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I love running. I always have as far back as I can remember. Of course, it was difficult to do in a lot of the places I've been. In the orphanage I was only able to run around a fairly small enclosed lot and then only every so often (I was sent to the shrink once because that's all I did with my recess; the shrink didn't understand but then shrinks never do). In the foster homes and group homes, it was better; the foster parents didn't really care what you did as long as you were out of their hair and the group homes would allow you some free time every day. The best though, other than being an adult, was in the halfway houses; in there you were pretty much on your own as long as you checked in regularly.

When I'm running, I'm free. I know that sounds simple, but it's really pretty profound. I'm free to move, to think, to just be. I have no masters, no responsibilities, no demands; it's just me -- putting one foot in front of the other -- and the road.

I let my mind wander when I'm running; my body already knows what to do, so it keeps itself out of the way. I run in the early morning, so I usually think of the day before and put it behind me and look at what I need to do in the day ahead. The physical exhaustion, the sweat, the regularity of the pace, the soft, rhythmic sounds of shoes slapping pavement or dirt or grass or even just the ground; it sooths me and comforts me and allows me a time where actions don't much intrude on thought.

This morning was slightly different. I have to admit there was some anticipation of what was to come. It was Wednesday and all the weeks and months of preparation and fact-checking and planning were finally coming to fruition. Finally, what had started in shocked dismay and gradually changed to disbelief and then rage would at long last be revenged. I tried to force my mind to keep that same distance as when I always ran, to let it float outside of me and think what it wished, but the expectation of what was to come kept intruding and ultimately was too much.

The anticipation was like a bubble inside of me trying to rise out. Even as my feet ate up chunks of packed dirt, I was eager to get this behind me. I was eager for the day to commence, to finally see what I had worked for these past few months. I wanted nothing more than to jump into the air and fling myself forward in time to the point where I could finally feel the satisfaction of knowing my plot had worked.

I knew I had to wait ... but waiting was killing me. I knew that it was going to be hours before I'd know anything, hours before Amber and her family discovered the things I'd done. I almost laughed at the thought; they'd gone to bed the night before – maybe Amber had even spent an especially tender night fucking her brother – not knowing what was going to happen. It felt good to think of them like that ... fucking ... unsuspecting ... without a care in the world. It was over for them wasn't it? They'd won. They were living my life, a life stolen from me, a happiness and peace that had been ripped from my heart. Peaceful. Serene. Not fucking knowing of the hell that was going to start today.

I imagined Amber, the woman I loved, lying next to her brother. Just a hint of light – a night light or maybe a dull lamp, Amber never did like fucking in total darkness – caressing each other, sharing their day just as Amber and I had lain at night long ago, sharing our lives – or most of our lives, the fucking, lying cunt. I imagined Amber stroking him as she had stroked me all those times, Dave's cock slowly hardening at her touch. Maybe she'd pulled it out, Dave groaning as her hand grasped it, the groans turning to a throaty moan as Amber settled her lips over his head. I almost laughed as I thought of him pumping into her mouth, his actions becoming hectic as he neared his release.

Amber was a vixen, though; she wasn't ready for her lover to spend himself so soon. No, she released him and settled over him, the head of his cock, still dripping with her saliva, settling into the runny pit of her sex. I saw it then, as she lowered herself, her body hopping up and down his rigid cock. She'd go for a while, bringing her brother to the edge before pulling off and surprising him by thrusting his cock up her ass. That's right, finally, with everything behind them, she'd give Dave the one thing she'd never given me – her ass. I reveled in the initial pain as she rode him, his cock emerging and burying into her ass.

That was last night. That was their last night of total freedom. The reprieve I'd granted them was at an end. Steal my life. Steal my heart. They didn't kill me, though ... and that was their biggest fucking mistake.

Hell. Today, they faced Hell.

I can't imagine what someone driving down the street might have thought of me. I knew the grin on my face was maniacal ... evil, even. Fuck them. I didn't care. Today ... finally, today ... I was going to get mine.

