Page 145 of The Ashes of Summer

And then commotion follows. Not fear anymore. Anger. Raw and ugly and years old, with nowhere left to go.

"As much as I want to kill that son of a bitch myself⁠—"

I stop.

Because I do. God, I do. The thought of putting a round through Jackson Moore's skull is the only thing that's got me through some of the last few nights.

But standing on this hood looking down at them, I understand something I should have understood hours ago.

This isn't mine.

"I owe it to you." It comes out quietly. More honest than I intended. "The survivors. The women who stood face to face with that man and are still standing here."

Several of them start crying again. One covers her mouth with both hands. Another drops her head.

"So I'm giving you a choice." My eyes move slowly over the crowd. "You can walk away right now and never lay eyes on him again." I point toward the trucks. "You'll go to a hospital. You'll be safe. Nobody will ever ask you to say his name."

Nobody moves. Not yet.

"But if you want to face him one last time—" I let it sit. "If you want him to look at you and understand he doesn't own you. If you want him to know, before the end, that he lost⁠—"

And I watch it happen. I actually watch it move through them. Hopelessness turning into something with an edge on it.

"Then come with us."

Silence.

Then a woman steps forward. Early twenties. Bruised cheek. Blanket round her shoulders.

"I want him to see his soul leave his body."

Her voice shakes on every word of it. She keeps walking anyway. Another follows. Then another.

One of the younger girls breaks down and shakes her head violently. "No. No⁠—"

The survivor beside her wraps an arm around her shoulders. "It's okay."

Because it is. There isn't a wrong answer here. That's the whole point.

A middle-aged woman takes one step forward, stops dead, then turns and walks back to the curb and sits down. Not ready. Maybe never ready.

I don't blame her for one second.

Then Harris stands.

Sarah rises with him.

Both of them bruised. Both of them wrecked in ways they'll spend years working through. They step forward anyway, and the old man's chin is up.

I nod once. Nothing else needs saying.

I drop down off the hood, and pain detonates through my shoulder the second my boots hit the ground.

"Jesus Christ."

The world tilts sideways.

Then Summer's there. Her arms slide around my waist and she presses herself into my chest like she's checking I'm still real. Still here. Still breathing.