is their fault," I spit through my teeth. "Her pain is on them." Her expression hardens, her own fury simmering beneath the surface. "I know, girl. And I hate that you were right." She takes a breath, steadying herself before meeting my eyes. "But it’s like you said—her pain is on them. Not you. You did everything you could." I nod, but the doubt still gnaws at me, whispering all the questions I can’t silence. Did I fight hard enough? Could I have pushed more, screamed louder, done something, anything, differently? Was there a way I could have stopped Eleanor Bennett from ever knowing this kind of pain? 28 "Stop it." Persephone’s voice slices through my spiraling thoughts, sharp and unyielding. "You did everything you could," she reprimands me. "Do you hear me? This is not on you! " I stare at her, my vision blurred by the relentless stream of tears.

My chest is tight, my throat raw. "I tried… so hard." My voice is barely more than a whisper, fragile and broken. She softens, but the conviction in her voice never wavers. "I know you did, hun. But you couldn’t make them listen." She leans forward, searching my eyes. "You can’t change the past. You can’t rewrite what’s already happened." A pause. Then, steady and deliberate— "The only thing that matters now is this: what are you going to do about it? " "I’m going after him, Sephie. I have to." I straighten my spine, grabbing a tissue to wipe my nose before meeting her gaze with renewed resolve. "I’ve already started the preliminary investigation." She tilts her head, a knowing smile playing at her lips. "Before we go any further, you know I have to ask the questions." Despite the weight of the conversation, I let out a quiet chuckle. The questions. The ones that determine whether she has to report me. "Alright," I sigh, shaking my head. "Let’s get this over with." "Are you planning to hurt yourself?" she begins. "No." "Are you planning to hurt someone else?" That one always makes me pause—not because I’m unsure, but because the truth is more complicated than it seems. The news says they suffer "severe bodily harm" and are "restrained," but it’s never what people assume. I never strike first. I never attack . I simply move—sidestepping their rage, their desperation. If I happen to be

standing near something solid when they lash out, well, that is not on me. If they confess, if they take responsibility, they walk away unscathed—at least physically. The damage they suffer is of their own making. 29 "No, it is my intention that no one gets hurt," I answer, and it is the truth. She nods, her expression unreadable. "Are you planning to instigate, participate in, or condone any criminal activity?" "Not at all. Everything I do will be strictly legal." And it always is. I know the system I’m fighting. I know its loopholes, its weaknesses, its failures. But I will not stoop to their level. I will tear them down from within the confines of the law—because I will not give them the satisfaction of labeling me the criminal. "Okay. Now that that is out of the way," Persephone gushes, "what did you find?" I sit up a little straighter, slipping effortlessly into my Scarlet Letter persona. "As always, the preliminary investigation began with determining the target’s relationship status, since those closest to them are typically in the most danger." I force myself to stay clinical, detached. But when I reach his name, I falter. "Dex…" The syllable catches in my throat. Persephone notices but doesn’t call attention to it, and for that, I’m grateful. "Unfortunately, domestic violence is a common problem," she agrees, her voice heavy with understanding. "So, what’s Dexter’s current relationship status?" My jaw tightens. We lock eyes as she says his name, and she

immediately picks up on my irritation. Her brows lift knowingly. "As much as you want to pretend he’s just another target, if you don’t let yourself accept that it’s him, you’ll freeze when the time comes," she warns. "And then all hell will break loose." "I know that." My voice comes out sharper than I intended, but I don’t care. "But if I don’t keep telling myself that he’s just another target, I 30 will mess this up. I’ll let my emotions get in the way. I’ll be too focused on my own justice to see clearly." She tilts her head, a small, affectionate smile forming on her lips. "You really don’t see how far you’ve come, do you?" she asks gently. "You have to give yourself some grace. Why are you so convinced you’ll make a mistake?" "Because, Sephie , " I nearly shout, my voice raw with emotion, "I’m furious!" She doesn’t flinch. Instead, she meets my rage with an unwavering calm. "Of course you are," she says, her voice steady, grounding. "You have every right to be. You begged him to stop, and he didn’t . You begged the police to fight for you, for justice, and they didn’t . You warned them this would happen again, and they ignored you. And now, here you are, forced to go after the man who shattered you—because he did it again . " Her words hit like a hammer to my chest.

"Well, yeah, but…" I trail off, the thought forming but refusing to take shape. "But what ?" she presses, her voice gentle but insistent. I exhale sharply, forcing the words out. "But… if I let myself feel it—if I let myself dwell on my own pain—I don’t know if I’ll be able to control myself when it’s time to face him." Persephone nods knowingly, as if she’s been waiting for this moment. " T hat is the problem," she says, her voice low and sure. "You’ve been burying this pain for years. You’ve done so much work—in our sessions and on your own—around uncovering it. But if you shove it down now, when the stakes are this high, it won’t disappear. It will wait. And when you least expect it—when you cannot afford it—it will explode." She leans forward, locking eyes with me. "You have two choices, Becca. You control this pain, or it controls you." 31 I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Both of us are silent, allowing the weight of her words to sink in. After a few moments, I open my eyes and look at her. "How?" It’s barely a whisper, and the only word I can force out. Persephone leans back, the tension in her posture easing now that the storm is passing. A small, knowing smile tugs at her lips. "My recommendation," she says, pausing deliberately, "is to train while recalling the last time." She pauses, a warning of what’s coming next.

