But while I was plotting to castrate a pedophile, my world revolved as it should. My mother alternated between ignoring me and harassing me over imagined misdeeds. My brother just ignored me. My boyfriend still kissed me, still looked into my eyes and mangled misremembered love poems in a vain attempt to get into my pants. My friends still phoned, still sought my company, still told me their secrets. And my father still waited for me, at the station, every day after school. Waited for me to arrive, coffees in hand, and join him in his office, where we’d share our day before heading home.

If I’d changed, no one noticed.

So I continued to plot. Studied methods. Examined my target’s schedule. Came up with a plan. How I would carry it out. Then I closed my books, burned my notes and placed an anonymous pay phone call to the Kitchener police, telling them about the man’s voyeuristic habits.

Three months later, he was brought up on fresh charges stemming from surveillance. Justice was served.

And now, in my hands, I held another chance.

I read the article again. Looked at the man’s picture.

I could do it. But where would it lead?

Did I want to go there?

Did I want Evelyn to be the one to take me there?

To Evelyn, I was a project. Something to be made better. Something to be used? Maybe. But a project nonetheless. And here, in my hand, was the lure.

I folded the paper and put it into my bag.

It was past two. I’d gone to bed an hour ago. I was coming out of the bathroom, heading toward my room when a shadow moved. I started, then saw Jack silhouetted in his open bedroom door.

“Oh,” he said. “You were just—” He waved toward the bathroom. “Thought you were heading down.”

I managed a small smile. “Trying not to, but losing the battle.”

“Come on.”

He waved me to the kitchen table and got out the cocoa and sugar containers. When it was made, he brought over my mug and sat across from me.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Sure.”

He studied me. “That letter. Doesn’t mean shit. We’re getting close.”

“Sure.”

We sat there for a few minutes, the quiet broken only by the drumming of Jack’s fingers. He cast a few glances at the window overlooking the driveway.

“Want me to grab your cigarettes?” I asked.

A tiny smile. “That obvious?”

“Stressful day.” I lifted my mug. “This is my fix. I suppose Evelyn wouldn’t be keen on you smoking in the house, but we can step outside if you’d like.”

“Damned cold…”

“I don’t mind if you don’t. A little fresh air might help us sleep.”

Jack lit a cigarette, took a drag and made a face. Then he took another one.