At the sink she washed off the worst of what he'd done to her. Her hands were red and shaking. At 12, all skinny arms and scabbed knees, she'd known this helpless rage—fighting with her older brothers who always won and always got in the last word.

It would be different this time. I'll make it different, she promised herself. She felt a scream rising, scorching her throat. She forced it back down. It never reached her mouth, her bruised lips.

Her body shook, her blood raced in endless cycles. She dried herself with a towel and went to get the gun he kept in the dresser drawer. The last of the daylight was fading into gloom as she held it in her hands, feeling the cold grey metal grow slick with sweat, waiting. Waiting for him.

"Come home soon," she whispered.