"The last Dexter raped you . " She waits to make sure I’m okay before continuing. "Say it out loud if you can. Verbalize it. Relive it in a controlled space. You need to work through the pain and anger so that you can work through the pain and anger." Now I’m the one looking like I’ve just tasted something nasty. "I get it," I say, my voice tight. "But that’s not going to be easy." She lets out a short laugh, shaking her head. "Since when has ‘not easy’ ever stopped you?" Despite everything, I find myself chuckling, shaking my head. "Fair point." Persephone tilts her head, studying me with that keen therapist’s gaze. "So, how did you find out?" She asks to move the conversation along. "About Dexter, I mean." A shiver runs through me at the sound of his name, but I push forward, recounting the moment I found the paper. I tell her about Jess’s confrontation with Mikel, the way her voice was steady but razor-sharp, the way she didn’t back down. I describe the flicker of satisfaction I felt, knowing that for once, someone was calling Mikel out—someone was fighting for me, even if I didn’t realize it at the time. Persephone nods, her expression shifting from curiosity to disgust. "That guy is just awful," she mutters. "I’m glad Jess is standing up to him, but I just hope he doesn’t end up firing her for it." 32 "Yeah," I agree.

"She’s way too good at her job for that, though. Everyone knows she isn’t afraid to push back when it matters. Not enough to be considered insubordinate, but just enough to keep him in check. And honestly? She’s liked — really liked. If Mikel fired her, he’d have an office full of upset employees to deal with. He wouldn’t know how to handle that." Persephone chuckles, probably picturing Mikel floundering in the chaos of an office mutiny. Then, her laughter fades, replaced by that knowing look again. "So, I’m curious." I narrow my eyes. "About what?" Persephone lifts a single eyebrow. "How did Oliver take the news about your new target?" A small smile tugs at my lips as I think about how steady he was, how he anchored me when I felt like I was drowning. "He was angry," I admit, "but I think we all are. That first night was brutal. I came home from work and just—collapsed. I cried for over an hour before I could even get the words out. And the whole time, he just held me. He didn’t push, didn’t try to fix it—just held me. He was the calm in my storm." Persephone’s face softens. "He’s incredible," she says warmly. "I’m so glad you have him." "Me too," I murmur. "I don’t think I could do this without him." But as soon as the words leave my mouth, doubt slams into me like a freight train. Maybe I can’t do this at all.

The thought grips me, squeezing the air from my lungs. My gaze drops from Persephone’s, my vision blurring. This is too much . How can anyone be expected to come face to face with their attacker—knowing what they’re capable of, knowing they will try to take their power again—and not respond out of fear and rage? It’s impossible. My hands fly to my face, my body trembling as the weight of it all crashes down on me. "I can’t do this!" The words rip from my throat, 33 raw and desperate. "It’s too much! It hurts too much! I’m not going to be able to control myself—I won’t be able to hold back!" The room feels too small, too tight, suffocating me under the pressure of my own memories. "Yes, you can." Persephone’s voice is steady, unshakable. I shake my head violently, tears streaking my face. " How do you know? " My voice cracks. I need something—anything—to hold onto before I spiral completely. Her eyes harden with conviction. "Because you can’t not do this. " The sharpness of her words cuts through my panic like a blade, knocking the breath from my lungs. She gives me a moment to absorb the impact before continuing, her voice softer but no less firm. "You chose this path for a reason. Why? " "I—" The words stick in my throat. I can’t. I can’t . "Yes, you can , " she pushes, her tone brooking no argument. "And you must .

You don’t have the luxury of turning away from this. You have to remember why you’re doing this. Cling to them. Name them! " "I know! But I don’t think I can this time! It’s different!" I shout at her. Persephone doesn’t flinch. She meets my anguish head-on. "Rebecca," she says, her voice unwavering, "what are their names?" The question slams into me like a wrecking ball, shaking loose something buried deep inside. "Lori!" I cry out, my voice drenched in pain. "Rachel." The name is quieter, but the tears come harder. I suck in a ragged breath, my chest heaving, and force myself to keep going. My voice quivers, each name escaping like a wound torn open. "Lizann. Shannon. Tara. Samantha. Jessica. Victoria." 34 Each name lands like a stone in my gut—heavy, immovable, but grounding. They are more than just names. They are stories. Scars. Wounds that never fully healed. Women who were failed. Women who deserved better. Women who kept breathing, kept fighting, even when the world turned its back on them. They will not be failed again. I blink through the blur of my tears and meet Persephone’s gaze. She’s crying, too, swiping at the tears slipping down her cheeks. "Rebecca," she says, voice thick with emotion, "if you knew how many women have sat right where you are, who could be on that list, you’d understand just how monumental this is." She leans forward, her words a lifeline.

"You are standing up against something that most people only whisper about. You are acting while the rest of the world turns away. What you’re doing matters." She pauses, letting it sink in. "I know this burden is heavy. And if it ever becomes too heavy, I will be here—no judgment, no pressure. But, Rebecca… you are so much stronger than you give yourself credit for. And you know you wouldn’t be able to live with yourself if you walked away now." Her words settle into the cracks of my doubt, solidifying into something unshakable. She’s right. I can’t walk away. I won’t. Her words resonate deeply, and it takes a moment before I can find my voice again. When I finally do, it's thick with gratitude. "Thank you," I say, meaning it with every ounce of my being. "You know, sometimes... you piss me off," I add with a half-laugh, a smile slipping through my tears. Persephone chuckles, the sound light and warm. "I wouldn't be doing my job if I never stepped on your toes. Pushing you—that's what I'm here for. But I’ll always know where the line is, you know?" 35 "I know," I reply, my smile steadying. "Thank you. For everything." I remember then, the question I never answered. The one that’s been hanging in the air between us. "Oh, and Dexter... He's with a woman named Mandy Lancaster." Persephone laughs softly at my attempt to shift the conversation. "What about her?

