I forced my mother to give me the names of the five boys. I don’t know why I needed to know or what I even planned to do with the information once I had it. A part of me wanted to reach out to them, to apologize for the actions of a man I’d once loved. I could do that. So long as I never used the words “I get it” or “I understand” because being the daughter of a pedophile is not the same as being a victim of one.

I don’t eat.

Can’t.

And when I close my eyes, I see the twenty different pictures of Logan hanging on the wall next to the staircase in the Preston house.

I do my best not to close my eyes for too long.

For the fourth day in a row, I sit in the confines of my room, on my computer, in a bomb shelter made of boxes that once filled an entire house. I type in their names, one after the other, multiple search engines, numerous filters.

Mom says I shouldn’t obsess over it.

My mom can fuck off.

Because as much as she likes to think that she somehow did the right thing, my dad died ten years ago. For ten fucking years she’s known about it, and she was just recently looking for Logan. No. That doesn’t make sense. She could’ve found them within minutes had she tried. My dad coached them. Their details would’ve been under the same roof we called home. She could’ve reached out to the parents then. She could’ve done so many things. Instead, she was a coward, and now she’s using me to defend that cowardice by saying she did it all to protect me. There were five boys out there who needed the protection more than I did.

I go through pages and pages of searches and sites and don’t come up with anything solid. And so I rely on my last option: social media.

I log onto Facebook for the first time since Logan’s return from Cambodia. I don’t expect many notifications, if any. But there’s one. A status update from Carter that he’d tagged me in:

My eyes narrow, my mind confused, and I try to think if I’d seen anything come from him. I look at the date he’d posted, and my breath, my pulse—all of it stops.

I rush downstairs, ignore Mom calling after me, and grab my keys from the entry table. I get in my car and let rage drive me, let it control me.

* * *

My hands are fists at my sides while I walk from my car into the office of the BMW dealership owned by Carter’s dad. I hear him before I see him, his laughter grating on my nerves, building my anger. His office is surrounded by floor to ceiling glass, and he’s lazing back in a chair behind his desk, having no clue to the fury I’m about to unleash. A couple is sitting opposite him, signing paperwork, and as soon as I open the glass door, I tell them to get out.

Carter’s eyes are huge, and he’s on his feet, making his way toward me. “Jesus, Aubrey, you don’t look so good.” He’s smirking, cocky, and I wish I had the strength to wrap his stupid tie around his neck and choke him to death.

He holds up a finger to his clients. “One minute,” he asks, holding the door open for them.

They leave his office.

Carter closes the door behind them.

He’s still smirking.

I say, doing my best not to cry, “What the fuck was in that letter?”

His eyes narrow. “What are you talking about?”

“That letter you put in my fucking mailbox!” I shout. “What was in it?!”

“Keep your fucking voice down,” he utters. “That was, like, weeks ago.”

I shove his chest. Hard. “What. Was. It?”

He grasps my wrists. “Feisty,” he says. Laughs. “I like this version of you, Aubs.”

“Fuck you.”

He rolls his eyes. “It was a police report about your dad, okay? Oh, and a picture of you two…” He smirks. “You always wanted to find a photo of him, right?” He shrugs, releases my wrist. “You should be thanking me, really. I gave you what you finally wanted. Did you know Daddy Dearest was a kiddy fiddler? Did he ever… you know…” He wags his eyebrows.

I try. Honestly, I do. But the tears fall, his words weakening my determination. “What is wrong with you, Carter?” I cry out. “You ruined so many lives with…” I trail off, unable to speak through my sobs. I don’t lower my head, my gaze, because I want him to see me. See what he’s done to me. “Why would you want to hurt me like that?”

His features fall, and he steps toward me.

I take a step back.

Shaking his head, his voice is as weak as I feel when he says, “Fuck, Aubrey, I’m sorry. I wasn’t… I don’t…” He takes my hand. Holds it.

I snatch it away, bile rising to my throat. I whisper, “You have no idea what you did.” I leave his office, my torment building cement walls around my chest. I should just leave, because there’s nothing left to say, nothing left to do. But then I hear him behind me, “Don’t you feel better for knowing?”

I stop in my tracks, scream so loud my throat burns. A bomb explodes inside me, shattering the walls that had just been built. I pick up a metal chair, throw it at him. Pick up another. Throw it through his office walls. Glass falls to the floor, as if in slow motion, and I picture Logan opening that mail… try to imagine the look on his face when he was reunited with a past that destroyed him…

Weeks of silent sobs force themselves out of me. I cry. I cry so loud my lungs, my throat, beg for me to stop. But I can’t.

I can’t stop.

I run for my car, and when I hear Carter coming after me, I run faster.

I get into my car, lock all the doors, and start the engine. I should leave, just drive away, and forget this day. Forget Carter. Forget every single moment from my past.

Logan included.

Logan.

And then I remember the pile of ash sitting on the garage floor, the burnt remains of Logan’s history.

Through my rage, my agony, the never-ending tears blurring my vision, I see Carter’s Pathetic Dick of a car parked in front of the office. I don’t think. I just do. I put the car in gear, hit the brake and accelerator. I hear the tires screeching, smell the burn. My head lands on the steering wheel when I crash into the side of his car head-on. I check behind me. Reverse when it’s clear. Then I hit the brakes. Put the car in drive. I don’t close my eyes when I smash into the BMW again. And again. And again. I ignore the sirens blaring and the shouting from outside. But most of all, I ignore my own screams. My own cries. My own pain. My own mind telling me that I should’ve worn my seatbelt, that I shouldn’t give into the darkness.