Hunter's Alpha (gxg) ✓

27. Whisper

My first karate lesson was when I was five.

You know, that age when moms enroll their kids in everything under the sun. Ballet. Soccer. Hockey. Piano. Trying to figure out what you're good at.

In my case, though, karate was never a choice.

I was just very, very good at it.

Jeremy and I had that in common. From a young age, he set the trend at the karate studio. They called him a prodigy. He could learn patterns in drills given only a few minutes, and he executed them with both strength and precision.

He challenged more than a few black belt masters, and he got away with it.

You can probably tell where I got my attitude from.

I guess you could say I idolized Jeremy. He was only fourteen when he died, but I could tell he was going places. He may have been a troublemaker, but there was no denying he was smart.

I was the prodigy that followed in his footsteps.

Better yet, I was the first girl prodigy in karate. In the state of Louisiana, I kicked ass all around at the tournaments. My name is probably engraved on a dozen trophies.

Does that sound a little arrogant? Too bad.

I just want to make sure you know I'm good at fighting.

Because when a man with a shaved head and tattoos grabs my arm, you should be able to picture the badass I am when I have him tackled onto the ground within twenty seconds.

"Didn't your mama ever teach you it was impolite to grab girls who are walking alone in the middle of the night?" My forearm squeezes off his vocal cords, and he chokes in reply.

Maybe I should kill this one.

As I look at him, his black eyes glittering in the streetlamps, I can't help the deep, dark loathing inside of me. Even though I know the odds of it being this man who killed my mother are slim, I still imagine him throwing my mother out of her bed.

How did she die? Was it a bullet, a single shot? Was it his hands around her neck?

My touch becomes harder. I press against him, fiercer, until his rasping slows.

If I kill him, I will have two murders on my conscience.

But this . . . this is worth it, too.

My mom. My mom.

This is just the beginning of my revenge.

I want every last one of them dead.

Concentration becomes the single focus of my vision. Pressure on his windpipe. His fading growls. The hands that claw uselessly at the road.

My mother is dead. Dead. Dead.

First, my dad, Jeremy, and now . . . my mom.

She was all I had left.

And I thought I had grieved . . . I thought I had let the worst of it out . . . but I haven't. Because all I can feel now is rage, rage and pain. My mother, who I loved, who was my only constant after we moved away from Louisiana, to California, and back . . . she's gone.