J.T. Ellison

I have the power to destroy you, too. Dear God, give me the chance.

He joins her on the bed, pulls her to his chest. He is strong, and warm, and despite herself, she snuggles in, letting the tension release from her body. She is still mad at him—furious, in fact—but she wants comfort more than rage right now.

Will it be the same with the others? Will he feel the same sense of pride and possession and infatuation with the boy who thrust them into this mess? Does a parent love their child regardless of the terror they bring, the mistakes they make?

Murdering a woman is not exactly a mistake, though, is it?

Way to go, asshole. It’s always someone else’s fault.

Darby needs to talk to her son, and she needs to do it right now. Before anyone gets their hands on him. She wants to look him in the eye and hear him say the words.

I didn’t do this, Mom. I swear it.

What if he said, Oh God, Mom, I lost control again. I didn’t mean to do it. It was a mistake.

Could she still love her son properly if he admitted his darkness had become a real, tangible thing? That he had raped and strangled a woman Darby herself knew? And, dear God, possibly taken another?

She had found the strength to love him before. She would again.

But it’s not him. It’s not.

Is it?

“I’m fine.” Though she is anything but; it’s a reflex answer. I’m fine, but I’m not. I’m sorry, though I did nothing wrong. The two phrases trained into almost every woman from birth.

Will he come for them? Will he try to hurt them? Kill them?

That’s one way to get through this—in a casket.

Finally, her baby is back, the petulant naivete, the innocent belief that nothing bad can happen if you’re loved, that at their heart, people are good, and don’t mean harm. It’s what gets children in trouble in the world, and especially online. Anyone can be charming if they choose, especially a predator.

Things die faster than they grow.

are all strong in the broken places.)