Any insights into their relationship?" I take a breath, letting the facts settle in. "Not much. Her social media’s sparse—mostly quotes, all about loneliness, isolation, things like that." Persephone nods, her expression thoughtful. "Sounds like she might have experienced her own trauma, something she hasn’t fully healed from. Women like her, they tend to attract people with narcissistic traits." "I thought the same," I admit. "That’s why I’ll be watching her closely. I need to know if she could be an ally, an accomplice. I won’t take my eye off her." The ticking of the clock reminds me of how quickly time slips away. "Looks like I’m out of time," I say, glancing at the clock, though my mind lingers on the investigation. "Same time next week?" I ask, reluctant to leave, but with a renewed sense of purpose. "Yes, ma’am," Persephone replies with a reassuring nod. "Remember, work through it so you can work through it. Text me if you need anything, or if something shifts in the investigation." "Will do," I promise, the weight of her words still grounding me. We both rise, and I move into her arms for a hug. She holds me tightly, and I can feel the pride she carries for me in the embrace. "I’m proud of you, ya know," she says, her voice thick with emotion. 36 "Thanks. I’m proud of myself, too," I reply, my voice steady. As I step away, the thought of Oliver fills my heart, pushing the

weight of the moment to the side. Soon, I’ll be home with him. I smile at the thought and turn toward the door. I step out of her office, feeling stronger than I have in weeks, and ready for whatever comes next. 37 4 Late afternoon light filters through the trees as I pull into the driveway, a deep breath easing the tension from my shoulders. This house—our home—is my sanctuary, the one place where I don’t have to pretend. Here, I can shed the weight of the world and just be. Oliver has made sure of that. As I step inside, a wave of warmth greets me. The rich aroma of Mediterranean spices fills the air, mingling with the sound of Muse playing softly through the kitchen speakers. It wraps around me like a familiar embrace, welcoming me home. "It smells amazing, love," I call out, my voice already lighter. A moment later, Oliver’s head appears around the corner, and my breath catches. The olive-green t-shirt clings to his frame, highlighting the lean strength beneath. His toned arms, effortlessly defined, flex slightly as he grips the doorway, and I feel my pulse quicken. Man, I’m a lucky woman. His deep chocolate eyes meet mine, radiating a love so fierce it’s almost overwhelming. Even after all this time, I still feel its power. His dark mahogany hair is pulled back into a loose ponytail, a few stray strands framing the sharp angles of his face. The well-groomed beard that

graces his jaw only adds to his effortless allure. A soft smile plays at the corners of his lips, teasing, inviting—just for me. How did I get so lucky? But it’s more than just his appearance that attracts. My husband moves through life with a quiet strength and an unwavering kindness, carrying a deep-rooted desire to make the world a better place. It’s his steadfast belief in nonviolence that shaped my own code—I defend, but I never strike first. His influence is a steady force, reminding me that true power doesn’t come from aggression but from control, from choice. 38 I often call his gift a superpower—his ability to hold space for others, to let them feel their emotions without absorbing the weight of them. It’s a rare trait, one that sets him apart in a world where so many try to fix, to shoulder, to silence. Soft-spoken but never weak, Oliver carries an effortless calm that turns any room into a refuge. He listens with intent, speaks only when he has something meaningful to say, and never rushes to fill the silences that make others uncomfortable. In those moments of quiet, I find my deepest peace. In a world of relentless noise and chaos, Oliver is a steady lighthouse cutting through the storm—unshaken, unwavering. He is my calm, my anchor, my home. To stand by his side, to be loved by him, is not just a privilege. It is an honor.

"You’re home!" he exclaims, his voice warm with excitement. He glances around for a towel, quickly wiping his hands before calling out, "Alexa, stop the music!" Then, without hesitation, he strides toward me. I barely have time to drop my bag before he sweeps me into his arms, lifting me effortlessly off the ground. The nearly nonexistent height difference between us means our eyes meet perfectly—his deep brown gaze filled with the kind of love that still takes my breath away. "There’s my other half," he murmurs, his voice low and full of meaning as he slowly sets me down. "There’s my home," I whisper in return before pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his lips. Laughter bubbles between us as my stomach grumbles loudly, breaking the moment. He chuckles, taking my hand as we head toward the kitchen. "What’s on the menu? It smells amazing," I ask, inhaling the rich, savory scent. "Pita pockets," he announces with a playful grin, stirring a pan of sizzling vegetables. The aroma of warm spices and fresh ingredients fills the space, wrapping me in comfort. 39 I step behind him, slipping my arms around his waist, feeling the solid warmth of his body against mine. "Need a hand?" I offer, resting my chin on his shoulder. He tilts his head slightly toward me, his voice soft but certain. "I’ve got this. You go unwind for a bit—lunch will be ready in ten." I sigh contentedly, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek before

