Curtis Patterson had built his life the same way he built furniture—carefully, methodically, with attention to every detail. At 34, he ran a custom woodworking shop in a quiet corner of Portland, creating pieces that people handed down through generations.

His hands, scarred and calloused from years of work, could transform raw lumber into something beautiful. Those same hands had held his son, Aaron, for the first time seven years ago, and Curtis had known then that nothing would ever matter more.

Aaron’s mother, Curtis’s ex-wife, Christine, had left when the boy was two. She’d wanted the city lights of Los Angeles, wanted something more than a craftsman’s modest income could provide.

Curtis had let her go without a fight, keeping Aaron, keeping the life they’d built. Christine sent birthday cards twice a year if he was lucky—never called, never visited.

It didn’t matter. Curtis and Aaron had each other, and that was enough.

Geneva Parsons, Christine’s mother, had been horrified when her daughter left. Unlike Christine, Geneva had seen the value in Curtis—his steadiness, his devotion to Aaron, the quiet strength that kept their small family together.

She’d become more than a mother-in-law. She’d become the grandmother Aaron needed, the maternal presence that filled the void Christine had left.

Every Tuesday and Thursday, Curtis dropped Aaron at Geneva’s house after school. She’d feed him dinner, help with homework, let Curtis work late at the shop when commissions piled up.

Tuesday started like any other. Curtis finished assembling a dining table for a client in Lake Oswego, cleaned his tools, and locked up the shop at 6:30.

The drive to Geneva’s house took 15 minutes through familiar streets lined with maples turning gold in the October dusk. He pulled up to the small craftsman bungalow on Morrison Street, noting Geneva’s car in the driveway.

The porch light was on, warm and welcoming, but the front door stood wide open.

Curtis killed the engine, a cold weight settling in his stomach. Geneva was meticulous about security, about keeping Aaron safe. She’d never leave the door open—especially not with darkness falling.

He climbed out of his truck, his boots heavy on the concrete path leading to the porch.

“Geneva,” he called.

“Aaron.”

Silence answered him. Not the comfortable quiet of an empty house, but something else. Something wrong.

The air felt thick, charged with an absence that made his skin prickle.

Curtis stepped through the doorway.

The living room looked like a tornado had torn through it. The coffee table lay on its side. Geneva’s collection of ceramic figurines was shattered across the hardwood floor.

The couch cushions had been thrown aside, their stuffing pulled out in chunks. Family photos—including the one of Curtis and Aaron from last Christmas—lay scattered, frames cracked, glass glittering like ice.

“Geneva.”

Curtis’s voice came out harder now, edged with fear he couldn’t suppress.

“Aaron, where are you?”

He moved through the house, his heart hammering against his ribs. The kitchen was worse. Drawers had been yanked out and dumped, their contents spilled across the linoleum.

A chair lay broken near the back door. Dark stains marked the floor.

He didn’t want to think about what they might be.

Curtis pulled out his phone with shaking hands and dialed 911.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“I’m at 2847 Morrison Street,” Curtis said. “The house has been broken into. My son was here with his grandmother. They’re gone. The place is destroyed.”

His voice sounded strange to his own ears—too calm, too controlled.

“Sir, are you in the house now?”

“Yes.”

“I need you to leave the premises immediately. Officers are on their way.”

Curtis ignored her. He was already moving down the hallway toward the bedrooms.

“Aaron!” he shouted. “Aaron, if you can hear me, answer me!”

The first bedroom—Geneva’s—looked untouched. The second bedroom, the one where Aaron sometimes napped, had been ransacked.

Toys were scattered everywhere. The small bed was overturned.

The bathroom door at the end of the hall was closed.

Curtis reached for the handle, then stopped. Something primal in his brain screamed at him not to open it, to wait for the police, to turn around and walk away.

But his son might be in there. His son might be hurt, might need him.

He tried the handle.

Locked.

“Sir, the police are three minutes out. Please exit the house.”

The 911 operator’s voice came tiny from the phone, but Curtis barely heard her. He stepped back and kicked the door.

The old wood splintered around the lock, and the door swung inward.

The bathroom was small—just a toilet, sink, and tub with a shower curtain pulled closed. Everything looked normal except for the smell.

Copper.

And something else—something sweet and wrong that made Curtis’s stomach lurch.

He reached for the shower curtain.

The world tilted.

Curtis’s knees gave out, and he caught himself on the sink, his phone clattering to the tile floor. The 911 operator’s voice continued, distant and meaningless.

He couldn’t process what he was seeing—couldn’t make his brain accept it.

Aaron lay in the bathtub, his small body too still, surrounded by water that had turned the wrong color. His Spider-Man shirt—the one Curtis had bought him last month—was torn.

His eyes were closed.

His lips were blue.

Curtis heard a sound, a wounded-animal noise, and realized it was coming from him.

He lunged forward, reaching for his son, but his legs wouldn’t work properly. He collapsed to his knees on the bathroom floor.

And that’s where the police found him three minutes later.

The first officer, a young man named Phil Christian, took one look at Curtis’s face and knew. He spoke into his radio, calling for paramedics, for detectives—his voice professionally calm, even though his hands shook.

The second officer, older and harder-eyed, walked past Curtis to the bathroom.

Officer Christian helped Curtis to his feet, guided him out of the hallway, away from that room.

“Sir, I need you to sit down. Is there someone I can call for you?”

Curtis couldn’t speak. His throat had closed. His chest felt like someone had buried an axe in it.

The older officer emerged from the bathroom. His face was ashen despite years on the force. He met Christian’s eyes and shook his head once—a sharp, final gesture.

“Sir,” Christian said gently, his hand on Curtis’s shoulder. “Sir, we need to sit down. Your son has been…”

Curtis collapsed before he finished the sentence.

The next hours passed in fragments—broken pieces that Curtis’s mind couldn’t fit together into anything coherent.

Paramedics arrived. Detectives arrived. Someone gave him water he couldn’t drink. Someone else asked questions he couldn’t answer.

The house filled with people in uniforms, people with cameras—people who moved through Geneva’s destroyed home with professional efficiency while Curtis sat on the porch steps staring at nothing.

Detective Sarah Goodman introduced herself. She was in her 40s with tired eyes that had seen too much. She sat beside Curtis on the steps, not touching him, giving him space.

“Mr. Patterson, I know this is impossible right now, but I need to ask you some questions.”