I turned the corner, Jean's parent's house perhaps a mile away, and it was if that corner wasn't only physical but mental as well. From one moment to the next my anger soothed and I began to feel shame. Shame not of what I had done – it HAD to be done – but shame at the revelry I felt. I didn't feel tired; I felt elated. Was this how it was supposed to be? Was I this person? I'd done my damnedest to make them pay. I'd laid out my revenge carefully, allowing nothing to chance. I was reveling in that revenge; was this who I'd become? Was I destined to be this bitter human being, revenging myself on all who I felt did me wrong?

Emotions are a fickle thing. They come and go, come and go. Don't get me wrong, I was in no way sorry for what I'd done. I would NEVER be sorry. Amber and Dave deserved this and more. I knew that. They deserved a hell-storm and I could only hope that that is what they would get. I could only hope that they could get even the smallest part of the pain I'd endured the past three months.

I couldn't, however, keep living this. The rage was eating me up. It was turning me into a crazy, evil person. No, they fucking deserved what was coming today ... but this was the beginning of the end. It HAD to be the beginning of the end. If it wasn't ... then maybe I was better off just ending it all because I could never live as the person I was becoming.

And I loved myself too much to just end it all.

That thought sobered me just a bit. I had never been suicidal. In the pit of my deepest despair at the orphanage, finally realizing that I was stuck with what I had, that no one was coming to rescue me, I had come close but never fallen off the edge of that particular cliff. I wouldn't let that fucking cunt and her dick-less brother change me. Not now. Not ever. If I changed, if I became suicidal or this evil, uncaring person – then they'd win, no matter what I did to them.

I was still elated as I turned onto Jean's street. I was still looking forward to my revenge, still smiling at the shit that was coming for Amber and Dave. The smile, though, was tempered. I would enjoy this moment, this day. I would enjoy Amber and Dave's coming pain. I would keep true to myself during that enjoyment, though. I would not fall off the edge.

I could just make out a figure on the porch as the house came clearer into view. Jean was waiting for me, huddled within the terry cloth of her robe.

"You'd better come inside," she said quietly as I stood panting before the stairs. There was a seriousness to her words, an intensity that was both strange and familiar. I'd seen Jean like this once before when we'd lost a contract I'd worked hard on.

"What's up?" I asked, gasping for breath.

"Just ... come in," she said simply and walked into the house.

They were all waiting for me in the living room, the television on, some female reporter blathering on about something. I joined them but nobody paid much attention to me, though I did get a startled look from Rachel and a twisted, disgusted look from Anderson. They were all busy staring intently at the television. It wasn't until then that I actually heard what was being said.

" ... billboards erected in various places throughout the city and in a neighboring suburb. Though the nudity is blacked out, it shows in graphic detail two lovers purported to be a brother and sister in the midst of making love and also indicates that the two of them have a child together; the paper in the lower right corner is a facsimile of a paternity test and our medical expert does confirm that the paternity test shows a child that is the product of incest. The two alleged lovers are listed as Amber and Dave Creston, who are brother and sister. Amber Creston is the ex-wife of prominent businessman Marc Breuster and Dave Creston is married to Madelaine Angov-Creston."

"A call to Midtown Outdoor Media spokesperson Irene Falvio indicates that the billboards were legitimately rented," the blonde reporter continued. "Citing confidentiality laws, however, she would not go on record as to who rented the billboards. When we contacted Police Chief Otis Black, he had this to say."

The scene cut to a large black man, dressed in the navy blue police uniform. "The Police Department, in cooperation with Family Services, is investigating the allegations brought to light by these billboards. We have discussed the situation with the Attorney General's office who is also interested in this investigation. The billboards themselves, however, while in poor taste, have not broken any decency laws and are, therefore, legal."

"I've just received a report," the reporter cut back in, "that representatives of Child Protective Services, accompanied by two uniformed police officers, have arrived at the listed residence of David and Madelaine Creston. We have channel five reporter Thomas Verwink on the scene. Tom?"

"Thanks Grace," the scene cut to a tall man in suit and tie and I could just make out Dave and Maddy's house behind him. "About 30 minutes ago, a man and woman reportedly from Child Protective Services and accompanied by two police officers arrived on the scene and entered the house. We haven't heard ... wait! There's activity at the door ... yes ... I think someone is coming out..."

