The mud was freezing. It seeped through the fabric of her trousers instantly, biting into her skin.

Karen dropped to her knees.

The impact jarred her spine. A sharp rock hidden in the slush cut into her left kneecap, but she bit the inside of her cheek to keep from crying out. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of hearing her pain. Not yet.

"Move," Isaiah commanded from above her.

She began to crawl.

It was a grotesque procession. The rain beat down on her back, heavy and relentless. Every movement was a struggle against the suction of the wet earth. She dragged herself forward, her hands sinking into the mire.

Ahead, the mourners stood in a semi-circle around a fresh grave. They were a sea of black umbrellas and pale, angry faces.

Victoria King, Isaiah's mother, stood at the front. She wore a veil, but Karen could feel the burning intensity of her glare. Beside her was Bird Villarreal, Clementine's younger sister. Bird was sobbing, her body shaking, held up by a man Karen didn't recognize.

Karen reached the edge of the crowd.

Isaiah walked past her, his shoes crunching on the gravel path, untouched by the mud. He grabbed Karen by the back of her soaking collar and hauled her forward, forcing her right up to the granite headstone.

Clementine Villarreal. Beloved Daughter, Sister, Mother.

"Apologize," Isaiah hissed in her ear. His hand was a vice on the nape of her neck. "Apologize to her. For the life you took. For the child you killed."

Karen looked up at the stone. Rainwater ran down the engraved letters like tears.

"I didn't..." Karen started, her voice trembling. "I didn't kill her."

Isaiah's fingers tightened. He forced her head down.

"Apologize!"

He slammed her forehead against the base of the monument.

Pain exploded behind her eyes. White light flashed in her vision. She tasted copper in her mouth. Warm blood trickled down her forehead, mixing with the cold rain, blinding her in one eye.

"Murderer!" Bird screamed from the crowd. Her voice was shrill, hysterical. "You killed my sister! You monster!"

Something hit Karen in the face. A white rose. The thorns scratched her cheek. Then another. Then a clod of dirt. The crowd was turning into a mob. Their grief was transforming into violence.

Karen was dizzy. The world was spinning.

Isaiah released her neck to step toward Bird, to comfort the grieving sister. He left Karen kneeling in the mud, bleeding, surrounded by hatred.

She looked up. Through the haze of pain and rain, her eyes locked onto an object sitting on a small table next to the grave.

It was an urn. A beautiful, white ceramic urn painted with delicate gold vines. It held Clementine's ashes, waiting to be interred.

Something inside Karen snapped.

It wasn't a loud snap. It was the quiet sound of a final thread giving way. She had lost her husband. She had lost her freedom. She had lost her dignity. She was bleeding in the mud while the man she loved comforted the sister of the woman who had destroyed her life.

If they wanted a monster, she would give them a monster.

Karen pushed herself up. Her legs were shaking, covered in filth. She wasn't trying to run away. She lunged forward.

"Karen, don't you dare!" Isaiah's voice rang out. He had turned around, seeing her trajectory.

It was too late.

Karen grabbed the urn with both hands. The ceramic was cold and wet. It was heavy. Heavier than a soul should be.

She turned to face them. To face Isaiah, Victoria, Bird, all of them. A smile twisted her bloody lips. It was a broken, jagged thing.

"This is what you wanted," she rasped.

She raised the urn high above her head.

"No!" Isaiah sprinted toward her.

Karen slammed the urn down onto the marble paving stones.

CRACK.

The sound was like a gunshot. The ceramic shattered into a thousand shards. A gray cloud puffed up into the air-bone dust and ash-before the rain instantly caught it, beating it down into a gray sludge that mixed with the mud at her feet.

Silence. Absolute, horrified silence.

Then, chaos.

Isaiah reached her a second too late. His momentum carried him into her. He didn't grab her; he kicked her. It was a reflex of pure, unbridled fury. His boot connected with her stomach.

Karen folded. She hit the wet ground hard, curling into a ball. The air left her lungs.

But she started to laugh.

She lay there in the mud and the ashes of her rival, laughing. It was a guttural, ugly sound that tore at her throat. It was the sound of someone who had nothing left to lose.

Sirens wailed in the distance, getting louder.

Isaiah stood over her, his chest heaving. His face was twisted into a mask of pure loathing. He looked down at the gray sludge washing over his expensive shoes.

"You are going to rot," he spat at her. "I will make sure you never see the sun again. I will make sure you die in a cage."

Police officers swarmed the hill. They grabbed Karen, hauling her up from the mud. They wrenched her arms behind her back.

The cold steel of handcuffs clicked shut around her wrists. It pinched her skin.

Karen didn't struggle. She let her head hang back, the rain washing the blood from her eyes. She looked at Isaiah one last time.

Her eyes were dead. The light was gone.

"Goodbye, Isaiah," she whispered.

They dragged her away, her feet leaving trails in the mud, right through the remains of Clementine Villarreal.