turning to grab my bag. "Okay. I love you." "I love you more," he replies, and in that moment, I know—this is the kind of love that makes life worth every battle. As I unpack my gym bag, my eyes drift to the overflowing laundry basket. With a sigh, I decide to start a load. I pull out the black, long-sleeve, turtleneck jumpsuit—Scarlet Letter’s uniform—and pause, gripping the fabric tightly. The weight of my next mission crashes down on me. Dexter. Just thinking his name sends a surge of tension through my body, my teeth clenching on instinct. It’s not just the assaults—it’s everything else. The layers of manipulation, the quiet, insidious ways he stole pieces of me before I even realized they were gone. For so long, I only saw fragments of the damage, the ones too obvious to ignore. But therapy forced me to dig deeper, to open doors I had slammed shut. And each time I thought I had unpacked it all, there was another box waiting inside—hidden memories, buried truths, wounds I didn’t even know were there until they started bleeding all over my present. Dexter wasn’t just a nightmare from my past. He was a shadow that stretched into my present. And if I didn’t stop him, he would haunt someone else’s future. How in the world am I supposed to handle this? The thought of facing him again churns my stomach. I don’t trust myself to stay

composed, but Persephone’s advice echoes in my mind. I have to try. 40 I sink onto the edge of the bed, still holding onto the suit like it’s an anchor, tethering myself to the present as I replay the morning’s conversations. I’ve trained while thinking about my trauma before—anyone in self-protection has. But saying it out loud? Reliving it in words while my body fights? That’s different. That’s terrifying. If I do this, I want Oliver as my partner. One of the things I love most about him is that he doesn’t just stand by and watch—he stands with me. He trains with me, even though violence isn’t in his nature. He understands my mission, respects it, but chooses to stay behind the scenes. And yet, his role is just as crucial as mine. The body cam I wear? That’s his work. He modified it to automatically store two copies of every confrontation—the first on a secure memory card, the second uploaded in real-time to a hidden, self-hosted server. No traces. No risks. It’s been my greatest tool in seeking justice. I run my fingers over the fabric of my suit, inhaling deeply. The road ahead is uncertain, but one thing is clear—I won’t be walking it alone. "Lunch is ready," Oliver calls as I press the start button on the washer. I make my way into the dining room and inhale deeply through my nose to take in the intoxicating scent of our lunch. I love cooking, but

it’s nice to not be the one to cook all the time. Both of us enjoy experimenting in the kitchen. We settle in, and Oliver watches me take my first bite before asking, "How was your day?" I chew slowly, partly because I’m starving, partly to gather my thoughts. The day was a whirlwind—therapy, revelations, and the weight of my next steps pressing down on me. "Well," I begin, setting my fork down, "did you catch the news report today?" 41 His face lights up with recognition. "Yes! I couldn’t believe they cut Lisa off like that. But hearing her gratitude? That was incredible." He leans forward slightly, his eyes searching mine. "How did that feel?" I swallow, taking a deep breath as I find the right word. "Affirming," I say at last. "Like… proof that what I’m doing matters." His smile is warm, pleased. "I’m glad you saw it. I was hoping you wouldn’t miss it at the gym." Then, with a knowing tilt of his head, he adds, "What did Lynn say?" I laugh, "she is so excited. She loved everything but the censorship." Oliver’s eyes widen, and a slow grin spreads across his face. "Oh," he muses. "I can only imagine her reaction." He chuckles, knowing full well that Lynn has never been one to bite her tongue. "Yeah," I confirm, rolling my eyes. "Let’s just say we earned more than a few looks from the other gym members."

His expression shifts, the humor fading into something more serious. "Do you think she suspects anything?" I pause, considering. "If she does, she’s keeping it to herself." I take another bite of my pita, chewing thoughtfully before adding, "But honestly? I think she’d say something if she did." Oliver nods. "Yeah, you’re right about that." He leans back slightly, studying me. "How was therapy? How did Persephone take the news about your new target?" I sigh, my appetite wavering as the weight of the session settles over me again. "About how I expected. She’s furious." My voice softens, and I stare at my plate, the memory pressing against my ribs. "I had a pretty bad breakdown." His hand pauses midair, pita forgotten, before he carefully sets it back on his plate. His expression shifts—concern flickers in his deep brown eyes, but he reins it in almost instantly, replacing it with quiet attentiveness. 42 "Do you want to talk about it?" he asks gently. "I kind of need to," I admit, exhaling slowly. "Persephone says I should train while verbally recounting the last time Dexter raped me." A brief flash of shock crosses his face, there and gone in an instant as he regains his composure. His ability to steady himself so quickly, for me, is something I have always admired. His next words come softly, but with an unmistakable undercurrent of strength. "Do you want to do that here with me,"—his

lips twitch into a small, encouraging smile—"or wait until your next class with Roger?" I can’t help but return his smile. The quiet enthusiasm in his voice, the way he offers his support without hesitation—it reminds me why I feel safest with him. "I’d feel more comfortable here," I say honestly. "You already know what happened. It’s going to be hard enough without watching someone else process it for the first time." "Understandable," he nods, though I can tell he’s trying not to look too eager. He wants to help. He wants to be in this with me. "When are you thinking?" "I want to give my food some time to settle," I say, glancing at my half-eaten meal. "But soon. Definitely today." I know this won’t be easy. I also know it won’t be the last time I have to do it. But the sooner I get through the first round, the sooner I can begin to take my power back. "Sounds good. What do you want out of the rest of your day?" he asks, his voice gentle but steady, calming me. As we finish eating, we discuss the next phases of the investigation. I remind him about our upcoming Phoenix Fighter class in a few days, and the way his face lights up makes my chest tighten with 43 warmth. Even in the midst of everything, he still finds excitement in what we do together.

