I replayed the scene in my mind, over and over, like a nightmare that refused to fade with waking. The cruel laughter, the indifference, the slap of the water as it closed over her head. Each memory fueled the fire within me, a fire fed by long-buried embers stoked back to life by the callousness of those who should have been her family.

The phone in my hand buzzed again, jarring me from my thoughts. I glanced at the screen—*Unknown Number*—and a steely resolve settled over me as I answered.

“Is it done?” I asked, my voice a whisper in the stillness of the room.

“Consider it handled,” my brother replied, his voice as calm and cold as the night air. “They won’t know what hit them.”

I ended the call, a sense of grim satisfaction replacing the helplessness that had threatened to swallow me whole. I knew what he meant. Justice, in our family, took many forms. My brother was the kind of man who understood the nuances of vengeance, who could make those who wronged us understand the depths of their mistakes without ever laying a finger on them himself.