The back of the police cruiser smelled of vomit and pine air freshener. Karen watched through the wire mesh as the cemetery disappeared into the gray distance. She saw Isaiah on his knees in the rain, frantically trying to scoop up the wet gray sludge with his bare hands.

It was pathetic. It was tragic.

"I hope it hurts," she whispered to the glass. "I hope it hurts you every day."

The trial was a blur. A montage of gavels banging and lawyers droning. She pleaded guilty. It was part of the deal. Five years for First Degree Manslaughter. In exchange, the state wouldn't pursue life in prison without the possibility of parole, and Isaiah wouldn't pull the plug on Danny's dialysis.

She didn't look at the jury. She stared at the back of Isaiah's head in the front row. He never turned around. Not once.

Then came the intake.

The Correctional Facility was a world of gray concrete and fluorescent lights that buzzed like trapped flies.

"Strip," the guard barked. She was a large woman with eyes like stones.

Karen stood on the cold tile. The hose turned on. Freezing water blasted her, stinging her skin, washing away the mud and the blood and the last of her identity.

"Open your mouth. Lift your tongue. Squat and cough."

They took her clothes. They took her name. They gave her orange scrubs that scratched her skin and a number.

9275.

They cut her hair. The shears were dull. They hacked at her long chestnut locks, leaving jagged ends that prickled her neck. Karen watched her hair fall to the floor, feeling lighter and emptier with every snip.

The cell door slammed shut. Clang. The sound of a tomb sealing.

FIVE YEARS LATER

Karen woke up with a gasp.

Her hand flew to her stomach. It was flat. Empty.

The panic was a living thing in her chest, a bird beating its wings against her ribs. She sat up, her eyes darting around the room.

It wasn't a cell.

It was a basement. The walls were peeling, painted a sickly shade of yellow that was now stained with damp. The air smelled of mold and the fried onions from the neighbor's apartment upstairs.

She was out. She had been out for three months.

Karen swung her legs over the edge of the narrow mattress. Her left hand throbbed. A phantom pain, sharp and electric, shot up her arm.

She raised her hand. It was covered in a black leather glove. She slept with it on. She showered with it on. She never took it off.

"Mommy?"

The voice was small, sleepy.

Karen turned. On the other side of the room, on a mattress on the floor, a little boy was rubbing his eyes.

Hoke.

He was five years old, but his eyes were ancient. They were dark, intelligent, and terrifyingly familiar. He had Isaiah's jawline. He had Isaiah's intensity.

"Did you have the bad dream again?" Hoke asked. He sat up, his messy dark hair sticking up in tufts.

Karen forced a smile. It was a muscle memory she was relearning. "I'm okay, baby. Just a dream."

Hoke didn't look convinced. He slid off his mattress and walked over to the dresser. He was small for his age, malnourished from a diet of cheap pasta and government cheese, but he moved with a grace that didn't belong in this basement.

He opened a drawer and pulled out a small orange bottle.

"Here," he said, handing it to her.

Karen took the antidepressants. Shame washed over her. Her five-year-old son shouldn't know which pills his mother needed to stop shaking. He shouldn't be the one taking care of her.

"Thank you, Hoke." She swallowed the pill dry.

Hoke climbed onto the bed beside her. He reached out and placed his small hand over her black-gloved one. He didn't ask about the glove. He never did. He just held it, offering a silent comfort that broke her heart.

"I have to go out today," Karen said softly. "I have an interview."

Hoke nodded. "For the drawing job?"

"Yes. For the drawing job."

"You're the best drawer," Hoke said fiercely. "If they don't hire you, they're stupid."

Karen kissed the top of his head. "We need the money, Hoke. For Uncle Danny. And for rent."

Hoke pulled away slightly. His expression shifted. For a second, just a split second, the childish softness vanished, replaced by a cold, calculating look that chilled Karen to the bone.

"I'll help," he said. "When I get big, I'm going to make them pay. Everyone who made us live here."

Karen grabbed his shoulders. "Hoke, no. Don't talk like that."

Hoke blinked, and the look was gone. He smiled, an innocent, gap-toothed grin. "I just mean I'll get a job too, Mommy. Maybe walking dogs."

Karen pulled him into a hug, burying her face in his neck. She was terrified. Not of the world, but of the seed of hatred she could see growing in her son. A seed planted by a father he didn't know he had.

The bathroom mirror was cracked down the middle, splitting Karen's reflection into two disjointed halves. One eye looked tired; the other looked dead.

She turned on the tap. The water sputtered, brown at first, then clear and freezing.

Karen took a deep breath. She reached for her right hand and began to peel the glove off her left.

She had to clean it. Infection in this damp basement was a death sentence.

The leather slid off.

She forced herself to look. Even after a year, it still made her stomach turn. Her left hand ended abruptly at the knuckle of the pinky finger. The skin was scarred, puckered and shiny, twisted like a knot of old rope.

