Page 92 of Silent Vendetta (Vendetta Duet)

Concerned glances.

“I was going to let the threats go when Dad was released. But now? I promise, Dad, I’ll never stop hunting the person who took you from us. They won’t escape justice.”

While the audience shifted in their seats, Hunter flattened his black tie, his face full of resignation.

When the ceremony concluded, Hunter held my hand in silence in the back of our sedan as our parade of vehicles crawled along the roads to the cemetery.

There, my father’s black casket was placed above the hole in the earth where he would reside forever.

Under a shroud of obsidian clouds, I stood, swallowed by the same merciless darkness that consumed my heart. I clung to Hunter’s hand, the silent warmth of his grip the only tether to my shattered world.

Tears leaked from my eyes, tracing warm paths down my cheeks, the moisture evaporating into the summer air. Hope was a distant memory, a mocking demon as a stinging wind swept through the cemetery, whispering broken promises through the bare trees.

Trees like the ones we’d had in my backyard as a kid, bringing back a memory.

“And we’ll have tea parties and read books in here!” I squealed, twirling a pigtail with my finger.

Dad’s grin widened as he took another long nail and started whacking it with his hammer.

“Once it’s done, we can go to the library every week if you want,” Dad said.

“And we can make art! We can draw with crayons in here!”

“I can hang up any art you make.” Dad wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead and pointed next to me. “Can you hand me more nails?”

I reached into Dad’s metal toolbox and handed him another handful that he shoved into his jeans pocket.

“Every nail we drive,” Dad said, stilling with the hammer in his hand, “every wooden board we place, we’re not just building a tree house. We’re building dreams and a place where we’ll make memories. No matter how big you get, always remember that the strongest foundations are built with love and patience, and if you hold on to that, anything is possible.”

“You okay?” Hunter asked, though he already knew the answer.

“No,” I admitted, my voice a husky whisper torn from the depths of my soul. My eyes were transfixed on the polished wood box holding the remains of my beloved father—wood that reminded me of the boards of our unfinished tree house. The finality ofthiswood gleamed in the faint light as though mocking my sorrow. “I’m not okay, and I don’t think I’ll ever be.”

His hand squeezed mine a little tighter, the unspoken vow to do whatever he could to make my life less painful resonating through the thin layers of our skin. He couldn’t promise me that things would get better, that the wound would eventually heal. He was silent, respecting the enormity of my grief.

And I appreciated the hell out of that.

The funeral workers began to lower the casket—the dreadful sound of the straps creaking a deafening roar in the silent graveyard. Every inch it descended into the abyss was a reminder, an echo of the finality of death, of a life stolen too soon. My heartbeat drummed in my ears, a haunting sound that matched the tempo of my heartbreak.

“It’s not fair,” I growled, squeezing Hunter’s hand. “Who did this to him?”

My words were punctuated by the thud of the coffin hitting the floor of the grave, a sound that reverberated through the bleak surroundings. It echoed in the hollow space inside me, hollowed out by a loss that fractured my soul.

The heartbreak was there, a dull throb that pounded in time with my heart, but above it, a new sensation overtook the emptiness: rage. My free hand curled into a fist, my nails biting into my palm, and my tears stopped, replaced by a hardening resolve that crystallized in my chest.

I wanted to find who had taken my father from me, and I wanted them to hurt, to feel even a fraction of the anguish that was ripping me apart.

“I understand now,” I whispered to Hunter. “I finally understand your vengeance.”

It wasn’t lost on me how similar our tragedies were. I, too, witnessed my father’s murder. I was with him. I watched him die, and I was helpless, powerless to stop it.

“My dad has only been gone for a few days,” I whispered. “I can’t even imagine what this must’ve been like for you, to spend years living with this awful mix of hopelessness and rage.”

Hunter pressed his hand to the palm of my back, probably knowing from firsthand experience that there was nothing he could say to take away any of my pain.

“I can’t imagine what this has been like for you,” I continued. “To go as long as you have without getting justice. I’ve only had to live with it for a few days. If I had to live with this for the next few years, I don’t think any good parts of me would survive.”

They would be eaten up with bitterness and hate.

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