Curtis nodded without speaking.

“When did you last see your son?”

“This morning,” he said. His voice sounded like gravel. “I dropped him at school. Geneva picked him up at three like always.”

“And Geneva Parsons is your mother-in-law?”

“Ex-mother-in-law. My ex-wife’s mother.”

“When did you last speak with Mrs. Parsons?”

Curtis tried to think.

“Yesterday. She called to confirm she’d get Aaron today.”

“Did she mention anything unusual? Anyone bothering her? Any problems?”

“No. Nothing.”

Curtis looked at the detective, his mind numb and aching. “Where is she? Where’s Geneva?”

Goodman’s expression tightened.

“We don’t know. Her car is here. Her purse is on the kitchen counter with her phone and wallet, but there’s no sign of her. We’ve issued an alert.”

Curtis’s mind, numb with shock, began to work again slowly, painfully—like gears grinding after years of disuse.

“Someone took her.”

“We don’t know that yet.”

“Someone broke in. They did this to Aaron. They took Geneva.” He looked at the detective. “Why? Why would someone do this?”

Goodman didn’t answer. She couldn’t.

Instead, she asked more questions about Geneva’s life—her friends, her habits.

“Did she have enemies? Financial troubles? A boyfriend?”

That last question made Curtis pause.

“She was seeing someone,” Curtis said slowly. “Dennis… something. Yates, I think. She mentioned him a few months ago. Said they’d been dating.”

Goodman wrote the name down.

“Do you know anything about him?”

“No. Geneva kept her personal life private. I know he was younger than her—maybe late 40s.” Curtis’s voice broke on the last word. “She seemed happy.”

Happy. Geneva had been happy.

And now she was gone, and Aaron was—

He couldn’t finish the thought.

The medical examiner arrived. Curtis watched them carry out a small body bag and felt something inside him shatter completely.

A victim advocate appeared, a kind woman named Robin Underwood, who spoke in soft tones about grief counseling and support groups. Curtis heard none of it.

He sat on the porch steps as night fell completely, as the police continued their work, as his son was taken away to a morgue.

At some point, Detective Goodman returned.

“Mr. Patterson, is there somewhere you can stay tonight? Someone we can call?”

Curtis thought of his empty house, of Aaron’s room with a wooden race car bed he’d built, of the breakfast table where they ate cereal together every morning.

“No.”

“We can have victim services—”

“I want to help,” Curtis cut in. “I want to find who did this.”

Goodman’s expression softened with pity that made Curtis want to scream.

“The best thing you can do is let us investigate. We’re good at our jobs. We’ll find whoever did this.”

But Curtis heard what she wasn’t saying.

Don’t interfere. Don’t get involved. Go home and grieve and let the professionals handle it.

He’d heard variations of that his entire life. Let the experts handle it. Trust the system. Everything will be fine.

Everything was not fine.

His son was dead. Geneva was missing.

And Curtis Patterson—who had built his life on careful plans and steady work, who had never hurt anyone, who had always followed the rules—felt something dark and cold crystallize in his chest.

“I want to see him,” Curtis said finally. “I want to see Aaron one more time.”

Goodman nodded.

“I’ll arrange it.”

“Mr. Patterson…” She hesitated. “I’m sorry. I have a son too. I can’t imagine. I’m just sorry.”

Curtis nodded because he didn’t trust himself to speak.

The detective left, and he was alone on the porch with Officer Christian standing a respectful distance away, making sure he didn’t do anything stupid.

The night air smelled like autumn leaves and exhaust from the police vehicles. Somewhere in the neighborhood, a dog barked.

Normal sounds from a normal night, except nothing would ever be normal again.

Curtis thought about Aaron’s laugh, the way he’d scrunch up his nose when he was concentrating on something. He thought about teaching his son to sand wood last weekend—how carefully Aaron had worked to smooth the rough edges of a small wooden box.

He thought about the future he’d planned—teaching Aaron the trade, watching him grow, walking him down the aisle someday.

All that was gone. Stolen by someone who had broken into Geneva’s house and destroyed everything Curtis loved.

He stood up. His legs were steady now, his mind clearing.

Officer Christian looked at him with concern.

“I need to make a phone call,” Curtis said.

“Of course. Do you need privacy?”

“No.”

Curtis pulled out his phone and dialed his shop foreman, a reliable man named Kyle Harden who’d worked for him for five years.

Kyle answered on the second ring.

“Curtis? You okay? You sound—”

“Kyle, I need you to run the shop for a while. However long it takes. You’ll have full authority, full access to the accounts.”

“What? Curtis, what happened?”

“Aaron’s dead.”

Saying it out loud made it real in a way it hadn’t been before.

“Someone killed him. I need… I need time.”

Silence on the other end. Then Kyle’s voice, rough with shock.

“Jesus Christ. Curtis, I’m so sorry. Whatever you need. Anything.”

“Just keep the shop running. I’ll call you.”

Curtis ended the call before Kyle could say anything else. He couldn’t handle sympathy right now. Couldn’t handle kindness. The rage building in his chest left no room for anything else.

Detective Goodman returned an hour later with news.

They’d found Dennis Yates’s address from Geneva’s phone contacts. Two officers had gone to his apartment in Southeast Portland. He wasn’t there, but his car was parked outside, and when they looked through the windows, they saw signs of a hasty departure—drawers open, closet emptied, food left out on the counter.

“We’ve issued a warrant for his arrest,” Goodman said. “We’ll find him.”

Curtis said nothing.

He was thinking about Dennis Yates—this man he’d never met, this man Geneva had trusted. He was thinking about what he would do when the police found him.

Or better yet, what he would do if he found him first.

They released the scene at two in the morning. Curtis sat in his truck outside Geneva’s house, unable to make himself drive away.

Crime scene tape fluttered in the breeze. The house stood dark and empty—a tomb for innocence lost.

His phone buzzed. A text from Detective Goodman:

Medical examiner’s preliminary report indicates drowning as cause of death. Evidence suggests multiple perpetrators. We’ll update you tomorrow. Please try to rest.

Multiple perpetrators.

Curtis read the message three times, each word etching itself into his memory. Not just Dennis Yates. Others had been involved in murdering his son.

He started the truck and drove home through empty streets.

His house was exactly as he left it that morning—Aaron’s backpack by the door, breakfast dishes still in the sink, a half-finished wooden toy on the workbench in the garage.

