CHAPTER 3
Paty POV
One image stays with me.
His booking photo—shirtless, defiant, arms tensed like he still had control.
But it was his chest that held me.
Red scratch marks scattered like a confession.
I counted them. Not out of morbid curiosity. Not for vengeance.
Because I needed to know.
One hundred seventy-three.
That’s how many I could see.
My mother—gentle, private, fierce—fought like she knew she’d die otherwise.
And still, he walked free.
That image didn’t just stay in my memory. It lodged deeper.
Somewhere behind my ribs, where rage simmers and purpose waits.
I glance at her now, sipping lukewarm tea like it’s just another Sunday.
And before I can stop myself, I ask the question I never dared voice.
“Why did he stop?”
She stills.
No flinch. No jolt. Just a quiet pulling inward, like she’s bracing for something heavy.
Her mug clinks against the counter. She doesn’t look at me.
When she finally speaks, her voice is careful. Measured.
But something colder lives beneath it.
“The system wasn’t there for me,” she says, fingers laced tight. “I did everything right. Filed reports. I documented everything. Called the police. We moved and changed numbers so many times.
I followed every step they said would keep us safe.”
She exhales slowly but doesn’t finish. The silence stretches—heavy, humming.
“One day I realized... no one was coming. Not a badge, not a court, not a neighbor. And sometimes...” Her gaze lifts, meeting mine but not quite landing. “Sometimes women just have to help themselves.”
The words settle like dust—slow but unshakable.
“You do whatever you have to,” she adds, softer. “To survive. Protect the people you love. Make it stop.”
That last part lands differently.
To make it stop.
The chill creeps in—not from her voice, but from what builds underneath.
He harassed her for a decade until she was twenty-six and I was ten.
And then—nothing.
No more voicemails. No more shadows outside our window.
Just... silence.
I used to believe, in that innocent way kids do, that he moved on. That we were safe.
But maybe it wasn’t that simple.
Maybe my mama—my fighter—went to battle in a way she never admitted. Did something to keep me safe.
“Honey?” she murmurs, tilting her head. “Are you all right?”
I try to smile, but something swells behind my ribs—hot, aching, and grateful.
Suddenly I just need a hug.
And like always, she knows. She opens her arms.
“I just... I love you,” I manage, words catching as I wrap my arms around her. “For everything. For who you are.”
Somewhere behind my ribs, where rage simmers and purpose waits.
I glance at her now, sipping lukewarm tea like it’s just another Sunday.
And before I can stop myself, I ask the question I never dared voice.
“Why did he stop?”
She stills.
No flinch. No jolt. Just a quiet pulling inward, like she’s bracing for something heavy.
Her mug clinks against the counter. She doesn’t look at me.
When she finally speaks, her voice is careful. Measured.
But something colder lives beneath it.
“The system wasn’t there for me,” she says, fingers laced tight. “I did everything right. Filed reports. I documented everything. Called the police. We moved and changed numbers so many times.
I followed every step they said would keep us safe.”
She exhales slowly but doesn’t finish. The silence stretches—heavy, humming.
“One day I realized... no one was coming. Not a badge, not a court, not a neighbor. And sometimes...” Her gaze lifts, meeting mine but not quite landing. “Sometimes women just have to help themselves.”
The words settle like dust—slow but unshakable.
“You do whatever you have to,” she adds, softer. “To survive. Protect the people you love. Make it stop.”
That last part lands differently.
To make it stop.
The chill creeps in—not from her voice, but from what builds underneath.
He harassed her for a decade until she was twenty-six and I was ten.
And then—nothing.
No more voicemails. No more shadows outside our window.
Just... silence.
I used to believe, in that innocent way kids do, that he moved on. That we were safe.
But maybe it wasn’t that simple.
Maybe my mama—my fighter—went to battle in a way she never admitted. Did something to keep me safe.
“Honey?” she murmurs, tilting her head. “Are you all right?”
I try to smile, but something swells behind my ribs—hot, aching, and grateful.
Suddenly I just need a hug.
And like always, she knows. She opens her arms.
“I just... I love you,” I manage, words catching as I wrap my arms around her. “For everything. For who you are.”
And I’ve already ruled out prison.
He never went back.
I looked. When I started at the DA’s office, I pulled his name from the archives. Warrants. Arrests. Parole violations. Nothing.
He just… disappeared.
But maybe I’d been looking in the wrong place.
Still holding my fork, I quietly pick up my phone, tilt it out of Mom’s eyeline, and open a browser tab.
I type his name.
Add “death.” and hold my breath.
It’s not an obituary. No paragraph about being loved or hiking. Just one line.
“Deceased. Record closed.”
My blood goes cold.
It’s not just that he died.
It's When.
The year he vanished. The year the calls stopped. The year Mom started sleeping through the night.
It matches.
Right down to the very season.
I set my fork down carefully, like it might shatter.
My mother is humming beside me, flipping channels.
She doesn’t know I’m unraveling beside her.
But the words echo.
You do whatever you have to.
To survive. To protect the people you love. To make it stop.
I stare at the screen. At his name. At deceased.
And clarity settles like ice water through my chest.
She did it.
She made it stop.
And I finally understand.
My mother—my foundation, my safe place—killed the man who raped her.
And got away with it.
I haven't stopped thinking about it for days.
My mother—my soft-spoken, book-reading, cardigan-wearing, cross-stitching mother—is a killer.
Not theoretically. Not could've.
Literally.
She killed Colton Rhodes.
I found the death notice after midnight, in my pajamas, lying in bed. I started with the usual rabbit holes—criminal databases, court records, Google with too many quotation marks.
At first, nothing.
Then I found it.
Colton Rhodes. Deceased.
Throat slit.
Found in his apartment after neighbors complained about the smell.
No big investigation. No media circus. No DA outrage. He lived in East Flatbush, where most murders get chalked up to gang activity and quietly disappear.
But this wasn’t random.
He was bound—tied so he couldn’t fight back.
Multiple stab wounds. Deliberate and fueled by fury.
Whoever did it wanted him to feel it.
Brushing my hair, it still feels surreal.
My mother—who made vanilla ice cream yesterday and served me pie with a hurricane-calming smile—killed a man.
And got away with it.
What the fiddlesticks?
The thought’s taken up full-time residence in my skull, rearranging mental furniture while I try to focus.
Spoiler: I can’t.
Which is probably why I’m up too early for a sane person.
I reach for my deep-pink sheath dress—the one that fits like a glove and says,I’m the whole package.
I add heels, a gold-buckled belt, and my signature scent—sugared citrus and quiet devastation.
My coffee timer beeps as I finish my liner and my brownstone fills with the smell of dark roast and cinnamon. I pour a mug, add sugar, syrup, creamer.
I should be panicking, but I’m not.
I’m steady.
The prosecutor in me replays the crime, thinking through how she would have done it.
Did she drug him? Catch him sleeping? Knock him out?
Then, what would her defense be?
