Kirkman leaned against a tree. “You think about it. In school, that pretty girl who let you put your hand up her shirt and then said no. The one on the street wearing the shirt that shows off her tits and then she scowls when she catches you staring. Even that pretty wife of yours, when she pisses you off. You think about it.”

“Think about…what?”

I knew what he seemed to mean. But I thought I must be wrong. I glanced toward the deadfall, felt my stomach clench at the memory of what I’d seen in there.

“That?” I said, barely able to get the word out. “You honestly believe normal people think about…” I couldn’t finish.

“Don’t be coy, Todd. That’s why you’re here instead of calling the police. You’re curious. You want validation. Someone to say it’s okay if you feel the same way. If you want to do the same thing. If you look at her”—a chin jerk toward the deadfall—“and you like what you see.”

“You sick fuck.”

Kirkman’s face hardened. “You’re the one who came out here. Tell me you didn’t like looking at her. Tell me it didn’t excite you, just a little. Tell me you didn’t, for one second, imagine your wife there.”

Yes, I had. I’d seen that girl—what had once been a girl—and thought of her life. Thought of her family. Thought, What if it was Pamela? What if it was Eden? How would I ever sleep again, when every time I closed my eyes, I’d think of what they’d suffered?

“Yes,” I said slowly, feeling that cold rage seep through my veins. “I thought of my wife under those branches. I thought of what I’d want to do to the man who put her there.”

I saw the blade slash without even realizing I’d pulled it from its sheath. Saw blood spurt. Saw Kirkman fall backward. Then I fell on him. I stabbed him over and over until he stopped moving. Until he completely stopped moving.

I stood there, and I wasn’t heaving breath, wasn’t shaking, wasn’t doing anything I should be doing. That rage slid away, and even to call it rage felt like an excuse. I’d known what I was doing. I’d done it intentionally, deliberately. Gregory Kirkman deserved to die, so I killed him.

When that ice in my gut thawed, I looked down at the bloody mess of his chest, the blood splattered over me, over the bushes, over everything. I saw that, and I pictured the body in the deadfall.

What makes me any different?

I threw up. Vomited, crouched on all fours, dry heaving when nothing more would come. I caught my breath, leaves crackled behind me, and I didn’t jump up. Didn’t even think to run.