He was not his father. He would never be his father.

“You are my sunshine.”

His mother’s angelic voice crooned in his head. If only she were here. If only she hadn’t left, nothing bad would have ever happened to him.

It’s not her fault she had to go...

His memories of his mother were small bright lights in a sea of dark, raging waters that surged through him. Beacons of what could have been, what should have been, what would have been had the world not conspired to take her.

He breathed deeply and found himself circling back to Ogdenburg’s house.

Be careful.

His anger at being thwarted by the police earlier had dissipated. He regained his focus, his calm. He had time. He had hours to complete his mission.

He turned his lights off and drove slowly past the target’s house.

Ogdenburg’s lights were on, and he saw the flicker of the television behind the closed blinds.

Somehow, that made him feel better. He had a plan for this. If Ogdenburg was awake, he had his syringe ready. If he was asleep, he wouldn’t need it. He would be able to enact Plan A just like he planned.

But he had to make sure the police were truly gone.

He drove through the winding streets and didn’t see a police car anywhere. But Ogdenburg’s lights were still on.

He left the neighborhood and drove through side streets and over the freeway, to his childhood home.

He would take just one look, then go back.

He had to see the house again. His house. He’d thought he’d be able to ignore the urge, but his second night here, he drove by.

He thought one time would be enough. It was far from enough. He’d driven by eight times in the two months he’d been living in Spokane. He would have driven by every day, but he refrained. He had things to do, to prepare, and he couldn’t risk having someone recognize his car.

He meandered through streets that he’d once known so well. There were more houses now, more people, but the streets were mostly the same.

This was dangerous, he told himself. Long after midnight and police would wonder why he was driving through a neighborhood when he didn’t live here.

I’m from out of town. I missed my exit.

I got lost.

I was visiting my mother on Vine Street...

He turned on Vine and slowed the car to a crawl.

He’d wanted to drive by every day, but he resisted. Barely.

This was the ninth time in eight weeks. A good number, nine.

The last time. It would have to be the last, until he finished his retribution.

He stopped the car in the middle of the street and turned his head. The streetlights were dim, clouded by the growing fog. No lights were on in houses. It was nearly two in the morning; everyone slept.

He stared at the house. His house.

The new owners had painted the house a very pale green with cream and dark brown trim. He couldn’t see it now, in the dark, but the first time he’d driven by was in daylight and he would never forget the betrayal. Much different from the white house with rust trim that he’d grown up in.