Evidence of a life that no longer existed.

Curtis didn’t sleep.

He sat at his kitchen table, Aaron’s school photo in front of him, and let himself feel everything he’d been holding back. The grief crashed over him in waves, each one trying to pull him under.

But beneath the grief—colder and harder and infinitely more dangerous—rage crystallized into purpose.

The police would do their job. They’d follow procedures, collect evidence, build a case. They’d work within the system, bound by laws and regulations and constitutional rights.

Curtis Patterson was bound by none of those things.

He’d spent his life building. Now he would learn to destroy.

And when he found everyone responsible for Aaron’s death, they would understand what it meant to face a father’s vengeance.

The sun rose over Portland, painting the sky in shades of red and gold. Curtis watched it through his kitchen window and began a plan.

The funeral was small. Curtis had no family besides Aaron, and Christine didn’t respond to any messages about her son’s death.

A handful of people from the shop came, and some of Geneva’s friends the police had tracked down. They gathered under a gray sky at Riverview Cemetery, and a minister who’d never met Aaron said words about God’s plan and eternal peace.

Curtis stood at the graveside, his face carved from stone, and said nothing.

What was there to say?

His seven-year-old son lay in a casket that should never have been needed, killed by monsters who were still out there somewhere.

Detective Goodman attended, standing at a respectful distance. Afterward, she approached Curtis as the other mourners drifted away.

“We found Geneva Parsons,” she said quietly. “Or rather… what was left of her.”

Curtis’s hands clenched into fists.

“Where?”

“A drainage ditch off Highway 26, about forty miles out. She’d been dead for days—shot twice in the chest.”

Goodman paused.

“I’m sorry. I know you two were close.”

Geneva had been kind to him when her own daughter wasn’t. She’d loved Aaron fiercely—had been the grandmother every child deserved.

And someone had killed her, dumped her body like trash.

“Dennis Yates,” Curtis said. It wasn’t a question.

“But we’ve identified two other suspects,” Goodman replied.

She pulled out her phone and showed him two photos.

“Bruce Bautista, a known associate of Yates. Prior for assault and armed robbery.” She swiped. “And Daryl Doherty, another friend of Yates. Petty criminal—drug charges. Nothing violent until now.”

Curtis studied the faces. Bruce Bautista looked exactly like what he was—a career criminal with dead eyes and a cruel mouth. Daryl Doherty was younger, maybe early 30s, with a weak chin and the kind of cowardly confidence that grows in shadow.

“We found DNA evidence at the scene,” Goodman continued. “Both Bautista and Doherty. We got warrants out for all three of them. It’s just a matter of time.”

“What were they doing there?” Curtis asked, his voice flat, emotionless. “Why Geneva’s house? Why Aaron?”

“We’re still piecing it together. Geneva’s bank account shows unusual activity—large withdrawals over the past few months. We think maybe Yates convinced her to invest in something, or maybe he was just stealing from her.”

“Best guess is they came to clean out whatever was left. And Geneva and Aaron were there when they shouldn’t have been.”

So simple. So pointless.

His son had died because he’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time, because Geneva had trusted the wrong man, because three pieces of human garbage had valued money over human life.

“Thank you for telling me,” Curtis said.

Goodman looked at him carefully.

“Mr. Patterson, I know what you’re thinking. Don’t. Let us handle this. We’ll get justice for Aaron and Geneva.”

“Of course,” Curtis lied.

The detective didn’t believe him. He could see it in her eyes, but she couldn’t arrest him for thoughts.

She handed him her card.

“Call me if you need anything. And Curtis… please don’t do anything you’ll regret.”

Curtis took the card and walked away. He wouldn’t regret what he was about to do.

The only thing he’d regret was not starting sooner.

That night, Curtis sat in his workshop, surrounded by tools that had built beautiful things. Now he studied them with different eyes, seeing not what they could create, but what they could destroy.

He pulled out his laptop and began to research.

Bruce Bautista had an apartment in Gresham and a girlfriend named Beverly Chase. Daryl Doherty lived with his mother, Carolyn Robertson, in a run-down house in Parkrose.

Dennis Yates was a ghost, but he’d left a trail—social media posts, check-ins at bars, photos with friends.

Curtis screenshotted everything, built a file on each man: their hangouts, their habits, their associates.

The police had resources, but Curtis had something more powerful.

The absolute certainty that he had nothing left to lose.

Over the following week, he attended to the grim necessities of death. He cleaned out Aaron’s room, packing away toys and clothes with mechanical efficiency.

Feeling nothing, because feeling anything would break him.

He met with lawyers to settle Geneva’s estate, only to discover she’d left everything to Aaron—a bitter irony that meant it now came to Curtis.

Among Geneva’s papers, he found something interesting: bank statements showing she’d withdrawn $40,000 over three months—gone—and letters from Dennis Yates, sweet poison, promising investment opportunities and early retirement.

The bastard had been scamming her from the start.

Curtis also found Geneva’s journal, her neat handwriting filling pages with thoughts about her life, her regrets about Christine, her joy in being Aaron’s grandmother.

On the last page—dated the day before she died—she’d written:

Dennis called three times today asking about the money again. He’s getting aggressive. I told him I have nothing left to give. He said he’d come by tomorrow to discuss “our situation.” I’m worried. Maybe I should call Curtis.

But she hadn’t called.

And now she was dead, and Aaron was dead, and Dennis Yates and his friends were out there somewhere—probably laughing about how easy it had been.

Curtis closed the journal carefully and added it to his files.

Evidence. Proof.

Not for the police. They had their evidence.

This was for him—to remember why he was doing what he was about to do.

He returned to his research, expanding his search.

Bruce Bautista worked occasionally as a bouncer at a dive bar called Lies. Daryl Doherty didn’t work at all, living off his mother’s disability checks and dealing drugs on the side.

And Dennis Yates had a pattern. He’d scammed at least two other women before Geneva, leaving them financially ruined but alive.

Geneva had been different. Maybe she’d threatened to go to the police. Maybe she fought back. Whatever the reason, Yates had escalated from con artist to murderer, and he brought his friends along to help.

Curtis thought about the police investigation, about the slow grinding of justice—arrest, trial, appeals—years in prison where these men would have three meals a day and cable TV while Aaron lay in the ground.

