His face is jarring in the way that déjà vu can be, like seeing a figment of your imagination materialize outside your mind. I could barely see him atop the roof, draped in darkness. And that was dangerous. Dangerous to pretend that he was anything but the man who murdered my father. It was pathetic. It was a distraction. And I will never be so weak again. But I see him now for what he is to me—dead.
