Rachel is asleep on my couch, and I’ve covered her in a quilt. She’s breathing deeply, her chest rising and falling. There’s a red mark on her forehead where she had to headbutt her father in self defense, but other than that, there’s no sign that anything happened.

And yet I know she’s carrying a million scars underneath her skin. They’re imprinted on her heart, tarnishing her soul. She hides them deep inside so no one will find them. She believes they make her dirty, but I think they make her strong. She’s the strongest woman I know. She’s endured years of abuse at the hands of a monster, a man who has been sworn to protect her, to protect his wife, to protect the citizens of this town.

And I’m going to end that all. I’m going to make sure that he protects no one ever again.

Rachel confided in me tonight with something she’s kept buried and tonight she let it all out, a hand reaching out from the grave, skeletons rolling out of the closet. She’s trusted me with this and I can’t break her trust, even when I know I should. Even when I know I have to.

I get it, too. I get that she doesn’t want this to come to light, that’s she afraid she’ll lose, that the town will see her in a different way, maybe as a victim, maybe as a harlot. Who knows. People talk. Rumors spread. I’ve seen people here turn on each other. It happens all the time. For all the good things that happen in small towns, the very people who wave at you as you drive by, who know you by name, are sometimes the very people willing to throw you under a bus. Small towns don’t always breed compassion and solidarity. They breed intimacy, but that’s not the same thing, not by a long shot.

There’s a chance that Rachel could be dragged through the mud, especially if her mother isn’t willing to come to her side. Clearly the woman is also a victim of abuse, but I know she’s probably living in extreme denial of what’s going on. If she’s afraid, she could take his side. And where would that leave Rachel?

No. I know that’s the right thing to do, but the right thing usually only pans out in movies. I’ve got something else I want to do, the justice this man deserves.

“Rachel,” I call out softly.

She doesn’t move. She continues to breathe deeply. I gave her a lot of whisky and sleepy tea in order to relax her and calm her down. I don’t think she’s going to stir all night.

Quietly, I slip on my coat and take the shotgun off the gun rack.

I step out into the night, gently closing the door behind me.

The air is crisp and cool, but inside I’m a barely contained fire, just dying to spill out.

I get in my truck and drive across town, all the way to the Waters’ house.

I don’t really have a plan. My thoughts have slowed to a dull crawl.

I park the truck around the corner.

I leap over the small rounded gate that leads to the stone path up to the house.

I open the door, poking my head inside.

It’s dark with only a hall light on. The blue clock of the microwave glows. The house is as still as a tomb and almost as quiet except for snoring coming from the living room.

There lies Rachel’s mother, passed out on the couch.

I clear my throat, testing the waters.

“Vernalee,” I say.

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t even stir.

I put my shotgun down against the wall and crouch down, picking her up.

I carry her all the way to the bedroom, placing her in bed. I get a glass of water and some Advil and put it beside her on the table. I know I should hate this woman for not believing her own daughter, for turning her away. But I can’t. I only feel deep sorrow and pity that she’s stuck in this situation, and until she faces it herself, she’ll never escape. No amount of drinking will ever do that.

I leave her in the bed, closing the door behind her, making sure it’s latched shut.

Then I switch off the hall light, pick up the shotgun, sit down on the couch in the living room, and wait in the darkness.

I think it’s been a couple of hours when I hear a car outside on the street. It runs for a few minutes and then turns off. The engine clicks.

The gate creaks open.

There are footsteps up the front steps.

The door opens with ease. No one locks doors in this town. What’s the point when the monsters already live with you?

I know it’s a matter of seconds before he spots me waiting in the dark with a shotgun. He might even pull his gun first.

I could just shoot him right now. But that would be too easy and I don’t want to get this over with just yet.

He turns into the kitchen and the room glows a cold white as he opens the refrigerator door.

I’m already on my feet. I’m behind him.

The barrel of the gun aimed at the back of his head.

My finger presses against the trigger.

It would be so easy to squeeze.

But I don’t.

I pull the gun back, and in the time that Errol Waters whirls around to face me, reaching for the gun in his holster as he does so, I’m swinging the shotgun clear across his face.

Blood sprays on the wall, his cheek collapsing as he’s thrown against the kitchen counter, the edge striking him in the ribs.

He cries out as he falls, but I’m already bringing the gun down over his head, striking him right across the crown.

“Help,” he cries out, his words garbled with blood and spit, but I’m putting the gun on the table and grabbing him by the collar, hauling him up to meet my face.

“You sick son of a bitch,” I sneer at him, spittle flying. The rage I have inside licks me—unrelenting, dangerous flames. “I should fucking kill you right here. Maybe I will.”

I slam him back against the fridge, and before he has a chance to duck or move, I strike him in the cheek. My fist cries out in pain but I’ve learned to ignore it. Errol is taller and bigger than me, but fighting Fox has taught me well over the years.

I start pummeling him, hitting his nose, his jaw, his cheek, his eye. The skin beneath my knuckles is slick with blood and soft, turning to pulp, but I can’t stop. The rage is all-encompassing and all I can think about is Rachel.

Revenge for Rachel.

Revenge for the woman I love.

“You sick fuck, you sick fuck,” I keep grunting over and over, like I’m in some kind of trance. “I’m going to fucking kill you.”

And even though I’m not using my gun, I know if I keep going, I’m going to. I’m going to beat his nose back into his brain and shatter the grey matter with shards of bone. I’m going to end his life like this, lying in a puddle of blood on his kitchen floor, and I know he deserves worse, so much worse. I could go on like this for hours.

I just might.

Then I hear someone behind me, and even though I don’t hear a gun being cocked I know one is pointed at my head. That’s something you can feel deep in the seat of you.