No.

That wasn’t justice. That wasn’t enough.

He leaned back in his chair, staring at the faces on his laptop screen—three men who destroyed his life.

Three men who would pay in ways the legal system never imagined.

Curtis Patterson had built his life on creating beauty from raw materials. Now he would build something else—something so carefully constructed his enemies wouldn’t see it until it snapped shut around them.

And when it did, they would know exactly why they were suffering. They would understand that every moment of pain was earned.

He opened a new document and began to type—not a plan exactly, not yet, but the framework of one. The foundation upon which he would construct their destruction.

Outside his workshop, Portland settled into night. Inside, a craftsman began his most important project—one he would see through to completion, no matter what it cost.

Because some things, once broken, could never be fixed.

But they could be avenged.

Two weeks after Aaron’s funeral, Curtis received word that Bruce Bautista had been arrested in Sacramento. He’d been pulled over for a broken taillight, and when the officer ran his ID, the warrant from Oregon popped up.

Bautista was being extradited and would face trial for murder.

One down. Two to go.

Curtis should have felt satisfaction, but he felt nothing. The system had done its job with Bautista, but the others were still free.

Detective Goodman called to update him, her voice cautiously optimistic.

“This is good news, Mr. Patterson. Bautista is a violent offender with priors. His lawyer might try to make a deal if he gives up Yates and Doherty.”

“Will you offer him a deal?” Curtis asked.

“That’s up to the DA, but between you and me? I doubt it. The evidence is solid. We don’t need his testimony.”

Good.

Curtis wanted all three of them to suffer the maximum penalty—though even that wouldn’t be enough.

He continued his research, his surveillance. He learned that Daryl Doherty’s mother, Carolyn, worked night shifts at a grocery store.

Daryl stayed home alone most evenings—his car visible in the driveway, lights on in the house.

Curtis drove past several times, memorizing the layout, the neighborhood, the patterns.

He wasn’t planning to kill them. Death was too easy, too quick.

He wanted them to feel what he felt—the helplessness, the rage, the soul-deep wound that would never heal.

He wanted them to lose everything that mattered.

But first, he needed to find them.

Dennis Yates remained a ghost. His apartment had been cleaned out, his bank account emptied and closed. No credit card activity, no phone records, nothing.

Either he was dead, or he’d vanished into the underground economy where people disappeared. Curtis bet on the latter.

Yates was a survivor—a con man who’d talked his way out of trouble his whole life. He was out there somewhere, lying low, waiting for the heat to die down.

Curtis would find him.

No matter how long it took.

He returned to his shop where Kyle had been managing things competently. Orders were being filled, clients were happy, the business ran smoothly without him.

It should have been comforting. Instead, it emphasized how irrelevant his old life had become.

“You okay, boss?” Kyle asked one afternoon, finding Curtis in the workshop, staring at a half-finished bookshelf.

“No,” Curtis said honestly.

Kyle nodded, not pretending to understand. “Anything I can do?”

“Keep running the shop. I’m not… I’m not ready to come back yet.”

“Take all the time you need.”

But time was the problem.

Every day that passed was another day Yates and Doherty walked free. Another day Aaron was gone. Another day the wound stayed raw and bleeding.

Curtis went home and returned to his files. He’d been thinking about this wrong—approaching it like the police would, following evidence, tracking movements, building a case.

But he wasn’t the police.

He didn’t need proof beyond a reasonable doubt.

He needed leverage.

Everyone had someone they cared about. Everyone had a weakness.

He pulled up Beverly Chase’s social media. Bruce Bautista’s girlfriend was active online, posting constantly about her life, her dog, her job at a hair salon. She seemed oblivious to the fact that her boyfriend was a murderer sitting in jail.

Or maybe she just didn’t care.

Carolyn Robertson, Daryl’s mother, was different. Her Facebook page was a shrine to her son—photos of him as a child, proud posts about his “accomplishments,” conveniently edited to exclude his arrests.

She loved him despite what he was. Maybe because of what he was.

And Dennis Yates—his social media had been scrubbed, but the internet never truly forgot. Curtis found archived posts, photos from before Yates had known he’d be running.

He found mentions of a sister in Eugene, a brother in Seattle, an ex-wife in Bend.

Curtis made notes, drew connections, built a web.

These men thought they were safe. Thought they’d gotten away with it.

They had no idea what was coming.

The call came on a Tuesday morning, exactly one month after Aaron’s death.

Detective Goodman. Her voice was tight with barely controlled anger.

“We found Daryl Doherty. He’s dead.”

Curtis’s hand clenched on the phone.

“What happened?”

“Drug overdose. Looks like his mother found him this morning. We’re investigating, but preliminary tox screen shows something laced with something else. Could be accidental. Could be someone decided to tie up loose ends.”

Curtis’s mind raced.

If someone had killed Doherty, the obvious suspect was Yates—eliminating witnesses, covering his tracks.

“Are you sure it wasn’t suicide?” Curtis asked.

“Nothing’s sure yet, but…” Goodman paused. “Curtis. Where were you last night?”

So he was a suspect. The father seeking revenge, taking matters into his own hands.

“At home,” Curtis said. “Alone.”

“Why? Do you think I had something to do with this?”

“I have to ask. You understand?”

“I understand you have a job to do,” Curtis said. “For what it’s worth, I didn’t kill him.”

He paused, then added, “But I can’t say I’m sorry he’s dead.”

There was a beat of silence.

“Neither am I,” Goodman admitted. “But this complicates things. If Yates is cleaning house, he might run even deeper, and we still need him for Geneva’s murder.”

They ended the call with Goodman promising to keep Curtis updated.

Curtis sat in his kitchen trying to process the development. Two suspects down. One to go.

But Dennis Yates was the one he wanted most.

The architect of the tragedy. The man who’d seduced Geneva with lies and brought death into her home.

Curtis made a decision.

He couldn’t wait for the police anymore.

He had to move. Had to act. Had to do something before Yates disappeared forever.

He opened his laptop and began crafting a message. It took hours to get the wording right, to strike the perfect balance of threat and promise.

When he finally finished, he posted it in encrypted criminal forums where people bought and sold information.

Looking for Dennis Yates. Last seen: Portland, Oregon. $50,000 reward for confirmed location. No questions asked. Contact through encrypted channels only.

$50,000.

Geneva’s money—the inheritance that should have been Aaron’s.

