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“Here’s your order, ma’am.”

I’d rather someone called me doc. I’d rather Miranda be standing behind that counter, offering me extra chocolates, just the way I liked it.

I hate it.

The Strangler had taken too many things from me, broken so many memories into something unfixable.

I took a sip of my coffee before stepping outside and claiming a chair. Now, it was just a matter of biding my time, waiting for him to take the bait.

Patience was key.

Wait for the perfect moment, Yara. Too soon, and you’ll spook it.

The overconfidence of a man… oh! There was nothing that gave me so much pleasure as breaking their pride.

He’d swim right into my trap, thinking he was the fisherman, but he was only a fish.

I took a bite of tiramisu, feeling it scratching against my throat. I didn’t know why I still ate it, when it never tasted good, when it always brought back bad memories.

Maybe because it reminded me of my mother. The good and bad parts of her life.

It was my mother’s favorite dessert until it wasn’t.

Whenever my father hurt her, he’d return the next day carrying pristine white boxes tied with satin ribbon, as if sugar could sweeten bruises.

She’d sit at the cursed teak wood table beneath the warm morning light, cutting the tiramisu into neat little squares. Bite after bite, she’d push it into her mouth with trembling hands. She’d choke. She’d cough. Tears would gather in her eyes, but she never stopped eating.

She wouldn’t offer me even a bite; she wouldn’t even look at me.

She punished herself for everything he had done to her. He’d bring a woman into their bed, and then he’d buy her a box of tiramisu. He’d hit her and say sorry with a box of tiramisu.

And she’d eat and eat, and then she’d run to the bathroom and puke it all out.

He knew exactly what he was doing. It wasn’t just physical abuse or infidelity—it was psychological warfare. He took something she loved, something that brought her joy, and turned it into a weapon.

Killing my father was the best thing I have ever done.

I swallowed another bite before pushing the plate away.

My sin was not killing him sooner.

At this moment, I wanted my father to be alive. I wanted him to come to me, to look me in the eye, and see me. See what he made me become.

When I killed him, I was surviving. It was quick. It was over before it had even started.

But now I would savor it. I’d make his pain last. I’d keep him suspended in agony. For a month. For a year. However long it took until he understood what it felt like to be powerless. To be broken. To be chained to something you have once loved and be tormented by it. Day after day after day.

I’d cut him, piece by piece, carve away his flesh, let him bleed, let him feel it all. I’d make him beg for death, and I’d deny him that, over and over again.

I gritted my teeth—

“It’s you, isn’t it? Hey, Kat. What a coincidence!”

When I looked up, Mason looked like my dead father.

“Carl?” I blinked. I smiled. Soft and hesitant. Now, I was the perfect, unassuming prey.

“I was craving good coffee after the kind of day I had,” Mason said, his predatory eyes studying me like a shark, assessing me. I motioned him to the chair opposite mine.