The thought settles into me with a clarity that cuts through everything else, and it doesn't feel reckless or impulsive, because it feels like the only thing left that makes sense.
I don't want it to be quick, and I don't want it to be clean, because I want him to feel exactly what he took, piece by piece, second by second, without anything to shield him from it.
I cross into Oregon without noticing the exact moment it happens, the sign flashes past and disappears, and nothing outside this car holds long enough to matter.
I don’t plan where I am going, and I don't make a conscious choice to turn, but my body does it anyway, following a path it already knows.
I don’t want to go there, but I do anyway.
Her house comes into view, and something in my chest cracks open in a way that almost makes me stop breathing entirely, because the sight of it pulls everything back into focus at once.
Police cars line the street, their lights flashing in harsh pulses of red and blue that wash over the house, the yard, the windows, turning everything into something distorted and unreal.
Medics move, not rushing, not panicking, because there is nothing left to save, and the officers stand in clusters with the kind of grim efficiency that only shows up when it is already too late.
They found her.
I slow just enough to see the yard, and that is when I see them.
Two smaller figures stand near the sidewalk, wrapped in blankets, their bodies folded inward under grief too heavy for them to carry. They are crying so hard they can barely hold themselves upright, their shoulders shaking, their voices breaking in a way that cuts through everything else even from this distance.
My half siblings.
My jaw locks so tight it aches, and for a second my grip on the wheel loosens, just enough to make the thought surface.
If I stop, I will get out, and the moment I step into that yard with my face already burned into every system they have, every cop out there will see a target instead of a person. They won't hesitate, and they won't ask questions. I will be dead before I make it halfway across the grass, and my siblings will watch it happen.
I already know it, because there is no version of me that will stay in that car if I let myself think about it for even one second longer. I will walk straight toward them without stopping, without thinking, pulled by something stronger than reason, and I won't make it back out again.
I will try to say something I don't know how to say, something that can never come out right, and I will feel all of it at once. Everything will break open in a way I won't be able to control, and there will be nothing left to hold it together.
I can’t do that.
My grip tightens again, harder than before, my hands locking back into place as I force the car forward.
I keep driving.
The house disappears behind me, but it doesn't leave, because it stays in my chest, in the back of my mind where everything continues to replay whether I want it to or not.
The grief doesn’t fade, and it doesn't soften into something manageable, because it shifts into something colder, something harder, something that doesn't ask for release.
It becomes something I can use.
Grant didn’t just kill her. He made her speak, he made her apologize, and he made her say she loves me while he stood there with a gun pressed to her head.
He took his time, and he made sure I watched every second of it.
My hands shake again, from the force of everything building inside me with nowhere to go.
I press harder on the gas, and the car surges forward, the engine straining as the road blurs beneath me, but it still doesn't feel fast enough.
I don't have a plan, and I don't need one, because the outcome has already been decided somewhere deeper than thought.
I know exactly what I'm going to do when I find him, and the certainty of it repeats over and over in my head, steady and unchanging.
I'm going to make him suffer.
I keep driving, and the world narrows until it is just the road, the engine, and the sound of my own breathing trying to stay even against everything working against it.