Curtis would spend every penny of it to find the man who destroyed his family.

He posted the message and waited.

In the criminal underworld, loyalty lasted exactly as long as the money held out. Someone would see that reward and sell out Yates without a second thought.

Curtis just had to be patient.

Something he’d learned as a craftsman, as a father, as a man building a life one careful step at a time.

Now he would build something else.

And when it was complete, Dennis Yates would understand that there were fates worse than prison, worse than death.

He would understand what it meant to be truly broken.

The response came faster than Curtis expected.

Three days after posting the message, he received an encrypted email through the forum. The sender identified himself only as an information broker and claimed to know where Dennis Yates was hiding.

Your man is in Medford working under the name Daniel Young at a construction site, living in an extended-stay motel on Riverside. I have photos. Transfer $25,000 now. $25,000 on confirmation. Include your contact method.

Curtis stared at the message, his heart rate kicking up for the first time in weeks.

It could be a scam. Probably was a scam.

But he had to follow it up.

He’d been truthful with Detective Goodman. He hadn’t killed Daryl Doherty.

But he wasn’t going to let the police handle Dennis Yates.

Curtis set up a secure cryptocurrency wallet and transferred $25,000. Within an hour, the information broker sent photos—slightly grainy surveillance shots of a man matching Yates’s description entering and leaving a motel, working at a construction site, buying groceries at a convenience store.

The timestamps were from yesterday.

Curtis studied the photos. The man had grown a beard and cut his hair shorter, but the face was the same.

Dennis Yates.

Alive and well and working a legitimate job while Aaron and Geneva lay in their graves.

Rage—white hot and purifying—flooded through Curtis.

He wanted to drive to Medford right now, find Yates, and beat him to death with his bare hands.

But that was emotion talking, not strategy.

He forced himself to breathe, to think, to plan.

He called Kyle.

“I need to take a trip. A week, maybe more.”

Kyle’s voice tightened. “You sure that’s a good idea? You’ve been through hell, man.”

“I’m sure. Just keep things running.”

Curtis packed a bag—clothes, tools, cash. He cleaned out Geneva’s bank account, withdrawing the remaining inheritance and converting it to cashiers’ checks.

If this went wrong, if he ended up in prison, he wanted to make sure Kyle got the shop, that Aaron’s grave was maintained.

He wrote instructions, sealed them in an envelope, and left them with his lawyer.

Then he drove south toward Medford.

Six hours through the mountains. Six hours to think about what he was going to do.

He didn’t have a detailed plan yet, but he knew the endgame.

Dennis Yates would suffer.

He would lose everything just as Curtis had.

And then—when he had nothing left, when he understood what it meant to be completely broken—Curtis would decide whether he lived or died.

The drive passed in a blur. Curtis stopped only for gas and coffee, his mind churning through scenarios, possibilities, approaches.

By the time he reached Medford, night had fallen and a plan had started to form.

He checked into a different motel than the one Yates was using, paid cash, registered under a false name.

Then he drove past the address the information broker had provided—an extended-stay on Riverside Avenue, exactly as described.

Yates’s car, or at least the car the broker claimed was his, sat in the parking lot.

Curtis parked down the street and settled in to watch.

Hours passed.

At 11 p.m., a man emerged from one of the rooms and walked to the car. Even in the dim streetlight, Curtis recognized him.

Dennis Yates looked older and more worn than his photos, but unmistakably the same man.

Yates drove to an all-night diner. Curtis followed at a distance, watched as Yates went inside, sat at the counter, ordered food.

He looked relaxed. Comfortable. Like a man who thought he’d gotten away with murder.

Curtis’s hands clenched on the steering wheel.

It would be so easy to walk in there, to confront him, to make him pay right now.

But easy wasn’t the point.

The point was making him suffer.

He waited until Yates finished eating and returned to the motel.

Then Curtis went back to his own room and sent an encrypted message to the information broker.

Confirmed. Transferring final payment.

The money went through. The broker sent one more message.

Pleasure doing business. Recommend you move fast. Information has a shelf life.

Curtis deleted the exchange and turned his attention to the real work.

He spent the next day watching Yates—watching him go to work at the construction site, noting his routines, his interactions with co-workers.

Yates had taken on a new identity, but he hadn’t changed his fundamental nature. He was charming, friendly—exactly the kind of man who could talk a lonely woman into handing over her life savings.

Curtis could see how Geneva had fallen for it.

On the third day, Curtis made his move.

He waited until Yates went to work, then broke into his motel room. It was easy. The lock was cheap, and Curtis had tools.

Inside, he found exactly what he expected—fake IDs, several thousand in cash, a burner phone, and most importantly, a laptop.

Curtis cloned the drive, copying everything. Then he placed a small GPS tracker under Yates’s car and left everything else undisturbed.

Yates would never know Curtis had been there.

Back in his own room, Curtis examined the contents.

Jackpot.

Yates had been careless, keeping detailed records of his cons—names, amounts, correspondence—including everything related to Geneva.

Curtis found emails between Yates and Bruce Bautista planning the retrieval of Geneva’s money. Found text exchanges about when to hit the house, how to handle complications.

The complications had been Geneva and Aaron.

Curtis read it all, his rage building with each message.

They’d known Geneva would be home. They’d known Aaron might be there too.

And they’d gone anyway, armed and willing to do whatever it took to get the money.

There was more.

Curtis found evidence that Yates had been communicating with someone else—someone referred to only as Jay. The messages were vague, but suggestive of another partner, maybe someone backing Yates financially or providing him with targets.

Curtis copied everything to a secure drive.

Then he sent an anonymous package to Detective Goodman containing the evidence and Yates’s current location.

The police would have everything they needed for a conviction.

But Curtis wasn’t done.

He watched Yates’s motel for two more days, learning every detail of his routine.

On the sixth day, Curtis was ready.

He followed Yates to a bar after work—a dive called Eddie’s Place where construction workers drank cheap beer and played pool.

Yates sat alone at the bar, nursing a whiskey, looking like just another working man unwinding after a long day.

Curtis sat three stools away and ordered a beer. He didn’t look at Yates, didn’t acknowledge him, just drank slowly and waited.

After twenty minutes, Yates’s phone rang. He answered, his voice low and tense.

“I told you not to call me. No, I don’t have it yet. Look, I’m working on it, okay? These things take time.”

