Page 144 of The Ashes of Summer

Body bags. Ruined lives. Years of it.

And every single road leads back to the same man.

I look out across the lot. Bruised faces. Swollen eyes. Sarah sitting beside her father with her head on his shoulder. Summer under the floodlights in my jacket.

Every person standing in this parking lot has been hurt by Jackson Moore.

Every one of them.

So the question isn't whether he deserves to die.

The question is who's earned the right to be there when he does.

Black must catch something moving across my face, because he lowers the cigarette. "What?"

I keep looking at them. The women. The lives that man took apart and never thought about again.

And the idea settles into place. Cold. Simple. Right.

"I've got an idea."

The moment the words come out of my mouth I know there's no walking it back.

Black studies me. Then his eyes narrow. "Oh, I know that look."

I push off the truck, and the pain tears through my shoulder hard enough to blur my vision. I grit my teeth and keep moving. Metal groans under my boots as I climb onto the hood.

The lot goes quiet in stages. Women stop talking. Black's men stop moving.

Every face turns up toward me. Waiting.

I take a slow breath. Then another.

And when I speak, my voice carries the length of that parking lot.

"You've all been through hell tonight." The silence is absolute. Some of them lower their heads. Others start crying again. "And some of you have been living in it a lot longer than that."

One woman wraps both arms around herself like she's physically holding herself together.

"But you survived it."

The words hang there, heavy and real, because I don't think some of them have ever heard anyone say it out loud.

"I know some of you want to go home. Some of you want a hospital. Some of you never want to hear Jackson Moore's name again as long as you live."

A few nod straight away. One begins shaking hard enough that the woman beside her reaches over and takes her hand.

"And that's okay."

I mean it. God knows they've earned the right.

But my eyes keep moving across the crowd. Across every bruise. Every scar. Every hollowed-out expression.

"Jackson Moore is alive."

The reaction goes through them like a current. Heads snap up. Somebody makes a small sound. Fear moves across the whole group at once.

"He's chained to a chair, guarded by one of my best deputies. He can't run. He can't reach any of you. He can't hurt another living soul."