I daydreamed about what I would do to Parker. They were elegant fantasies, richly constructed to soothe hurt feelings and dissipate rage, and about as satisfying as eating in a dream.

Sometimes they’d be elaborate Rube-Goldberg-style deaths involving an improbable amount of steps like I was Jigsaw’s apprentice. I wanted him to realize that this final moment was his fault. I didn’t just want revenge, I wanted satisfaction. I wanted him broken.

Other times I’d dream about ferreting out his dirty secrets and revealing them in a display of public humiliation. He was a necrophile and a rapist before I decided on child-molester. I’d stare at him knowingly and offer him a length of rope and whisper, “You know what you have to do.”

The worst part was that even after he was killed by a drunk driver, the fantasies lived on. There was no closure. I made a promise to piss on his grave one day but I still haven’t done it yet. Because then I’d have to give up my fantasies of revenge. And I’m not ready to let go.