After the last bite is gone, we stand to clean up, slipping into an effortless rhythm—dishes scraped, counters wiped, movements synchronized from years of shared space. Oliver restarts the music, and Muse’s Will of the People fills the air, the rebellious anthem reverberating off the walls. Without thinking, I sway to the beat, and he joins me, pulling me into an impromptu dance. I try to lose myself in the moment, to let the music and his laughter lighten the weight pressing on my chest. But no matter how much I try, I can’t fully shake the nerves coiling in my stomach for what’s coming next. Still, I hold onto this—onto him. Half an hour later, the kitchen is spotless, the dishwasher hums in the background, and before I can pull away, Oliver wraps his arms around me once more, holding me close, sensing the storm brewing inside me. "Are you ready for this?" His voice is soft, yet filled with genuine concern, and it wraps around me like a safety net. I let out a shaky chuckle, masking the dread bubbling inside. "No," I admit, my voice small, "but I’m going to do it anyway." His gaze softens, his expression filled with something like awe—or maybe reverence. "I am consistently impressed by you," he says, his calmness anchoring me in the now, even as my heart races remembering the past. "How do you want to train? Water or fire?"

Water is the term we use for the phase where I don’t strike at all—just deflect and evade. Fire is about action, impact, destruction. "Fire," I whisper, barely able to form the word, but knowing it’s the right one. 44 He nods, understanding that I will need to hit something to make it through this without me needing to explain further. "Fair enough. Sparing or pad work?" It’s a question I don’t need to think about. Pad work is all I can handle right now. My emotions are already threatening to choke me, and I can’t risk losing myself in a sparring session. "Pads," I manage, the word barely escaping as the weight of what I’m about to do presses down on me. Without another word, he pulls me close, his arms tight around me for just a moment longer. Then, he kisses my forehead, and with an unspoken understanding, grabs my hand and leads me downstairs to our training room, where I know I’ll face whatever comes next, and with him beside me, I might just make it through. The basement walls, pale and unremarkable, are covered in sheetrock over concrete, creating a space that feels both confining and familiar. The ceiling is high enough that I can stretch my arms above my head without touching the rafters, but low enough to be a constant reminder of the limitations of this space. The flooring is a patchwork of different colored carpet squares, worn and faded, with several interlocking

foam mats covering the back half of the room—the heart of our training area. Oliver and I move through our warm-ups, the steady rhythm of our movements almost comforting, but my mind is elsewhere, bracing for what comes next. I head to the left side of the room, pulling on my gloves with quiet resolve. He crosses to the right, gathering the pads, and I take a slow, deep breath, the cool air filling my lungs. "You can do this," I whisper to myself as the last glove tightens, the leather snug around my fingers. It’s not just a mantra—it’s a necessity. I walk to the center of the padded area, the weight of what I’m about to do settling heavily in my chest. Oliver’s voice breaks the silence, steady and calm. "Do you want me to call out sequences or are we running down the list?" 45 I close my eyes for a brief moment, mentally running through the numbers that correspond to each strike, each movement that brings me closer to the control I need. This isn’t just about the motions; it’s about reclaiming something, some shred of power in the midst of this storm. I need control. "List," I say, the word sharp, the edge of it matching the resolve in my heart. I step back, lifting my hands, palms open, a silent request for the first strike. Oliver mirrors my movements, raising the pads in response. In

this space, we’re no longer just partners—we’re a force in sync, each move, each breath, part of a cycle that demands focus and precision. And with that, the cycle begins. "It was July 17 th and I had gone to bed early while Dexter was playing video games." I start as I launch a lead inward hammer fist with a compass step, moving into a lead scalding hammer fist, and flow into the final launch of a reverse straight horizontal ballista. 11-13-6. Man, it feels good to hit something. "I woke up to the sensation of Dexter inside me," I force through gritted teeth as I compass out with a lead hook that makes a satisfying pop against the left pad at the same time I say Dexter’s name. I follow that with a lead fiery outward hammer fist that comes into contact with the right pad that leads into a reverse inward, then reverse scalding hammer fist. 3-9-12-14. Oliver is keeping up with me perfectly, mirroring my footsteps and ensuring the correct pad is in the correct position for each strike. My mind is having a hard time focusing on the names of the strikes over my increasing heart rate that is building towards an adrenaline dump. I focus on the numbers only now while trying to tell this horrible part of my story. "You’ve got this," Oliver encourages as I take a deep breath. 46 "I was in shock at first, desperately searching for some form of

strength that I could hold onto in that moment while praying at the same time for him to just stop." The words are pushed out in a huff. 3-2. "I sat up on the edge of the bed, tightly gripping the mattress, exploring parts of my mind that were still new to find my voice while fighting the urge to cry because my countless pleas to not rape me were still being ignored by someone who claimed to love me." I feel the tears start to fall down my face as adrenaline races through my veins as if to reunite with an old friend. 7-6. "As I sit there, I hear Dexter stand and sharply exhale before stating, ‘I can’t believe you would do this to me!’ and I whip my head around to stare in disbelief." A boiling rage begins to fill me, causing the 1-2 to come out stronger than I anticipated, but Oliver doesn’t comment. He just keeps moving the pads where I need them. My jaw snaps shut as I growl, "Dexter looks as if he is the one hurt and reassures my observation as he whimpers, ‘Don’t you know how badly it hurts me when you reject me like this?" 3-2-5. The sound of each strike landing on the pad is music in a symphony of darkness. "I couldn’t help the surprised giggle that burst from my lips. ‘You cannot be serious!’ I told him as I struggled to stand on shaking legs." 10-3.

