John Hutsell turned on his office computer and did a search for Rob Kolmyer. Luckily, the man was a home-owner, and, in a matter of minutes, Hutsell had his address, along with a link to his Facebook account. Kolmyer’s cover photo, posted two months prior, showed him leaning against a new black Honda Civic. Hutsell clicked on the picture to get a better view of the man’s face, then walked over to the closet and opened his gun safe. He pulled out a Wilson Combat 1911 pistol and inserted a full magazine. Hutsell then racked the slide, loading a round into the chamber. He activated the safety, shoved the pistol in his waistband and headed out the door.

   It was a Friday night, so after work, Rob Kolmyer hit happy-hour before heading home. It was close to 9:30 when he parked his car in the driveway. He unlocked his front door and hit the light switch by the wall. The light failed to come on.

   “Damn,” he said. He took two steps before he tripped on something and ended up on the floor. Hutsell’s knee was immediately in his back.

   “What the f––!”

   Hutsell leaned down to Kolmyer’s ear and said, “Listen carefully.”

   Kolmyer felt cold steel on his cheek. He heard a distinct click as Hutsell released the safety of the 1911. Kolmyer knew that single click meant the pistol was ready to fire. Hutsell detected the unmistakable smell of urine.

   “You have some pictures of a friend of mine you posted Tuesday night in a false profile. I don’t know how many pictures you have or where you have them, but you will get rid of them. Do you understand?”

   Kolmyer shook his head yes.

   “If any pictures surface again, or if you cause her a moment’s grief . . . well, let’s just say, you didn’t see me coming this time and you won’t see me coming the next.”

   Kolmyer nodded again.

   Hutsell placed the clock from Kolmyer’s bedroom in front of the man’s face. It had a lighted dial.

   “Wait fifteen minutes before you head to the bathroom to clean yourself up.”

   It had started raining by the time Elle Wyatt saw the headlights of her cousin’s vehicle pull in and park behind Jenise’s Cherokee. She met him at the door, and with the overhang providing cover, stepped outside to allow Jenise and John some privacy.

   John found Jenise staring out the front window watching the rain. He walked up to her, and in a gentle voice, said her name. She crossed her arms over her chest and placed opposite hands over opposite shoulders, leaving no doubt as to what body part she was protecting.

   “He won’t bother you again,” John said.”

   She searched his face for something––anything. Solemn she thought, except for his eyes. Kyle was right, there was something there. Was it concern, or was it regret as Kyle had suggested? What did it matter? Nothing was ever going to change. She turned to leave.

   “Do you have someone you can stay with tonight?” he asked.

   “Why? Are you offering?” she asked, her voice hard and cold.

   “Jenise––.”

   “Let me put it in a way a grandchild of Jenny Nelson will understand,” she said. “‘A legend’s only a lonely boy when he goes home alone.’”

   She walked past him and out the door. She paused on the way to her car and looked at Elle. Elle knew what Jenise was feeling. And though she felt her cousin would never intentionally cause so much pain, she addressed him as they watched Jenise drive away.

   “I don’t know what happened in 2013, and I don’t want to know,” Elle said. “But John, you have to make it right.”

   “I can’t make it right. No one can.”