I didn't hear much after that. A short, hefty black woman walked across the porch carrying a screaming Michael, his hands reaching back for Amber, who was being held back by the police officers. You could tell she was in tears, trying to push against the officers to get at her son.

I thought I'd have a certain feeling of satisfaction at my dreams come to life. I thought I'd feel a little elated watching Amber's life break down into ruin. I admit I did feel a kind of weight lessening on my shoulders ... but mixed in with that wasn't the justification I was looking for. In fact, I didn't really feel anything. All there was, all that was inside me, was ... emptiness.

I watched Michael, crying, struggling towards his mother, and the scene filled me with something I hadn't expected. Sadness. Pity. A cold shiver of remorse. Michael didn't deserve this. Michael didn't deserve to cry. He had no say in who his parents were. He was an innocent; he didn't deserve to have his life ripped apart.

The scene cut to Amber, tears streaming down her face, a face twisted in the horror of losing her child. It was easy to see she was heart-broken, beaten. It was easy to see the pain and agony she was in as the most dear thing in the world was taken away from her.

Good. I almost smiled. It serves the fucking bitch right. Rip her fucking life from her as she ripped mine from me. Finally, the feeling of satisfaction I had been looking for tore through me. Finally, the feeling of justification and joy coursed through my blood. Finally, I felt good about this ... but in a hollow way. It wasn't the unbridled bliss I had thought I'd find.

Then the scene cut back to Michael, screaming as he was forced into the car ... and the feeling changed. Now there was true remorse. Now I was truly and completely sorry for what I'd done. I should have found a way to leave Michael out of this. I should have found a way to punish Amber and Dave – and, to a lesser extent, Maddy – without Michael having to be involved. I should have...

The walls were closing in on me again and my vision was growing dark. Everything seemed to be as in a tunnel only the very center of which was clear. I was choking, unable to even breathe. Without a thought, without apology I walked outside. Once again, I grasped the railing but this time there was no strength to my hands. What the fuck had I done? How could I live with myself knowing the pain I'd caused that little boy?

"Are you okay?" I heard Jean's soft voice behind me.

"Yes," I responded. "No. I don't know."

I turned to the woman behind me. I was shocked to feel wet trails down my cheeks. "How can you fucking stand to be near me? Knowing what I did to Michael?"

"Because of this," she replied. "Because of how you're feeling right now. Because you can hate yourself for what you did to Michael."

Hate myself? I realized she was right. I did hate myself. I should never have involved Michael in this plot. I should have found a way to keep him away from all this. Instead, I'd thrust him into my scheme as just another pawn on my path to revenge.

Amber? She deserved everything I could dish out, the cunt. Dave? He deserved everything I could throw at him. Maddy? She wasn't as culpable, but there was enough blame to throw around; she knew about the two of them and let it continue. My soul cankered with the need to lash out at them.

Michael? Not so much. He'd done nothing to elicit my wrath except ... be my son. Fall asleep lying on top of me, his little head on my chest, his arms around me, hugging me even in his sleep. Play blocks with me, toss the ball with me, swing on a swing as I pushed him, smile and laugh as I tickled him. No matter that it wasn't biological ... he WAS my son. I'd lived with him as my son for three years, loved him as my son ... I couldn't just turn that off. There was no magic wand I could wave to NOT make him my son.

I bent and cried, my body wracked in spasms. It was not only remorse at what I'd done but the knowledge of what I'd lost. It was a wailing cry at the sudden epiphany of all that had been taken from me. It was a crushing emptiness at what that fucking bitch had ripped from my heart.

I looked up at Jean; I needed her to understand. "I'm not sorry about Amber. I'm not sorry about taking her life away from her. She took mine first; we're even. I shouldn't have involved Michael; I feel like such a shit of a human being for allowing him to feel this way ... but I'll gladly go to hell before I feel an ounce of remorse for that ... that ... WHORE and her fucking brother..."

"I know," Jean said, sympathy and understanding on her face. "I..."

