Kill for Me by Karen Rose

She was going to see justice done, no matter how high the cost.
    The cost would be very high indeed, but the return had dropped substantially. This morning she’d been prepared to see several men sitting at the defendant’s table. Now, after the dust had settled, there would be only one. Mayor Garth Davis was the sole survivor of Simon’s club. Only one man would face those whose lives he’d ruined.
    Only one. But the cost had not dwindled an iota. Her life, her job . . . all would be forever changed. Still, she would testify, for the fifteen other rape victims whose lives might have been spared such pain had she spoken sooner. For the five girls Luke had found dead in that bunker, and for the ones who were still missing. For the Jane Doe who’d looked up at her like she was God. And for you, too, Susannah?
    “Yes,” she murmured. “For me, too.” For my self-respect. I want my self-respect.
    “Excuse me. May I sit here?”
    Susannah looked up at a tall woman with dark hair and intense eyes, carrying a purse the size of Susannah’s briefcase. The chapel was empty except for the two of them. There were many other seats. Susannah opened her mouth to say no, but something about the woman’s eyes stopped her. Perhaps she needs company, Susannah thought, and silently nodded her assent.
    The scent of peaches tickled Susannah’s nose as the woman sat and settled her purse on her lap. She was familiar, somehow. I’ve met her before .
    “You are a Catholic?” the woman asked, surprise in her thickly accented voice.
    Susannah followed the woman’s gaze to the rosary she clutched in her own hands. “Yes.” Much to her parents’ chagrin, which had been the original point years ago. “I found the rosary up by the podium. I didn’t think anyone would mind if I used it.”
    “You’ll take one of mine,” the woman pronounced, digging in her enormous purse. “I have extra.” She was Eastern European. Or . . . Greek . Okay. Now it made sense.
    “You’re Mrs. Papadopoulos,” Susannah murmured. Luke’s mother. “You came to my parents’ funeral.”
    “I did.” She took the borrowed rosary from Susannah’s hand and replaced it with her own. “You’ll call me Mama Papa. Everyone does.”
    One side of Susannah’s mouth lifted. Somehow she couldn’t see Luke’s mother taking no for an answer on anything. “Thank you.”
    “You are welcome.” Mrs. Papadopoulos drew a second rosary from her purse and began to pray. “Do you not pray for your brother?” she asked abruptly.
    Susannah dropped her gaze. “Of course.” But she hadn’t been, not really. She’d been praying for the strength to do what needed to be done. No matter what the cost.
    “Daniel is out of danger,” Mrs. Papadopoulos told her. “He will be all right.”
    Thank you. Her heart whispered the prayer her mind would not allow. “Thank you,” she murmured to Luke’s mother, still feeling the woman’s probing stare.
    “Complicated,” the woman finally muttered. “So why are you really here, Susannah?”
    Susannah frowned. Nosy woman. “Because it was quiet. I needed to think.”
    “About?”
    She looked up, her eyes cool. “It’s not really your business, Mrs. Papadopoulos.”
    She expected the woman to flounce away. Instead she smiled, gently. “I know. I ask anyway. Daniel is my family. You are Daniel’s family.” She shrugged. “So I ask.”
    Sudden tears burned at Susannah’s eyes and again she dropped her gaze. Her throat grew thick, but the words seemed to bubble up. “I’m at a crossroads.”
    “Life is full of crossroads.”
    “I know. But this one is a big one.” It’s my life, my career. My dreams .
    Mrs. Papadopoulos seemed to consider this. “So you came to church.”
    “No, I actually came here because it was quiet.” She’d escaped here. She’d done so once before, escaping to a church after she’d committed a deed so contemptible . . .
    She’d hated herself then, had been too ashamed even to