“Stop,” a man’s voice says. “Put your hands up. Now.”

The man isn’t calm. His voice is weak, shaking, and I know it’s the voice of Constable James Zimmer. He’s not about to fire his gun on me, but if he’s as panicked as he sounds, he might.

I raise my hands in the air and Errol slumps to the floor, spitting out blood and teeth.

“Turn around,” Zimmer says.

I slowly turn around, my chin raised along with my hands.

The look of shock that comes over his face is almost humorous. “Shane Nelson?” he asks.

I don’t say a word.

And Errol, he’s not done. He’s not knocked out, though he should be after what I did to him. He shouldn’t even be able to breathe even though he’s slowly getting to his feet beside me.

“Errol, are you okay?” Zimmer asks him.

But Errol is not okay. He’s able to stand if he’s holding on to the kitchen counter, but he’s not okay.

“Shane, what the hell are you doing? What happened?” Zimmer asks me.

But I don’t know what to say. I’m supposed to keep this to myself.

I can’t anymore. I’ve gone too far. I pray Rachel can forgive me.

“Justice,” I tell him. “Why don’t you ask him what he’s been doing to his wife and daughter for years? I’m sure if they had the strength, they would have done the same.”

Zimmer is beyond puzzled, the shadows on his face deepening in the darkness. “What the hell are you talking about? Errol?”

Errol raises his head to look at me.

I meet his eyes and it’s like looking into the face of hell itself.

His eyes blaze with a shining blackness, like this whole thing has excited him instead of breaking his spirit. “This man,” Errol says hoarsely, slurring, barely able to move his jaw, “broke into my house with the intention to murder me. He had a shotgun aimed at my head before I fought back, and then he attempted to beat me…to death.”

Everything inside me seizes. I look to Zimmer. “I came here because Rachel, his daughter, said he’s been—”

“This man came here with the intent to fucking kill me,” Errol cries out. “Arrest him.”

Zimmer moves toward me, one shaking hand holding the gun, the other going for his handcuffs. Maybe I can fight off both of them, but I’m not about to hurt Zimmer. I knew his son from high school. He’s a good man.

But he’s in the position beneath Errol. And he’ll do whatever Errol says.

“I’ll throw your fucking ass in jail and you’ll never come out,” Errol seethes, blood pouring from his cuts. My knuckles throb, scraped raw from his face. “You hear me? You’ll fucking rot in there, pretty boy.”

The cuffs shake in Zimmer’s hands.

I’m fucked.

Completely fucked.

“Unless,” Errol adds slowly, “you can do me a favor.”

I try to swallow but can’t. I look to Zimmer but he’s paused, waiting, looking just as confused as I feel.

I don’t want to do this man any fucking favors.

“I’m not doing shit for you,” I tell him. “I know what you did. I’ll make sure the whole damn world knows it.”

“No one in this whole damn world would believe you,” Errol says. “Not Zimmer over there. Not any other cop, or cheap lawyer in this town. Not even my own wife. No one.”

He can’t be right. That’s not supposed to be how this turns out. He doesn’t just win because he’s a cop. He doesn’t get to get away with it. With all the sick and terrible things he’s done…

“Now, I won’t repeat myself again,” he says, and he fucking sounds like a man who’s holding all the cards. “But I need you to do me a favor. And I won’t press charges. And Zimmer here will pretend like he never saw a goddamn thing. Ain’t that right, Zimmer?”

“Uh, yes sir.”

“Good.” His eyes peer at mine, hate coming from a place I would never dare explore. “If you break up with my daughter and I never see your face around here again, I’ll let all of this slide.”

I balk. “Why the fuck would I do that?”

“Because I’ll put you away for good. Take a good look at me, boy. Hey, Zimmer, you take a good look, too. You came here to murder me and I’m pretty sure that if Zimmer hadn’t stepped in, you would have finished the job.” He spits a lump of blood onto the floor and then smiles at me with missing teeth. “I think Zimmer deserves a promotion for saving my life.”

I look over my shoulder at Zimmer. He’s standing up straighter, and like most simple cops in this town, he would love nothing more. But he’s still confused as to what’s going on.

I’m not, though. What Errol is asking me to do is not the better alternative than jail.

And that’s why he’s asking it.

Because it would destroy me even more.

He’s seen me around his daughter, day in and day out since we were both nine years old. We have eleven years of history together, eleven years of love. He knows that giving that up will destroy me, destroy her.

“You don’t have much time to think,” Errol says, sounding weaker. “Don’t be a martyr. If you go to jail, you’ll be sent up to prison in Kamloops. Your daddy and grandfather will lose a hand on the ranch. Your family’s reputation will be ruined, I’ll see to that. And you’ll leave your precious Rachel all alone. You hear me? She’ll be all alone…and small towns can be cruel.”

My heart thuds slowly in my chest as I try and grasp what he’s saying. If I go to jail, she has no one. Her only alternative is to move, but would she? Not unless I push her away. If I break up with her, if I push her away, she’ll leave this town for good. I know she will. It’s all she’s been talking about for years. She’s only staying here for me.

I’m not worth it. I never have been.

And her father isn’t a stupid man. He knows if I go to jail, there will be talk over what I did and why. People love to find the motive, especially when it comes from someone like me. I might be a wild card, but attempted murder is not something that people would see coming. They’ll want to know. And people will talk. Maybe even Rachel and Vernalee will come forward.

Or I can break it off with Rachel and tell her to leave. To go. The only thing is, that poor girl loves me. She won’t go easily. If I slip for even a second about what’s going on, she’ll stay.

“Time is ticking,” Errol says, slouching into the kitchen chair. “What will it be?”