"Jeanie, get inside," her father said as he came out on the porch. His face was stern, even stoic.

"Daddy, I..." she started again.

"NOW, Jeanie," he said, his voice steel. I couldn't tell if he was angry or upset ... only that, whatever he was, he was serious about it.

He stared at me, his eyes never leaving my face, as he waited for his daughter to re-enter the house. Under the scrutiny of that glare, I found the strength to stand. Better to face him as a man than a crumbling fool. It wasn't until the door had closed behind her that he even bothered to talk to me. "I've got to bale some hay out in the east meadow while the weather holds. I figure I could use a hand."

There was no question there, just a demand for obedience. What could I do? I felt almost like a punished child but there was no way to peacefully ignore his edict ... so I followed him to the old, gray and white pickup truck and climbed into the passenger seat.

The ride was silent; almost eerily silent. Neither of us said a word. I'm not sure what the older man was thinking but I was fairly certain I shouldn't intrude upon it. Was he going to ask me to leave? Was he going to tell me, in no uncertain terms, that I'd lost a friend and administrative assistant? Was he going to try to forbid me from seeing his daughter?

"Did you get what you wanted?" he asked suddenly as he climbed onto the bailer. It was the first words he'd said since we left the house. When we'd arrived, he'd just exited the car silently, expecting me to follow, and walked up to the large tractor sitting on a path near his fields.

"Sir?" I asked from the foot of the small ladder leading up.

"Come on up, son," Davis called. His tone was firm and I found myself starting up the ladder before I even actually thought about it. I marveled at that for a moment; in the outer world, I was a multi-million dollar businessman capable of charming the CEOs' of the most affluent companies in the world but here, in this place, I was nothing more than a little kid again.

"I asked if you got what you wanted?" he repeated, his face set. His blue eyes had a grayish tinge to them but they were firm and unblinking, measuring me. I wasn't sure I measured up.

"What you done to your wife ... ex-wife ... is your business and none of mine," he continued before I could answer, shaking his head while keeping his eyes directly on me. "My business is what you do to my daughter. I won't see her get hurt, no matter how in love with you she is." He stopped, letting his words soak in for a moment. "Now, I know ... well, I know more'n I should. I know that my daughter's ... hell, all my daughters'... 'situations' are mighty similar to those of your ex-wife. Maybe Ellie and I raised 'em wrong. Maybe we should a put a stop to it long ago ... but we didn't see any harm in what they was doing then and we don't now. Our job is just to keep them safe even through decisions that we might see as wrong or bad. To that end, we're certainly not going to let you hurt them."

He knew. He knew the secret that Jean shared with her sisters. He knew that I had engineered this vendetta against my ex-wife. He knew ... and he wanted reassurance that I didn't have Jean and her sisters in the cross-hairs. A part of me could see his point.

How to re-assure him, though? How could I possibly explain why I'd done what I'd done? How could I show him that I didn't care who Jean slept with – not NOW, at any rate – what I cared about was honesty? What I needed was the truth; not to have my eyes blinded by what I wanted to be but opened to what truly was. How could I explain that the pain and rage I felt wasn't directed at my wife's relationship with her brother but rather that she'd kept it from me, never giving me a chance to form an opinion of it? How could I let him know that the deepest cut of all was that I'd been lured into believing I was finally part of a family, something I desperately wanted with every fiber of my being, only to have it ripped from me in single moment?

The bailer was loud, but I was louder. I'm not a person who opens up; I don't share what's inside. Oh, I'll share my life, things that happened, but not how I feel – at least, not easily. Amber had been there, at one time. I'd trusted her enough to let her into my world – but that was, seemingly, long ago ... long past. I opened the door to this man. I didn't open it wide, I didn't share my soul ... but I shared what I had felt for Amber, what I'd lived for, why the pain she caused me was so raw. This was important – to him, to Jean, maybe even to Ellen – so I did what I had trained myself my whole life to do. I took a chance. Not a big one ... but hopefully enough.

