But in that moment, something happened. Maybe it was seeing that man. Maybe it was hearing my cousin’s words. Maybe it was witnessing the man’s fear—as he struggled to shoot a gun, trying to feel safe, when I was only twenty feet away, holding a gun myself and knowing—should I turn it on him—he’d never have a chance. Knowing that he’d be as helpless as the boys he’d abused.

Whatever the reason, at that moment I realized I had the power to do something. I wasn’t thirteen anymore, helpless, hearing my cousin being raped. Only four years later, I had changed. I had power. I could fight and I could shoot, and I had the will and confidence to do both.

When the man left, I followed him. I’d driven my parents’ car, so I told my cousin I was feeling unwell and he never thought anything of it. Even if he’d noticed the man leave before me, he didn’t see a connection because I was just his teenage cousin, the one who drove seniors to church on Sunday and always had a friendly word for everyone.

I spent the rest of the day following the man. I took notes. By the end, I knew where he lived, where he shopped and where he liked to park his car—in a quiet lane behind the school where he could watch the little boys playing tag.

He watched them. I watched him.

For three weeks, I followed him. Not every day—I had school—but every few days I’d head to the city and find him. Then, when I had his routine down, I considered what I could do. Considered what would be a proper punishment for his crimes, a sufficient deterrent.

I read up on pedophiles. Read about treatments. While the therapy sessions sounded very nice and proper, I’d heard enough stories about criminals and their misuse of the psychiatric system. Chemical castration seemed far more effective. Impossible for a teenage girl to pull off, though. So it would have to be true castration. I considered that for a long time, whether the punishment fit the crime, whether preventing future molestation would justify such an extreme measure.

As I studied, fear crept into my gut. The fear that I would be found out, that my dark thoughts would show on my face, in my manner. I imagined my father discovering my notes and my books, and that was almost enough to stop me.