How to Kill a Man in Thirty Seconds

EPILOGUE

8 YEARS LATER

I stare grimly at the middle- aged man seated before me. His cold black eyes return my gaze, venomous and unfeeling. His cracked lips are drawn into a thin line of distaste. Carl Edward's face is unshaven, littered by a shaggy grey stubble, his hands that sit upon his lap cuffed and restrained.

A hush has fallen over the courthouse, the onlookers silent and waiting with bated breath for my closing remarks.

I turn to the jury seated across the room and my hands clasp tighter together.

"Members of the jury," my voice is clear and poised when it sounds, my gaze that flickers between each of them filled with intent, "Because of the man you see on the stand today, a small child of only eight years will carry scars for the rest of her life. The 'playdates' he arranged with her were nothing short of horrific. He manipulated her, preyed on her innocence and committed atrocious deeds that nothing short of a monster could do. Not only does that make him a cold-hearted criminal, but the very embodiment of evil."

My purposeful gaze flickers to the judge, "For the sake of every innocent child out there, do not let Carl Edwards roam the streets a free man. For the crimes that the defendant has committed, we accuse him guilty of first-degree rape."

When the foreperson of the jury, a middle-aged woman with a head of raven black hair, rises to the stand, my steely gaze shifts to the defendant. His hard gaze is fixed on me, and I don't miss the warning that burns in his eyes.

I don't blink.

"On charges of pre-meditated first-degree rape," the foreperson announces solemnly, "We the jury declare the defendant Carl Edwards... guilty."

It is not long afterwards that the judge delivers her verdict in agreement with the jury. "It is ordered," she declares grimly, "that the defendant shall be incarcerated in the department of corrections for the rest of his natural life, with no possibility of parole."

I watch as shock rushes into the man's eyes, replaced by vicious loathing as his gaze darts to me. I see the way his teeth grind together, the muscle that ticks along his jaw. I see the murderous intent.

My gaze does not waver.

It is only once I've risen to my feet that I feel a tiny finger tap my waist. Alice Smith, the child in question, stands before me, staring up at me with nervous eyes. She is little and frail, but I can't help the smile that flits across my face as I crouch down to meet her eyes.

"Hey, Alice," I say.

She hasn't been much of a talker, and she isn't now. Instead, she brings out the teddy she's been masking behind herself, and pushes it wordlessly into my hands. Alice scurries shyly behind her mother, who rushes forward to embrace me. Tears glisten in her eyes. My gaze darts across the courtroom. My sister stands there, now sixteen, a proud smile lighting up her face.

The car ride home is bustling with chatter as usual. Lily gossips about her day, and we find ourselves laughing over her classmate's strange antics. The roadsides are caked in thick snow, blankets of white smothering the forests of trees that surround us. This year's December is chillier than usual and pedestrians that shuffle by are bundled against the freezing winds. The sky is a peachy blue, a familiar country song plays on the radio and I find myself humming along, an unconscious grin playing on my lips.

I only pull over when Lily slips an envelope into my hands. "This turned up at the doorstep this morning," she says, "Didn't say from whom."

There is a thick sheet of paper inside, but the first thing that tumbles out is a small chit. My gaze narrows at the unfamiliar writing: