The phone in my pocket buzzed with a familiar ringtone—the one I'd set just for her.
She remembered.
I answered. "Hi, Mama."
"Hi, Junebug," she said. I resisted the teenage urge to roll my eyes at the nickname.
"How was your day at work?"
"Fine. And the real reason you're calling? That's fine too," I said quickly.
"Are you sure, honey? I could take you to the cemetery, we could—"
"Really, Brenda, it's fine," I said, accidentally using her name—like I had the first time we met.
"June?" Her voice softened. "Honey, you don't have to do this alone. You know the press—"
"It's going to be okay, Mama," I said, trying to reassure her. "Have you finished knitting that tent of yours yet?"
A beat of silence, then strained laughter. "Still working on it. And it's going to be a sweater. You'll see."
"I have to go now," I told her, keeping my voice steady.
"Be careful out there, Junebug. Call me when you get home. Or, if you want, you could come have supper here?"
"Sure," I said, touched. "I'll be by at six. Bye, Mama."
Brenda hadn't let me go into the foster system. I think she understood what that felt like—being lost in it—since she'd grown up in it herself. She always said she knew from the moment she saw me: I was her miracle, too. She'd tried for a child for years, but it wasn't in the cards.
"Heaven gave me my baby girl when it sent you," she used to say at bedtime, kissing my forehead and whispering, "My baby Junebug."
Brenda was the best thing that happened to me after the murders. It took years before I started calling her Mama. She never asked me to, but the look on her face the first time I did was unforgettable.
So I kept saying it, just to see her smile.
When I told her I wanted to become a police officer, she was nervous.
"A lot of people will know who you are, my little Junebug," she warned me.
But she stood by me through the academy and cried at my graduation with all the other proud moms. Even if we look nothing alike, even if people still get confused when they see us together, Brenda is the only person I've ever truly trusted.
There were press at the cemetery, though fewer than usual. It wasn't a milestone anniversary. I stopped counting after the fifteen-year mark.
I carried five red roses—one for each of them.
As soon as they saw me—still in my work clothes, carrying the flowers—they swarmed.
"June Morgan, how do you feel knowing your family's murder is still a cold case?"
"What's it like working for the same force that failed to protect your family?"
"Do you feel betrayed?"
And on it went.
"No comment," I murmured, carefully neutral. Even my tone could give them something to twist.
I kept walking, ignoring them as best I could, until I reached the grand memorial that all those donation dollars had paid for. A bench. A tree. A headstone surrounded by flowers and half-soaked teddy bears. People still visited—tourists to tragedy.
"I politely request you allow me to grieve in peace," I said quietly. I didn't dare let my anger show.
They backed off. I waited, glaring until they were out of earshot.
Then I knelt and placed the first rose."Victoria."
I closed my eyes and tried to remember her face. It got harder each year. All of them were fading—blurring together in memory.
I wiped away a tear and continued."Olivia.""Gabriel.""Mom.""Dad."
I gathered the roses and arranged them in a vase, then checked to be sure the press hadn't crept back. Satisfied, I pressed a hand to the cold stone, leaned forward until my lips nearly touched it.
"I will get revenge for you," I whispered.
I kissed the stone and imagined it warm.
Then I stood and began to pace, circling the site three times. I tidied as I went—pulling a weed here, fixing a stone there. I gathered up the soggiest offerings and threw them away.
Let the press write about the diligent grieving daughter if they wanted.
When I was done, I turned and left them to their sleep.
The last image I had of them—lying dead on the floor—was still the clearest. I tried to replace it with something gentler. In my mind, I tucked them under sheets instead of body bags. Called them blankets instead of death shrouds.
The tears came before I'd fully cleared the press, but I held my head high.
I pretended everything was fine.
But inside me, the old rage had started to boil again.
It was time.
Time to kill again.