I blink tears from my eyes so that I can see my targets. "My voice was quiet as I walked past him, grabbed my robe to wrap around myself, and opened the door to our room. ‘I can’t do this anymore,’ I whispered. ‘I’m done.'." Adrenaline surges, taking control of my every move as I unleash the final sequence of strikes, each punch laced with the weight of those two words. The straight horizontal lands with brutal force; the right hook—wild, desperate—misses. The momentum almost brings me to the ground, but Oliver catches me. He wraps me in his arms as I begin to weep. He doesn’t break his hold on me but pulls me onto his lap as we sink to the ground, my back to his front. His words come out raspy as he struggles with his own emotions. 47 "I’m so proud of you," he whispers as he squeezes me tighter, a noble effort to hold me together. I struggle to breathe through the hysterics as he encourages me. "You are so strong." And as I try to wrap my mind around those words while I am feeling so weak, I feel his own tears fall on my face. 48 5 The days blur together, each one blending seamlessly into the next, as my investigation into Dexter takes an unexpected turn. I’ve taken the week off work under the guise of a flu that I don’t actually have—an

excuse I’m more than happy to use, as it allows me the time and space to dive deep into this. Every moment of this feels like a step closer to justice, but it’s also taking its toll. I’ve found a few people who may be willing to help me, people with access to Dexter’s life. One woman at his workplace, who has lodged multiple complaints with HR, might be a valuable ally. Then there’s his neighbor—someone who has openly posted online about his suspicions regarding Dexter and his seeming struggle to keep his eyes off this man’s wife. There are others who have opportunities, but may not be as eager to help, and I need to be strategic before I approach anyone. Each decision weighs heavily on me, knowing that the wrong move could ruin everything. What cuts the deepest is how much evidence is already out there. Eleanor handed over damning screenshots—messages between her and Dexter that leave nothing to the imagination. He used the word "rape" in his apology to her. He went on to tell Detective Howell that he was "simply placating her," suggesting she was on the verge of a breakdown. The sheer arrogance, the cruelty—it’s unbearable. And yet, despite all the proof, the police refuse to move forward. They claim there's not enough evidence to substantiate the claims, and no one seems bothered by the fact that Dexter lied to them—again. How is this allowed? Isn’t lying to the police a crime in itself?

This is why I’m here. This is why Scarlet Letter exists. This is why I train relentlessly, day in and day out. If the system won’t protect us, then it’s on me to make sure the truth is uncovered—no matter the cost. "You okay?" Oliver’s soft voice breaks through the haze of my thoughts as he pulls into the parking lot of Phoenix Fighters. "Yeah, no… not really," I admit, trying to shake the weight of it all. "Just thinking about the investigation. I keep reminding myself why 49 Scarlet—" I emphasize the name with conviction, "is able to keep doing what she does. A big part of that is because Rebecca"—I point at myself—"doesn’t rush in with guns blazing. Does that make sense?" Oliver laughs softly, the sound warm and reassuring. "It makes perfect sense. But I think you’re underestimating Rebecca." He reaches over, tenderly caressing my cheek. "You’ve got more strength than you give yourself credit for." His words, so simple yet profound, settle into me. He smiles and leans in, pressing a kiss to my lips that’s sweet but far too short. "Are you ready for this?" he asks, his voice low, teasing. "Today might be the day I finally pin you down." I laugh, the tension in my chest loosening. "You bet. Today might be the day I let you," I say, throwing him a playful wink. Oliver’s eyes widen in mock surprise, a grin spreading across his face.

I can’t resist; I kiss his bottom lip, teasing as his jaw drops in disbelief, then give him another wink before opening the door and stepping out. He rushes ahead, holding the door open for me as I stride into the large, open training room. But not before swatting my butt playfully as he passes. The heat of it lingers, and I can’t help but smile. This, this is the kind of life I’m fighting for. Stepping into the self-protection training facility, I'm greeted by the familiar sight of the spacious, open floor. After training here for so long, I feel a sense of comfort and belonging in this space. The predominant color scheme of royal blue, black, and white lends an air of professionalism and focus to the space. Royal blue mats cover the floor, providing a soft yet sturdy surface for training exercises and sparring sessions. The mats are complemented by black and white accents throughout the room that add a touch of modernization. There are several body opponent bags (BOB’s), as well as heavy bags hanging from reinforced metal beams that have been hung lower than the actual ceiling. 50 There is a huge wall of storage cubicles that house the pads on the right side and gloves on the left. But the thing that draws your attention first is the longest wall that is composed entirely of full length mirrors. The mirrors reflect my image back at me and serve as a reminder