He listened, though I'm not certain exactly how well he heard me above the bailer. I told him the events that led up to today. I told him about the emptiness of being an orphan, the bliss of thinking I was part of a family for once, and the utter rage and desolation I felt when I'd found it was a lie. There were things I held back – there always are, we can't fully share ourselves with anyone I don't think – but I shared what I could. I just had to hope it was enough.

We were down on the ground; the bailer was full and the rounded, 1,400 pound bail had to be released so we could start again. I found the quiet, broken only by the throaty purr of the tractor idling, to be momentous somehow. I felt a pressure of expectation, worry, unease. I wasn't sure if I'd gotten through. I wasn't sure if Davis could ever fully understand what it meant for me to have been cut out of family life as I had; to be lied to about the one thing above all others that was important to me. I wasn't sure I was capable of truly conveying the cold years of being an orphan and how I felt even colder now, having lived as if I were in a family, being shown the love and joys I might have had, and having that taken away.

The vile stench of rage boiled up at those thoughts. Rage at what Amber had done to me and rage at having to explain my revenge. I wanted redemption, wanted Amber and Dave to feel as bad as they had made me feel. Only the picture in my mind of Amber, arms out-stretched, face consumed in pain as she reached towards Michael ... only that image and the sense of satisfaction it brought allowed me to fight back that insane anger.

"Son," he started, looking at me; then he looked away, his face speculative. Finally, he turned to me again, a sincere, resolute look on his face. "I'm not sure I agree with what you done. I understand it; I'm just not sure I agree with it. However, it isn't my place to say what's right and what isn't; I ain't you, so I can't say what's right for you."

"All I'm concerned with is my dauther," he continued, his eyes bright and sincere. "I can't pretend to know you based on just the past few days; but I do know my daughter and I know what she thinks of you. For now, that has to be enough. I'm hoping she isn't making a mistake ... but we all have to make some mistakes in our life. I just want you to know ... if you treat my daughter like you treated your ex-wife, I'll end you. Make no mistake about it. I'm not bragging and I ain't threatening; I'm telling you what is. If you treat my daughter like she deserves to be treated ... then you and I will never have a problem. Agreed?" He held is hand out to me.

"I need you to understand," I replied evenly, looking Davis right in the eye. I was being offered a reprieve but it wasn't worth anything if I didn't accept it on my terms with BOTH parties aware of the consequences. "I'm not sorry for what I've done. In my mind, my ex-wife and her brother deserve more pain and suffering than I'm capable of giving them. I don't think you should hold a steak just out of reach of a starving man; that's just cruel and inhuman. I honestly believe, though, that's what Amber and David did." I took his hand and shook it before he could pull it away. "I will treat your daughter well. I'll treat her like she deserves to be treated. You have to know, though, that I treated Amber how I felt she deserved to be treated ... both when we were married and when I found out that the marriage was a sham."

He looked at me and nodded. "Then, I don't think we'll have any problems. I don't think Jean is capable of treating you like your ex-wife done."

"What are you two talking about," Jean said breathlessly. Between our talk and the idling tractor, I hadn't heard her coming up. She was wearing a long sleeve, blue plaid shirt opened in the front on a red, knit t-shirt and a pair of faded jeans that accentuated the curve of her hips and legs. Even now, dressed down, she still was beautiful enough to make my heart beat faster and my breath catch in my throat.

"Nothing much, sweet pea," her dad smiled at her. "We was just discussing how the bailer works and how we're going to get the hay out of the trap. Wanna give me a hand? Nothing against the city boy, here, but they don't know beans about how to make this machinery work."

Jean just laughed at me, but her laugh was hesitant and wasn't touching her eyes. Her eyes were worried and haunted. "Sure, dad ... let me show this big man how it's done."

They were struggling with the bail release when it happened. The catch suddenly released and Davis grabbed Jean's arm between her shoulder and elbow to stop her from falling. "OW!" Jean cried, pulling away and falling, her hand rubbing lightly at her arm.

Davis was immediately concerned. "What happened, sweet pea? You hurt?"

"No," Jean said quickly ... too quickly. "I must have just slept wrong or something."

