No hesitation or doubt.
I don’t touch her. I don’t lead. Because this ishermoment.
So I step back into the shadows and let her walk forward—measured and composed—sneakers padding against the concrete.
Evan tracks her like prey, pretending to be a predator. He’s unaware she’s already made peace with what’s about to happen.
Laurette stops just short of him. No theatrics or emotion. Her voice is flat when it comes.
“You drugged Emily Westbrook. You took her into a room, raped her while she could not speak or fight, then you left her to bleed on the floor.”
Evan smirks.
“Hannah Sorensen. Same drug. Same m.o. Same lies when her body was found in a dumpster with your DNA inside her.”
He snorts and doesn’t deny it.
“And the worst part? You didn’t even bother changing your pattern. You never needed to. Because you were so confident that you’d get away with it again.”
“And I did.” Evan laughs, shaking his head. “All I did was fuck a few party girls. You’re the one who built a career out of it. So answer this question,ADA. Who’s really exploiting whom?”
My hands curl into fists, but Laurette doesn’t flinch.
“Did you get off when you watched the video, or did your psycho boyfriend have to help with that part?”
He smiles as though this is sport to him. Like we’re not here toend his life. And that’s when I see him clearly. He’s not just entitled and dangerous.
He’s evolving.
Evan isn’t impulsive. He isn’t stupid. He’s patient and adaptive. Waiting for the next loophole to crawl through, the next girl to silence, the next opportunity to graduate from rapist to killer.
Emily probably wasn’t his first.
Hannah definitely isn’t his last.
And suddenly this isn’t about revenge anymore. It’s prevention.
I reach for the knife. No ceremony or speech. Just cold steel drawn from its sheath.
He watches it with bravado that’s thinning.
“This is cute. Real dramatic. But we both know it ends with me walking out of here.”
“Does it?” I ask.
I step in front of him and position the tip of the knife over his heart.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Evan shouts.
This was always meant to be mine while Laurette watches. But then she moves forward.
“Whoa, man, hang on. What is happening?”
Laurette doesn’t flinch or ask what I’m doing. She places her hand over mine.
A decision.
Our skin meets. Blood-warm. Breath synced.