He ended the call, clearly agitated.

Curtis signaled the bartender.

“Another round for my friend down there,” he said, gesturing to Yates. “He looks like he could use it.”

Yates glanced over, surprised.

Curtis smiled—friendly, open, the smile of a stranger offering kindness.

“Thanks, man,” Yates said. “Rough day.”

“I hear that,” Curtis replied. “Here’s to better days ahead.”

They drank. They talked.

Curtis played the role perfectly—just another guy new to town, looking for work and company.

Yates relaxed, seeing no threat. After a while, they moved to a booth and ordered dinner.

“So what brings you to Medford?” Yates asked.

“Looking for a fresh start,” Curtis said. “Had some trouble back home. Family stuff. Thought maybe a change of scenery would help.”

“I know how that goes,” Yates said, shaking his head. “Sometimes you gotta leave everything behind and start over.”

Curtis wanted to smash the man’s face into the table.

Instead, he smiled.

“Exactly. What about you?”

“Same story, different details,” Yates said. “Had a business venture go south. Needed to relocate.”

They talked for hours. Yates was good—smooth, likable, the perfect con man. He made you want to trust him, want to help him.

Curtis could see how Geneva had fallen for it.

Around midnight, Yates excused himself to use the bathroom.

Curtis slipped something into his drink—nothing deadly, just something that would drop his defenses.

When Yates returned and finished his whiskey, Curtis suggested they call it a night.

“Yeah,” Yates agreed, swaying slightly as he stood. “Whoa. Guess that last drink hit harder than I thought.”

“You okay to drive?” Curtis asked, all concern.

“I’ll be fine. Just need some air.”

Curtis helped him outside.

The parking lot was nearly empty. Yates stumbled toward his car and collapsed. Curtis caught him.

“Easy there, buddy. Let me help you.”

He loaded Yates into the passenger seat of Yates’s own car, then drove to a location he’d scouted earlier—an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of town.

The building had been empty for years. Windows broken, weeds growing through the concrete.

Perfect.

Curtis carried the unconscious Yates inside and zip-tied him to a chair in the middle of the empty space.

Then he waited.

An hour later, Yates stirred. His eyes opened unfocused, then sharpened with panic as he realized he couldn’t move.

“What the—what is this?”

Curtis stepped out of the shadows.

“Hello, Dennis.”

Yates stared at him, confusion turning to recognition and then to terror.

“You… you’re Curtis Patterson.”

“I believe you knew my mother-in-law,” Curtis said. “Geneva Parsons.”

All color drained from Yates’s face.

“Listen, man. I don’t know what you think happened—”

“I know exactly what happened,” Curtis said. “You conned Geneva out of $40,000. When she had nothing left to give, you and your friends broke into her house to take whatever she had left.”

“My son was there.”

“You killed them both.”

“No,” Yates gasped. “No, that’s not— I didn’t kill anyone. That was Bautista and Doherty. They went crazy. I wasn’t even there.”

Curtis pulled out his phone and played a recording from the laptop files—Yates’s voice, clear as day:

Geneva will be home around three. The kid might be there too. Don’t leave witnesses.

Yates’s face crumpled.

“Please,” he begged. “Please. I’ll tell you everything. I’ll testify. Just don’t—”

“Don’t what?” Curtis asked, voice flat. “Don’t die?”

Curtis crouched in front of the chair.

“I’m not going to kill you, Dennis. That would be too easy. But I am going to make you understand what you took from me.”

He pulled out a pair of pliers.

“I build things for a living, Dennis. Furniture. Mostly beautiful pieces that people treasure.”

“Do you know what it takes to build something beautiful? Patience. Precision. Care.”

Yates sobbed, snot running down his face.

“Please. Please. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Are you sorry my son is dead,” Curtis asked, “or sorry you got caught?”

“Both,” Yates choked out. “I never meant for anyone to die. It was just supposed to be a burglary.”

Curtis felt nothing—no satisfaction, no anger, just cold purpose.

“Tell me about the person you call Jay.”

“What? I don’t—”

Curtis grabbed Yates’s hand and positioned the pliers around his little finger.

“Tell me about Jay, or I start taking pieces.”

“Okay!” Yates screamed. “Okay. Jay is—he’s the guy who sets up the cons. He finds the marks, gives me the information, takes a cut. I don’t know his real name. I swear.”

“How do you contact him?”

“Encrypted messages through an app. I can show you.”

Curtis released Yates’s finger and stepped back.

“Show me.”

With shaking hands, Yates directed Curtis to the messaging app on his phone. The conversation history was sparse—meeting times, target information, money transfers.

But there was an address in Portland, a place where Yates had met Jay several times.

Curtis memorized it.

Then he looked at Dennis Yates—this pathetic creature who’d destroyed a child for money—and made a decision.

“The police know where you are,” Curtis said. “I sent them everything. All the evidence from your laptop, your location—everything.”

“They’re probably on their way right now.”

Yates’s eyes went wide.

“You called the cops?”

“I want you to stand trial,” Curtis said. “I want you to spend the rest of your life in prison knowing that every single day is because you killed my son.”

Curtis leaned close.

“And every night when you lie in your cell, you’ll remember this moment. You’ll remember that I could have killed you—but I chose to let you live.”

“Because living with what you did is a worse punishment than anything I could do to you.”

Curtis cut the zip ties and walked toward the door.

“Wait!” Yates cried. “You’re just leaving me here?”

“Your car is outside. The police are maybe twenty minutes out. You can run if you want.”

Curtis’s voice stayed even.

“But I’ve got your picture, your real identity, your fake identities, and fifty thousand dollars says someone will find you again.”

“So run, Dennis. See how far you get.”

Curtis left him there and drove back to his motel. He packed his things, checked out, and started the long drive back to Portland.

Behind him, Dennis Yates was making a choice—run, or wait for the police.

Curtis didn’t care which option he chose.

Either way, Yates was finished.

Curtis arrived home to find Detective Goodman waiting on his doorstep. It was 3:00 in the morning, but she looked wide awake and intensely focused.

“We arrested Dennis Yates two hours ago,” she said without preamble. “He was sitting in his car outside an abandoned warehouse in Medford, crying and confessing to everything.”

“He gave us names, details—he even told us about an accomplice we didn’t know about. It was like he’d been broken.”

Curtis kept his face neutral.

