It is a truth. There can be no case without evidence, no arrest without a body to put on display.

“That’s not the point.”

Molly pauses.

“Is it because you’re scared I’d hurt her?”

“No. It has nothing to do with that.”

“Liar!” She screams, throat throbbing with the impulse to change. “It has everything to do—”

“It has everything to do with you. We talked about this. We talked about what the change does to—”

“You’re afraid this means I’ll find her and that I’ll hurt her.”

“No, but—”

“Yes.” She thumps her fist against the wall. The concrete flakes. “Yes. It’s exactly that. And I know… I know what you’re going to say. You’re going to tell me to think about the girl, about her daughter, about that stupid, useless child that will do nothing but grow up and consume and take and—”

“And what if she grows up to become someone compassionate, someone who understands pain, someone who changes the world, someone worthy?” A shivering breath. “She didn’t hurt me. It wasn’t right. What she did. But she didn’t hurt me and her daughter shouldn’t suffer for this, regardless.”

“That’s not the point.”

“No, it’s exactly the point. This is not your story.”

Molly freezes.

He continues, relentless. “This is not your story. This is mine. You understand that, right? And I am choosing to let this go. Why can’t you?”

Rage blisters her vision. The phone smashes when it hits the wall, geysering electronics; motherboard shards and bits of plastic like shattered finger-bones lodged in her teeth.

kitchen knife, $5.60

She buys a dozen, even though they’re nowhere near sharp enough, intended for the softest cuts, the simplest meals.

But she doesn’t mind. They are only for show.

rope, masking tape, plastic bags, $21.50

“It’s a serial killer’s shopping list!” The clerk laughs nervously.

Molly does not correct him.

taxi ride, free

The money he quotes is more than she would have ever paid for a cab, but she endures the cost the way she tolerates the driver’s advances. When they arrive, she devours him whole—an appetizer, a prelude.

retribution, one relationship

She thinks about sending him an ear, a skin graft taken from a porcelain cheek, a bone strung on a loop of black rope.

She thinks about sending him a picture.

As she sits licking pancreatic juices from her fingertips, Molly thinks about many things, but mostly how much she’ll miss the tobacco-warmth of his scent, the weight of his arm about her shoulders, the years that will never happen, the price of vengeance.

In the end, she does nothing at all. This was not for him, after all. This was for her.

She rolls the thought in her palm, even as she enumerates the pattern of tendons, the bouquet of veins, stretched across the floor like a warning.

“Mama?”

Molly looks up.