I woke up screaming. Bathed in sweat. Shaking so badly I had to gasp for breath. Twenty minutes later, two officers from my own precinct showed up at my door, responding to a call from my neighbor. By then, I was calm enough to convince them it hadn’t been me—maybe someone down the hall or a too-loud television. They bought it—even joked about it later, at the station, teasing me about who I’d been having sex with to make me scream so loud. And I laughed with them, because that’s what they expected, and because I knew no one would ever guess the truth. Nadia Stafford was not the kind of girl to wake up screaming from anything.

That night, I gagged myself before I went to bed. I knew the nightmares would come again, and they did. That crime scene had reminded me too much of Amy’s death. Once I fell asleep, I felt her panic, her terror, her agony. Knew what it was like to be a victim.

And when they caught the guy a few days later, I knew what I needed to do to make the nightmares end. I had to see Dawn get the justice that had been denied Amy. So I asked for and received permission to be in on the arrest. I wanted to see his face at that moment when he knew it was over, that justice had prevailed and he was going down.

Only it didn’t happen that way. When we picked up Wayne Franco, he was downright gleeful in anticipation of the glory and recognition to come. There was no justice forthcoming. I’d been a fool to think so. Being arrested didn’t mean you would pay the price for your crimes. Amy had taught me that.

As I stood there, watching Franco grinning, I knew I hadn’t come here to see Wayne Franco arrested. I’d come here to see Dawn Collins get justice. So I waited. And when he made the mistake of reaching into his pocket, I put a bullet between his eyes.

By waiting for my mark to make that fatal move, I’d given the department the excuse they needed, and they fell on it like shipwreck survivors spotting a lifeboat. They claimed I was acting in self-defense; who knew what the killer was pulling from his pocket? No one ever asked whether I thought my life was in danger. I’m sure they suspected the answer. In the end, they were able to take my history, couple it with a psychiatric evaluation and claim post-traumatic stress disorder, allowing me to “retire” from the force.

The media hadn’t been nearly so magnanimous.

After six months of hell, I’d cashed in my meager retirement savings, taken ten grand in “get out of our lives” money from my mother’s new husband and put a down payment on the Red Oak Lodge.