“That’s good news.”

Goodman studied him.

“You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you? You weren’t anywhere near Medford recently.”

“I took a drive down the coast,” Curtis said evenly. “Needed to clear my head.”

“Why? Because Yates keeps mentioning you,” Goodman said. “Says you found him. Says you let him live. He’s not making a lot of sense.”

“Grief does strange things to people,” Curtis replied.

Goodman was quiet for a moment. Then she said, “I can’t prove you did anything. And honestly, I don’t want to.”

“Yates deserved whatever he got. But Curtis—be careful. I’d hate to see you throw your life away for revenge.”

“I’m not throwing anything away,” Curtis said. “I’m rebuilding.”

Goodman looked at him with tired, knowing eyes.

“Are you? Because from where I’m standing, you look like a man who’s standing at the edge of something dangerous.”

Curtis met her gaze.

“I’m standing at the edge of justice, Detective. And I’m not going to apologize for that.”

Goodman sighed.

“Fair enough. For what it’s worth, we’ve got Yates dead to rights. Between his confession and the evidence you anonymously provided, he’ll never see the outside of a prison cell again.”

“Same for Bautista.”

“You got your justice.”

“Did I?” Curtis asked softly. “Will a prison sentence bring Aaron back? Will it give Geneva another day of life? Will it undo anything they did?”

“No,” Goodman said quietly. “But it’s all we have.”

“Then it’s not enough.”

Goodman left him with a warning to stay out of trouble and a promise that the trial would be swift.

Curtis watched her drive away, then went inside his empty house.

He pulled out the address Yates had given him—the location where this Jay operated, a warehouse in northwest Portland registered to a shell company.

Curtis ran the company name through business registries and found a web of connections leading back to a legitimate businessman named Jordan Wilson.

Jordan Wilson.

Curtis researched him, finding a man in his 50s who owned several properties around Portland, donated to charity, appeared in society pages—and apparently ran a con operation on the side, setting up marks for scammers like Dennis Yates.

Curtis had wondered how Yates had known Geneva had money, had known she was vulnerable.

Now he understood.

Wilson identified targets and sold the information.

He was the architect. Men like Yates were just the tools.

Which meant Wilson bore responsibility for Aaron’s death just as much as the men who’d been there.

Curtis made a new plan.

This one would take longer—require more preparation.

But he had time now. The immediate threats were neutralized.

Now he could focus on the bigger picture, on the man who’d set the whole tragedy in motion.

Jordan Wilson didn’t know it yet, but his comfortable life was about to come apart.

Curtis spent two weeks rebuilding his normal life—or at least the appearance of it. He returned to work at the shop, threw himself into projects, acted like a man slowly healing from tragedy.

Kyle and the other workers gave him space, treating him gently, which Curtis appreciated even as it made him want to scream.

At night, he researched Jordan Wilson.

The man was careful, insulated by layers of legitimate business and plausible deniability. He never directly contacted the scammers, never handled the money, never left a paper trail that connected him to their crimes.

But he’d made one mistake.

Yates’s laptop had contained records of their meetings, including photos Yates had taken as insurance. Wilson’s face was clearly visible in several shots, and the metadata showed they’d been taken at the warehouse address.

It wasn’t enough for the police—circumstantial at best.

But it was enough for Curtis.

He began watching Wilson, learning his patterns.

The man kept a strict routine—breakfast at a downtown café, office work until five, dinner at expensive restaurants, home by ten. On weekends, he golfed at a country club or attended charity events with his wife, a plastic-looking woman named Christina Guerrero Wilson.

Wilson had two children, both adults living out of state. He had wealth, respect, a carefully constructed life.

And he’d built it all on the misery of people like Geneva.

Curtis decided Jordan Wilson needed to lose everything—just as he had.

But it had to be done carefully, methodically, in a way that looked like natural consequences catching up to a guilty man.

He started by creating a digital trail. Using skills he’d learned from encrypted contacts, Curtis built fake accounts and personas. He posted cryptic messages on forums Wilson frequented—hints about a documentary being made about Portland con artists, mentions of unnamed sources with explosive evidence.

Within days, Wilson’s behavior changed. He became paranoid, started looking over his shoulder, made mistakes.

Curtis watched with cold satisfaction as the man’s comfortable life began to develop cracks.

Next, Curtis sent an anonymous package to the Portland Business Journal—photos of Wilson meeting with known criminals, records of shell-company financial irregularities.

Nothing definitive, but enough to raise questions.

The article ran two weeks later:

Local businessman linked to fraud ring.

It was speculative, carefully worded to avoid lawsuits, but damaging nonetheless.

Wilson’s business partners began distancing themselves. Charity boards quietly removed his name from their rosters.

His wife started asking uncomfortable questions.

Curtis watched it all unfold and felt nothing—no joy, no triumph, just the grim determination to see it through to the end.

Then he made his final move.

He contacted Detective Goodman with another anonymous tip, providing her with everything he had on Wilson—laptop photos, shell-company connections, testimony from one of Yates’s previous victims who Curtis had tracked down and convinced to come forward.

Goodman was skeptical at first, but she followed up. And once she started pulling the thread, the whole operation unraveled.

Wilson had been running his con ring for a decade—had destroyed dozens of lives, had made millions.

The police arrested him on a Tuesday morning at his office, walking him past news cameras and shocked colleagues.

His wife filed for divorce by the end of the week. His children released statements condemning him. His assets were frozen pending investigation.

Jordan Wilson—who’d built an empire on other people’s suffering—lost everything in a matter of days.

Curtis read about it in the newspaper, sitting in his workshop, and allowed himself a moment of grim satisfaction.

It wasn’t enough. Nothing would ever be enough.

But it was something.

He returned to his tools, to the work of building. He had a commission for a bedroom set, and he needed to focus, needed to lose himself in the familiar rhythm of creation.

But late at night, when the shop was empty and silent, Curtis would stand at his workbench and remember Aaron—teaching him to sand wood, the boy’s concentration and pride, the future they’d never have.

And he would remember that he’d made the people responsible pay.

Not all of them were in prison. Not all of them had gotten what they deserved.

But they’d suffered. They’d lost.

And they would carry that weight for the rest of their lives.

Just as Curtis would carry the weight of Aaron’s absence.

The difference was Curtis’s burden was born of love. Theirs was born of guilt.

