One Month Later

Skeletal remains of a teenage girl turned up yesterday.

The news article said the bones showed evidence of violent stabbing and the remains had been dissolved in acid. The police were still waiting on DNA to identify the body, but I know in my gut it's Emily.

She kept her promise and said goodbye to me, but that's the last time I heard from her. She didn't call, didn't text. She probably changed her number so she couldn't be found because my messages all bounced back. She deleted all her social media accounts, so I didn't hear from her on Facebook or Twitter either. I knew it was best that way, but that didn't make it feel any better. I kept clinging to hope, though, that one day she'd find a way to tell me that she was safe, that she'd found her father and they were living happily as a family again. That dream kept me going.

Now, I know the reason I haven't heard from her is because she's dead.

She warned me that he'd kill her. I should have tried harder to stop her. I should have gone with her, protected her. I should have done something...

Reasonably, I know I'm only a teenager, a hundred pounds soaking wet, and what could I really have done against a full-grown man armed with a knife, set on seeing her dead? I'd probably be dead too, if I'm being honest. But at least I'd have tried...instead, I just let her walk out of my life and into his blade.

I can't undo that, can never make up for it, but I can make sure the bastard that murdered her, that robbed her of her innocence, that made her life a living hell, gets everything he deserves and more...

I find Ian Doyle in auto shop, fixing up a rusted out something or other car. He's smoking and wearing a patched leather jacket, looking like a 1950's greaser, but for his prematurely greying hair. I still don't get what Emily sees – saw – in him.

I clear my throat once, twice, trying to get his attention, but the noise of old engines and the blaring radio drowns out the sound. He turns around sharply, brandishing a wrench, when I eventually tap him on the shoulder. I duck and cover my neck, believing him fully capable of bashing my head in with a shop full of witnesses.

"Relax," he says in a thick Irish brogue, punctuated by a roll of his eyes. "I'm not going to hurt you." He sets down the wrench as if to prove the point. He stares at me for a long moment, sizing me up, even though we both know I'm no threat to him. He flicks ash onto the pavement, then points at me with the cigarette. "Morgan, right? Emily's mentioned you."

I'm surprised by that, but don't say as much.

He stares at me expectantly, if a little annoyed at the interruption, waiting for me to say something, anything.

"Speaking of Emily," I say when I finally find my tongue, hoping I don't sound as nervous as I feel. "You haven't heard from her lately, have you?" I tuck my hands into the pockets of my jeans to hide their trembling. Her ring is still there, I'd forgotten about it until that moment. I make a mental note to get a chain so that I can have a part of her near my heart, always.

He purses his lips, thinking. "Not in about a month. Last we spoke, she was acting kind of strange, flighty. Why?" He narrows his eyes, as if suspicious of my motives.

I don't know what he's thinking, but rush to head off his train of thought anyway, certain it's going nowhere good. "Do you love her?"

"Aye." The answer is immediate and vehement. I'm surprised a second time. Ian Doyle isn't the falling in love type.

"You'd do anything for her? To protect her?" I'm gambling now, acting on a hunch and praying I'm right.

His brow furrows. "Aye..." It's slower, drawn out, wary even.

"I think something's happened to her, something bad. You know the remains they found yesterday? Well, I think they're hers." I have no proof, other than my suspicions, so I'm desperately hoping he'll believe me without much questioning.

"You think I killed her?" he growls and I've never believed him more capable of murder than in that moment.

"No! No, no, no!" My voice is high and warbling. I hold up my hands placatingly and flinch away from his advance. "But I know who did..." I add quietly.

He considers that, me, for a moment, then nods for me to continue.

I pull a letter out of my back pocket and hand it to him, knowing he'll believe Emily's word before mine. "Read this." She'd written a second letter, instructing me to give it to the police if something were to happen to her, but there's only so much they can do within the constrains of the law and jail is too good for the bastard who robbed the world of Emily's light.

I watch his face as he scans the letter, the lines in his prematurely aged face becoming more pronounced the further he gets. His eyes are cold and hard when he looks up and meets my eyes. "This is true?"

"All of it."

"He can't get away with this..." he grinds out and it's positively bone chilling.

"Agreed. She wanted me to give this letter to the police, but I figured that, maybe, since, you know, the rumours, that maybe you knew someone who..." I trail off, shrugging vaguely. I'm trying not to offend him while still getting my point across.

"I won't rest while he still draws breath," he says ominously, clenching a fist around the butt of his cigarette and he must be burning himself, but he doesn't seem to notice or care.

I don't have the chance to reconsider whether this is a good idea, whether this is what she would have wanted, because in the next instant, he's speeding off on his motorcycle without so much as a glance back.