Flashback.

The prison shower. The steam obscuring the cameras. Three women. The leader, a woman with a spiderweb tattoo on her neck, holding the rusty gardening shears.

"Word is, the King wants you to have a hard time, Princess," the woman had sneered. "And your brother missed a payment. So, we're collecting a reminder."

The crunch of bone.

Karen splashed freezing water onto her face, gasping. She scrubbed her skin until it was red. She dried the stump quickly, terrified Hoke might walk in, and pulled the black glove back on. She smoothed the leather over the empty space where her finger used to be.

"Mommy! Breakfast!" Hoke called from the main room.

He had made toast. It was burnt, and the milk was watered down to make it last longer, but to Karen, it was a feast.

"Eat up," she said, pushing her slice toward him. "I'm not hungry."

"You have to eat for the interview," Hoke insisted. He pointed to a piece of paper on the table. "Look, I drew a house for you."

Karen picked it up. It wasn't a child's scribble. It was a structured drawing of a skyscraper, using perspective that a five-year-old shouldn't understand.

"It has a garden on the roof," Hoke explained. "So you don't have to go to the park to see trees."

Karen's throat tightened. "It's beautiful, Hoke."

She got dressed in her only suit. It was from a thrift store, a little too big in the shoulders, but clean. She sprayed a little lavender water on her wrists to mask the smell of the damp apartment.

"Stay inside," she told Hoke, kneeling to look him in the eye. "Do not open the door for anyone. Not even the landlord. If there's an emergency, you call Mrs. Gorsky upstairs, okay?"

"I know, Mommy. I'm not a baby."

She left him sitting on the floor with his books. Books she had stolen from the library because she couldn't get a card without a valid ID.

First stop: Danny.

Danny lived in a loft above a failing auto repair shop in Queens. It was hot, smelling of oil and exhaust.

Karen climbed the metal stairs. She found Danny strapped to his chair, the dialysis machine humming rhythmically. He looked worse than last week. His skin was gray, his eyes sunken.

"Hey, kid," Danny wheezed.

"Hey." Karen sat on a crate beside him. She took his hand-her gloved hand resting lightly on his arm.

"How's Hoke?"

"He's... smart. Too smart." Karen sighed. "Danny, I have an interview today. A small studio in SoHo. Your friend Mike set it up."

Danny squeezed her hand. "You're a genius, Karen. They'll see that. 'Dawn' was the best designer New York never knew."

"Dawn is dead," Karen said sharply. "I'm just Karen now. The ex-con."

"Isaiah paid for the machine, didn't he?" Danny said, his voice laced with bitterness. "The best money could buy. But I told you, I won't set foot in a King-funded clinic. I'd rather die in this garage than be another one of his charities."

"Don't let them break you," Danny whispered, his breath catching. "We survived the King. We can survive this."

Karen left the garage feeling heavy. She took the subway into Manhattan. The car was crowded. Bodies pressed against bodies. She kept her left hand shoved deep in her pocket.

Above the heads of the commuters, a digital screen played the news.

Isaiah King unveils plans for the new 'Villarreal Tower'. A tribute to his late fiancée.

There he was. On the screen. He looked older. Harder. His cheekbones were sharper, his eyes like flint. He was wearing a suit that cost more than Karen would earn in a lifetime.

"He's so handsome," a woman next to Karen sighed. "Tragic, though. Losing his baby mama like that."

Karen pulled her hat down low. She couldn't breathe.

She arrived at the studio in SoHo. It was a walk-up, cluttered with fabric samples and half-finished mannequins. The owner, a man named Mr. Henderson, was sweaty and overweight.

He looked at her portfolio. He looked at her sketch. His eyes lit up.

"This is... this is incredible," he muttered. "The lines... the minimalism. It reminds me of that mysterious designer from a few years back. Dawn?"

"I have a style," Karen said neutrally.

Henderson looked at her resume. He frowned. "Gap in employment. Five years. Correctional Facility?"

"Yes."

"What for?"

"Manslaughter."

Henderson dropped the resume like it was burning. He leaned back, looking her up and down. The admiration in his eyes shifted to something sleazy.

"Well," he said, licking his lips. "It's a liability. Hiring a felon. Clients don't like it."

"I can work from home. I don't need to meet clients. Just look at the designs."

Henderson stood up. He walked around the desk. He stood too close to her. She could smell his stale coffee breath.

"I could take a risk," he said, lowering his voice. "But you'd have to make it worth my while. A pretty woman like you... surely you learned how to please men in prison?"

He reached out to touch her waist.

Karen slapped his hand away. The sound was loud in the small room.

"My hand is for drawing," she said, her voice shaking with rage. "Not for touching pigs."

"Get out!" Henderson yelled, his face turning purple. "You ungrateful bitch! You're a murderer! Nobody will hire you! You belong in the gutter!"

Karen turned and ran. She ran down the stairs, out into the street, the insults echoing in her ears.