You made me.
Only now, someone had added a fourth line in pen, pressed so hard the paper was bruised:
Collect it.
Mary’s throat closed around a sound she didn’t recognize—part sob, part laugh. The candle on the table flared once, then went out, plunging the room into darkness.
In the dark, her daughter’s voice came again, soft and certain.
“Don’t be afraid, Mom. We’re just getting started.”
Mary sank to her knees, clutching the note to her chest. “Okay, we’ll do something.”
The silence that followed felt like approval.
She got ready to go.
***
The cabin sat at the edge of the island, far enough from town to feel forgotten, close enough that the sea’s breath still reached it. Three men Mary had learned to hate by first name, last name, and laugh. The three of them laughed when they stepped inside. It was the kind of careless laughter that assumed safety. They’d done it for years. Life was a joke to them.
They left the messy tasks to others, believing they were invincible. Consequences were for other people.
Mary watched them through the windows for a long time.
Watching had taught her more than anything else in her life. Grief had taught her patience. Rage taught her what to listen for. She knew the exact pitch of their voices when they spoke about her daughter—how they softened when they lied, how they sharpened when they mocked. She knew their tells. She knew their small, casual cruelties, the ones they calledfun.
She’d waited long enough.
She stepped forward and opened the door.
They looked up, not surprised when they saw her. Confidence had always made them arrogant. It had never made them wise.
“Mary?” one of them said, amusement curling at the edges of his voice. “You don’t look so good. Need a pick me up?” He gestured toward the drugs spread out on the old pine table between them.
“I thought I’d stop in for a visit,” she said, smiling.
They didn’t know it was a promise.
They didn’t fear her—that was their mistake.
They made room for her at the table, then handed her a drink. They joked the way they always had, the way that hadmade her daughter roll her eyes and shrink into herself. Mary tasted every memory like a bitter spice. She remembered how her daughter would flinch when they laughed too loudly. She remembered how they thought it was funny to slip something into an unsuspecting girl’s drink.
They’d never paid. Not once.
That was about to change.
Mary pulled out a small bag and set it on the table. Their eyes lit up, greedy and bright.
They didn’t hesitate. They took it like they’d taken everything else, assuming it was theirs by default.
Mary leaned back and waited.
Drowsiness crept over them fast. Their words slurred, laughter breaking into uneven pieces. She steered the conversation like a conductor. Not because she was calm, but because rage had finally learned how to wear her face.
She reminded them of the past.
Of certain parties. Certain nights. Certain girls.
