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It's not the thoughts of where she would be now or the things she’ll never experience that are difficult to handle. I wish it were those things that keep me up at night instead of what actually does.

Her last weeks in life were filled with pain, loneliness, and fear.

That'swhat fills every thought, that and the fact that I couldn't stop it. By the time we found her it was too late. The fuckstick who’d lured her with images and promises of a happy love life hid his tracks just well enough that we were too late.

But that was then.

Shoving off the door, I swipe the traitorous tear with my oversized black sweatshirt.

This is now.

Now I have the upper hand, and they will pay.

Everyone involved will soon regret taking my sister from me. They had no idea who they were messing with. Soon they will.

With a shaky hand, I punch the passcode into the keypad next to the doorframe. The lock clangs and I shove the door open only to be greeted by even colder air. But it calms me. As I don my winter coat, gloves, and hat, the stress and anxiety from the earlier meeting slip away. In here I get to be me. No small talk to avoid, no stares. It's where I've always been comfortable, but in the last year it’s turned into my crutch. Where I come to shut everything else out in the world. Not that I have much out there to avoid.

Hate is a crazy thing. It consumes you. Suffocates you until it's all you see, all you focus on. It seeps the joy out of other aspects of your life until there’s nothing left.

This is where I am now. Nothing left but the hate in me, which grows brighter and stronger each day I'm closer to getting these bastards. Finally getting justice for Destiny.

Still standing, I tap the keyboard, making the dark room glow from the seven monitors now up and ready for me. When I started this whole vengeance mission, having the latest and greatest equipment was the first thing I needed, considering the person I was stalking was slightly better than me technically speaking. Plus, with all these screens, I can monitor my secret mission while working.

I plop into the chair and roll it close to the desk. First things first, I check my secure email to see if there’s anything new from the FBI.

Nothing. Good.

Didn't really want to work right now anyway.

With a sigh, I pull up the inboxes for the fifteen fake women I'd initially created months ago to attract the general’s cyber lackey, just to see if I've gotten any new hits. Each woman had a full backstory, social media pages, pictures. It's been a lot of work with the hours and hours I spent creating this catfish scheme.

Especially since it’d fucking worked.

An unread message in one of the fake profile’s inboxes catches my eye. One-handed, I pull up the Gmail account for the fictional fifteen-year-old and open the message.

Grace,

I've been following you online and saw your post last week. I'm sorry you’re lonely. I am too. All I want is someone I can love and who will love me back. Is that too much to ask? Sigh. Your profile says you’re fifteen, which is just a year younger than me. Can we set up a chat? I want to get to know you, and maybe we can help each other.

Max

With an eye roll, my fingers fly across the keyboard as I set up searches and various algorithms to find this Max kid. I hit Enter, sending the machines whirring to life, finding all the information I need based off the parameters I gave it.

Less than ten seconds later, what I suspected is confirmed. Max is not sixteen but a forty-two-year-old married man in Kansas, and from a few other hits the search pulled, my fake Grace isn't the only underage girl he's reached out to.

In here, I don't conceal the disgust written on my scrunched face as I press a few more keys. All of Max's information, the details of what and who he’s been contacting, is packaged in an email and on its way to a coworker in the FBI. I'm just a contractor, not much I can do with the 'freelance' predators I find, but they can. This Max character might come back to me at some point to track down further, but right now it's in the FBI's hands to determine if a crime has been committed or not.

Scrolling through the other fake women, I add a few messages here and there to their social media accounts just to keep up pretenses. If someone’s monitoring these profiles, it would be obvious if all the women stopped posting the same day.

Shifting my attention to the fake woman who the general expects in two weeks, I stare at the profile I created. It looks enough like me that they won't question it once I'm over there, but still different enough, especially with my dark makeup. Faith’s a twenty-year-old blonde-haired, blue-eyed, thin-framed girl who’s been secluded on a farm most of her life. No family. No friends. Looking for a place in this world. Oh, and the stupid virgin part.

It won't be hard to morph into this woman. A few tweaks here and there. The no friends or family part is something I won't have to fake.

So there you have it. I'm now virgin Faith, and in two weeks I'm set to fly to Africa to meet my new husband.

The thought sends a sinister smile across my face.

The bastard has no idea how ready I am to finally meet him.