Chapter 3

Mark's luxury SUV ate up the miles of Oregon highway.

Jessica was in the passenger seat, reapplying lipstick in the vanity mirror.

I sat in the back, Chloe's urn on my lap.

The radio crackled.

"...escaped from the Oregon State Mental Health Center earlier today. The patient, Emily Carter, 26, is considered extremely dangerous. She was committed twelve years ago following a violent incident... diagnosed with Intermittent Explosive Disorder and severe PTSD. If you see this woman, do not approach. Call 911 immediately."

A grainy photo of me from my intake file flashed on the small infotainment screen.

Jessica glanced back, a flicker of unease in her eyes. "She kinda looks like you, Emily. Creepy."

Mark snorted. "Don't be ridiculous, Jess. Just some loony. This world's full of them." He didn't even look at the screen.

The SUV turned off the main road, onto a long, unpaved track.

The "Purification Farm" was a collection of dilapidated buildings surrounded by a high, barbed-wire fence. It looked more like a forgotten prison camp.

Two rough-looking men in greasy overalls met us at the gate. Their eyes, dull and predatory, lingered on me.

"This the new one?" one of them asked Mark, spitting tobacco juice near my feet.

"Yeah. She needs a strong hand. Like her sister did," Mark said, his voice cold. He gave them a thick envelope.

The men grinned, showing yellowed teeth.

Mark gestured to me. "Get out."

I stepped out of the car, still holding the urn.

The two men flanked me. One of them, burly with a beer gut, leered. "We remember your sister. She was a screamer."

The other one dangled a pair of heavy leather restraints. "She learned her lesson, though. Too late, maybe."

They chuckled.

They thought I was Chloe. Or just another broken girl to torment.

My face was blank.

They led me towards a grim, windowless shed.

The beer-bellied one grabbed my arm. "Let's get you settled in, sweetheart."

His touch was like a lit match to gasoline.

My free hand shot out, fingers stiffened, striking his throat.

A sickening crunch.

His eyes widened in shock, a gurgle escaping his lips as he clawed at his neck and collapsed.

The other man stared, momentarily frozen.

He fumbled for something at his belt – a taser, maybe.

Too slow.

I slammed Chloe's urn into his temple. The ceramic shattered, ashes and bone fragments exploding in a dusty cloud.

He dropped like a stone.

The ashes settled around me, a pale shroud on the muddy ground.

I looked at my hands. Strong. Capable.

My father, before he died in a 'work accident,' used to take me to watch him train. Underground places. The smell of sweat and blood. He never taught me directly, but I watched. I learned.

The trauma, the years of suppressed rage, had twisted those memories into something else. A survival instinct. A weapon.

I picked up a fallen piece of the urn. Chloe.

A guttural sound, almost a sob, tore from my throat.

Then, a cold calm settled over me.

There were more of them inside the main building. I could hear their coarse laughter.

I found a can of gasoline and a lighter in a nearby toolshed.

The old wooden structures of the "Purification Farm" went up like a tinderbox.

Flames licked the sky, painting it orange and black.

The screams from inside were music.