One of the side effects of being on the wrong side of the window is that you become a bit of a people watcher; at least, that's what I did. I watched people to understand them, to understand their happiness, their sense of family. I watched people because it felt good to pretend to be in their shoes, living their lives, with their wives or husbands and 2.5 kids and dogs and cats and everything else that goes along with being in a family.

Watching people is what makes me good at what I do. It helps me when I'm negotiating a contract, knowing when the person across the table from me has given up all he can and when he's lying about being limited to only so many funds or so much time. It helps me when I'm hiring people, knowing when a potential employee is as hard a worker as they say they are and when they're full of shit. It helps me in my job, to quickly point out the dead weight of a project and whom I can trust to go to the mats with me.

Those instincts, developed over a lifetime of watching people, were screaming at me now. They put together every scrap of information I'd unconsciously noticed since Jean had joined her father and I; her worried, haunted eyes, her unusually timid demeanor, her hesitant laugh. Jean was hiding something, something that bothered her fundamentally. I was sure of it.

"Why don't you go rub some linament on it?" her father smiled as we helped her up, her father grabbing one hand and I the other. I noticed, though, the slight flinch as we assisted her to her feet; more fuel for my subconscious. I became convinced that something had happened, something she didn't want either me or her father to know, something that had hurt her physically.

"Okay," she replied, smiling. Once again, though, her smile never touched her eyes.

"Take the city boy with ya," the older man said, turning to me with a twinkle in his eye. His smile gave me a slight feeling of relief; it was the first smile he'd shown towards me this morning. "He isn't nearly as much help as I thought he'd be."

For the second time today, I was taking an eerily silent car ride. We'd made some small talk getting into Jean's SUV, but I could tell that Jean was distracted so I'd remained mostly quiet on the bumpy ride in from the fields. I'm not sure Jean even noticed my silence she was so wrapped up in her own thoughts. I just kept a watch out the window, the brown, bare earth fields obscured now and then by wisps of the dust and dirt we were kicking up behind us.

It wasn't until we were almost to the house that Jean said anything at all. "I don't..." she began hesitantly before stopping, the SUV itself slowing to a stop. A second later she turned to me and continued, her voice a bit stronger. "Why don't we ride into town? I know we've got a date tonight but ... I'm feeling a bit cooped up right now. We can go, maybe get an early lunch. My treat?"

I shrugged at her and smiled. "Sure. Why not?"

She smiled at me ... but it was a wan, small smile and it still didn't quite make it to her eyes.

"So, do you want to talk about it?" I asked after we'd pulled onto the road leading into town.

"About what?" she asked, her voice neutral. "You told me what you had planned but ... It was one thing to hear it and another to watch it." She shrugged her shoulders. "It ... honestly, it didn't bother me that much."

"Then what's bothering you?" I asked, turning towards her.

She glanced at me and then looked quickly away. "Nothing's bothering me," she said, flashing a smile at me. "I just needed to get out of the house."

"Really?" I asked rhetorically. "Then what's this about?" I lightly touched her arm above the elbow and she flinched away.

"Nothing!" She said though her voice was upset. "It's like I told my dad, I must have slept on it wrong or something."

"Jean," I said quietly. "Your dad grabbed the other arm ... and there's no way you can sleep wrong on BOTH arms. What's going on?"

"Nothing, Marc," she said, shooting me an innocent look. Still, there was something around her eyes... "Maybe I hurt them cutting vegetables or something."

I was silent for a few minutes, lost in thought. I didn't want to alienate her but it was obvious to me that something was troubling her ... something even beyond my revenge scheme. It was a feeling I had, a feeling filtered through the myriad prisms of my perception. There was something more here; Jean was in pain, both physical and mental, and I needed to find out why.

"Jean," I said, as we pulled into the parking lot of the diner. "I don't mean to pry and, if you don't want to tell me, that's fine. There's something really bugging you, though. Maybe ... if you let it out ... maybe just ... talking to someone can help."

She bowed her heads at my words, the car turned off, the keys jingling where her hands worried at them in her lap. "Am I that freaking obvious?" she murmured. "I thought I was hiding it better."