And that, Curtis thought, was its own kind of justice.

Six months after Aaron’s death, Curtis sat in a courtroom and watched Dennis Yates receive five consecutive life sentences for murder, kidnapping, and fraud.

Bruce Bautista got the same.

Jordan Wilson received 30 years for his role in organizing the criminal enterprise.

The judge spoke about justice being served, about sending a message, about protecting society from predators.

Curtis listened and felt hollow.

Outside the courthouse, Detective Goodman found him on the steps.

“How are you holding up?” she asked.

“I’m still here,” Curtis said, which was the most honest answer he could give.

“The DA wanted me to thank you for the evidence you provided,” Goodman said. “Anonymously, of course.”

She gave him a knowing look.

“It made the difference in the Wilson case.”

Curtis said nothing.

“You got your justice,” Goodman continued. “All of them are going away for a long time. You can move on now.”

“Can I?” Curtis asked, looking at her. “Because my son is still dead. Geneva is still dead. And no amount of justice changes that.”

“No,” Goodman agreed quietly. “It doesn’t.”

“But maybe it helps to know they can’t hurt anyone else.”

“Maybe,” Curtis said. He wasn’t sure.

He nodded to Goodman and walked away—back to his truck, back to his shop, back to the life he was slowly rebuilding from ruins.

Over the following months, Curtis began to heal—or at least to adapt. The grief never left, but it became manageable, a constant ache rather than an acute wound.

He threw himself into work, took on larger commissions, expanded the shop. He started a scholarship fund in Aaron’s name for children interested in learning woodworking.

He dated occasionally, though nothing serious. He couldn’t imagine trusting anyone with that kind of vulnerability again.

The part of him that had been capable of that kind of openness had died with Aaron.

But he wasn’t just surviving.

He was building again. Creating again.

And sometimes late at night in his workshop, he’d feel something almost like peace.

One year after Aaron’s death, Curtis received a letter. It was from Dennis Yates, writing from prison.

Curtis almost threw it away unread, but curiosity got the better of him.

Mr. Patterson, I know you have no reason to read this and even less reason to believe me, but I need to say it anyway. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for what I did to your son, to Geneva, to you. I’m sorry for the pain I caused. I was a coward and a thief, and I told myself that made me clever. But all it made me was a monster.

I think about Aaron every day. I dream about him. I wake up in my cell and for a moment I forget where I am. And then I remember what I did and I have to live with it all over again.

You were right that night in the warehouse. Living with this is worse than dying. Every day is punishment. Every day I wake up knowing I destroyed an innocent child’s life for money, and I deserve every second of it.

I don’t expect forgiveness. I don’t deserve it. I just wanted you to know that you were right. I am suffering and I will suffer every day for the rest of my life.

I’m sorry, Dennis Yates.

Curtis read the letter twice, then fed it into the wood stove and watched it burn.

Yates wanted absolution—wanted Curtis to acknowledge his suffering and somehow validate it.

Curtis felt nothing for the man.

No hatred. No satisfaction.

Just emptiness.

He went back to work on the piece he was building—a rocking chair commissioned by a new mother for her daughter’s first baby. It was delicate work requiring precision and care, the kind of work that demanded he be present, focused, unable to think about anything else.

And for a few hours, that was enough.

Two years after Aaron’s death, Curtis was finishing up at the shop when Kyle approached him.

“Boss, there’s someone here to see you. Says it’s personal.”

Curtis looked up to see a woman in her 30s, professionally dressed, holding a folder. She introduced herself as Abigail Hopkins, an attorney.

“I represent the families of three other victims of Jordan Wilson’s operation,” she explained. “We’re filing a civil suit against his estate, and we’d like you to join us as a plaintiff. Geneva Parsons’s estate specifically.”

Curtis considered it.

“Wilson’s already in prison. What’s the point?”

“The point is restitution,” Hopkins said. “His assets are substantial even after legal fees. If we win, the money would be distributed among his victims. Or, in Geneva’s case, her heir.”

She looked at Curtis.

“You, Mr. Patterson.”

“I don’t want his money.”

“Then donate it to a cause that matters to you,” Hopkins said. “But don’t let him keep the wealth he built on your family’s suffering.”

Curtis thought about Aaron’s scholarship fund. About other families who’d been destroyed by men like Wilson and Yates.

“All right,” he said. “I’ll join your suit.”

The case took another year, but they won. Curtis received $200,000 in restitution—blood money, he thought—but money he could turn into something that mattered.

He expanded Aaron’s scholarship fund, donated to children’s charities, established a grant program for single parents trying to make ends meet.

Slowly, very slowly, he began to feel like he was doing more than surviving.

He was living again, building again, creating something positive from tragedy.

Three years after Aaron’s death, Curtis was working late when his phone rang.

Detective Goodman.

“Curtis, I thought you’d want to know,” she said. “Daryl Doherty’s death has been ruled a homicide. We found evidence that Dennis Yates arranged it from inside prison.”

Curtis wasn’t surprised.

“Well, Yates faced charges,” Goodman added. “Already got another life sentence. He’ll never get out.”

They were quiet for a moment.

Then Goodman asked, “How are you doing?”

“Really better,” Curtis said. “Some days are harder than others, but I’m building a life again. It’s not the life I wanted, but it’s something.”

“That’s good to hear,” Goodman said. “You deserved better than what happened. So did Aaron. So did Geneva.”

“Yeah,” Curtis said. “They did.”

Goodman paused.

“Take care of yourself, Curtis.”

“You too, Detective.”

He ended the call and looked around his workshop—the space where he’d taught Aaron to sand wood, where they’d built things together, where his son had learned to create something from nothing.

Aaron was gone. That would never change.

But his memory lived on—in the scholarship fund, in the work Curtis did, in the careful attention he gave to every piece he built.

Curtis Patterson had lost everything. And in the ashes of that loss, he’d built something new.

Not happiness. He wasn’t sure he’d ever feel that again.

But purpose. Meaning. A life that honored the son he’d loved more than anything.

He turned back to his workbench and picked up his tools.

There was always more to build, always something to create. And in the act of creation, he found a kind of peace.

Outside, night fell over Portland.

Inside his workshop, Curtis worked by lamplight—his hands steady, his heart scarred, but still beating, still here, still building, still remembering.

And that, he thought, was enough.

And there you have it. Another story comes to an end. What did you think?

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