of how far I've come since my first day here. They've captured every punch, every kick, every moment of determination etched on my face as I've pushed myself to new limits. In addition to their functional purpose of offering us the opportunity to observe and refine our techniques with precise feedback on our form and movements, the mirrors add depth and dimension to the room, amplifying the impact of the mats and industrial-style lighting fixtures. Oliver takes my hand in his as we walk to the row of lockers on the far side. We take off our jackets and store those and our phones before heading back to the mats to meet our instructor. Roger Smith stands in the center of the training area with a quiet confidence, his middle-aged frame a testament to years of experience rather than peak physical fitness. His receding hairline speaks to the passage of time, but his warm smile and gentle demeanor instantly put his students at ease. Despite his unassuming appearance, there's a quiet strength about him that commands respect. He carries himself with a sense of purpose, his kind heart evident in the way he patiently guides his students through each technique and exercise. What sets him apart is his unique approach to self-protection. In addition to teaching defensive maneuvers, he emphasizes the importance of addressing injuries that may occur during an attack. With careful instruction, he shows his students how to properly bandage wounds, not

just on themselves but also on those that wished them harm in the first place. All life means something, and he believes and teaches his students that taking a life should be done only if it is your life or theirs. As he moves around the room, offering encouragement and guidance, it's clear that he's more than just an instructor – he's a mentor, dedicated to helping others build confidence and resilience in the face of adversity. 51 As we reach him, we immediately fall into our beginning salute, feet together, right hand in a fist held at throat level, left-hand open and placed gently over the right, elbows shoulder width apart. Roger returns the salute. "It’s good to see you, sir," Oliver and I both state in unison. "It’s good to see you," Roger returns the salutation before smiling his greeting at us. Our arms return to our side as we fall into "Stay Calm" as he begins our instructions for class. "Today, we will be reviewing deflections and evasions. I know that you guys have already learned these, but it’s good to touch up on the basics every once in a while." I glance at Oliver and playfully smirk at him. He knows that these are some of my strongest areas, since Scarlet Letter prefers this type of altercation. He makes a face of mock fear before smiling and winking at me. I return his wink and internally rejoice. I was hoping we would be reviewing this material.

These are some of my favorite techniques and when I am struggling mentally, it helps to take it back to the basics for a little bit, and this whole thing with Dexter definitely has me struggling. "We will start with the compass stepping," Roger begins, "and as you know, compass stepping allows you to get out of the way of incoming attack quickly, and with little energy expended on your part." Oliver and I both face each other and take our stance to begin practicing our footwork and assume the correct attitude. We refer to them as attitudes instead of positions because we don’t want people to think that they have to be in a specific position to respond to an attack, but a mindset. The attitude we begin with for our compass stepping is the same as most starting attitudes, Seek Peace . "As you begin," Roger explains, "remember to keep your hands up and at throat level. For this exercise, we will have Rebecca start by throwing a strike and Oliver will compass-step with his deflections to 52 move off the line of aggression. Your training level allows for you to launch any strikes you see an opening for, so if you are on the receiving end, make sure you keep your hands up." Roger motions for us to begin, and I launch a lead horizontal ballista, to which Oliver responds by reaching out to establish contact

with my hand and redirecting my strike while compass stepping out of the way, allowing him to guide my strike past him. He turns the contact into a wrist grab and with just a slight tug, pulls me past him as well. "Very good," Roger encourages. "You will continue this for three minutes and then switch roles." Oliver and I continue our training in such flowing movements that it almost looks like we are dancing. I love training with him for so many reasons. He has definitely improved since he started training with me. He has always been athletic, but the muscles straining in his arms with exertion tell the story of his work to improve his physical strength. We make eye contact and I wink. His distraction is just enough to throw him off balance. I seize my opportunity to throw a follow-up strike and catch him off guard. Instead of making contact with the strike, I turn it into a takedown as we both fall to the ground, me straddling Oliver. I hear him chuckle as Roger approaches. Roger laughs and shakes his head as he reminds us of one of the first rules we learn. "Don’t look into her eyes, Oliver. You have got to look center mass," he states while pointing just below the hollow at the base of his neck. "Eyes lie, and you will see all you need to by looking center mass."

"I know," Oliver chuckles, "and I am able to do that with any other training partner, but for some reason," he turns to look at me as I stand and winks as I offer my hand to pull him to his feet, "I get easily distracted with Becca." As Oliver returns to his feet, we pick up where we left off, me throwing various strikes, Oliver attempting to deflect and evade as many of them as he can. My heart swells with pride at his progress. 53 When we first started training, he was so against anything violent that there was a mental hurdle he had to overcome to be able to progress. We had many discussions about how he would rather deescalate the situation to prevent it from turning into a physical confrontation. He now understands that that is always the goal, but sometimes, the people instigating the confrontation have no interest in a deescalation. I watch him now deflect every strike perfectly, adding in some footwork when he feels the need, and keeping me constantly adjusting to look for openings. He has greatly improved, and he did it to help me, both in training for what I do, and to be able to protect me if needed. He loves me. "Switch," Roger yells as the first three minutes are up, and Oliver wastes no time, immediately launching a fiery hammer strike. I barely manage to deflect Oliver’s strike, pivoting to the side as his fist cuts

through the air where I had just been. He’s faster than before, more confident, and I can’t help but smirk. "Oh, so we’re coming in hot now?" I tease, adjusting my stance. Oliver grins. "Just keeping you on your toes." I roll my shoulders, resetting my focus. "Bring it." He doesn’t hesitate. He steps in with another strike, this time a rising elbow aimed at what would be my ribs in a real fight. I shift with a quick compass step, redirecting his momentum, but he follows up with a swift low kick, forcing me to hop back. His fluidity is impressive—gone is the hesitant, overthinking partner he once was. Now, he moves with precision, with instinct. Roger observes quietly, his arms crossed, nodding in approval. "Good," he calls out. "Rebecca, remember—deflections don’t just move you out of the way. They set up your next move. Don’t just react. Control." Control. That word resonates. Control is what I feel slipping lately—over my emotions, my thoughts, my entire situation with Dexter. I take a breath and channel the tension into movement. When Oliver throws his next strike, I don’t just evade—I guide his arm past me and 54 immediately step into his space, my forearm pressing against his shoulder to unbalance him. His eyes widen slightly in realization, but it’s too late—I sweep his leg, and he topples backward. This time, I don’t follow him to the mat. I step back and extend a hand instead, my smirk returning. "Distracted again?"

He takes my hand, chuckling as he pulls himself up. "Nah, just giving you a false sense of security." Roger claps his hands together, drawing our attention. "Good work so far. Now, let’s take it a step further. A proper deflection isn’t just about avoiding a strike—it’s about redirecting the opponent’s energy. If you do it right, they end up defeating themselves." I nod, exhaling. Good. I need this. I need to focus, to push myself. He glances between Oliver and me. "Rebecca, I want you to attack first again. But this time, Oliver, instead of just blocking or stepping away, I want you to absorb and redirect her force. Use her movement against her." Oliver nods, his focus sharpening. He knows this technique well, but applying it under pressure may be another story. I take my stance, exhaling slowly, centering myself. Then, I move. I launch forward with a lead horizontal ballista, my momentum carrying me straight toward him. At the last second, Oliver sidesteps—not just evading, but catching my forearm with his own. Instead of stopping me outright, he pivots with my force, guiding me past him. My own speed works against me, and I feel my balance waver. Before I can recover, he gives a light push at my back, using my own momentum to send me stumbling a few steps forward. "Good," Roger calls. "Now, make it even smoother. Let her think she has control—then take it from her." I turn back, smirking at Oliver.

"Not bad. Let’s see if you can keep up." 55 I move in again, this time faking a jab before shifting into a sweeping elbow strike. But Oliver reads it, shifting his weight and catching my wrist at just the right moment. Instead of forcing my strike away, he absorbs it, guiding me into a turn. He lets my momentum do the work—my own movement pulling me off balance. Before I can adjust, he gives a gentle but firm nudge at my shoulder, completing the redirection and sending me spinning past him. I barely catch myself, planting my feet to keep from falling. When I turn, he’s already grinning. "Having fun yet?" I scoff, rolling my shoulders. "Don’t get cocky." Roger chuckles. "Oliver’s catching on. Rebecca, now it’s your turn. Let’s see if you can use his momentum against him just as well." I settle back into my stance, waiting for Oliver to strike. He doesn’t hesitate—he comes at me fast with a hammer strike, aiming center mass. At the last second, I shift, letting his own energy pull him forward as I turn my body just enough to redirect him. I hook my arm under his and, instead of pushing back, I guide him past me with a sharp pivot, twisting my hips to send him off balance. He stumbles forward, his momentum carrying him into a near-trip. I seize my chance and step in behind him, pressing a palm lightly

to his back—not to strike, but just enough force to make sure his balance is completely gone. He catches himself at the last second, spinning back around to face me. "Nice," he admits, exhaling. Roger nods approvingly. "Now you’re getting it. That’s the key to deflections—you’re not stopping the attack. You’re borrowing its power and making it work for you." I take a steadying breath, my body still buzzing with adrenaline. Borrowing power. Redirecting force. It’s a lesson that applies far beyond this gym. One that I will use to, hopefully, start a ball rolling with surmountable evidence against Dexter that simply cannot be stopped. 56 Our training continues for another hour, drilling familiar techniques and pushing deeper into our reflexes. Each time I am on the defensive side of the drills, my mind flashes to Scarlet Letter . When I deflect Oliver’s incoming fist, redirecting his momentum with a firm grip on his wrist, I see Lance Griffith stumbling face-first into the door frame, his shock mirroring his fall. When Oliver is ordered to charge at me, intent on taking me down, I don’t just see him—I imagine Dexter hurtling forward, my last-second sidestep sending him sprawling over the curb, crashing into his mailbox with a satisfactory thud . Once Oliver and I are both out of breath and thoroughly exhausted, we close out our class and start towards the lockers. After a quick rinse in a cold shower, we are changed and ready to head back to

the house. As the door closes behind me, my phone starts ringing. I fish it out of my pocket, and I am sure my face conveys all the disgust I feel at this moment. I roll my eyes as I reluctantly slide the green phone across the bottom of the screen. "Hello, Mr. Hall," I state in the most professional voice I can manage. "Rebecca," Mikel sneers. "Glad I caught you." That makes one of us. "I’ve scheduled a mandatory meeting for Monday at two. I expect you to be at work. We have some things to discuss." I suppress the urge to ask why this couldn’t be an email and force a pleasant reply. "Sure thing, Mr. Hall. Anything I need to do beforehand or bring?" I hate this persona—the agreeable, people-pleasing act I put on for work. But this is the version of me they met first. The version they expect, and the only one they can know. Let them underestimate me. It’s how I am able to remain under their radar. On the other end, there’s a brief pause. Then the unmistakable sound of a game in the background. "Mr. Hall?" I prompt, clearing my throat. 57