Battles are won in the first two seconds, or in the final two minutes.
Four days from now, I’m expecting to be murdered.
Their mother wasn’t crazy about everything: Everyone did have to die sometime, and you always had to be brave.
Two best friends, murdered, exactly one year and roughly one thousand miles apart.
No sign of a struggle, I will read later in the police report. No sign of forced entry.
Just a one female, strangled to death in the middle of her home on January 21st.
That’s the part I kept going back to. To not just die, but to die without putting up a
fight.
I’d spent months contemplating this question. Then I’d arrived at a decision.
Turns out, I didn’t want to be Tomika Miller, running from shadows, constantly
looking over her shoulder.
I wanted it to be January 21. I wanted to open that door. I wanted to look my killer
in the eye. One for Randi. One for Jackie. And one for me.
I’d been a good girl once. All those years of going along.
All those years of being a brave little girl, a good little girl. I couldn’t retaliate.
My mother had trained me too well.
Now I didn’t plan on being a good girl ever again.
Seventy-four hours left to live. What to do?
So I shot him. Only thing that made sense.


You want to know what it feels like to having nothing left to lose?
Liberating.
Intoxicating.
Dangerous.
6:02 p.m., I acquired my target.
Seventy-two hours and fifteen minutes left to live.
What would you do?
Twenty years later. Once the victim, now the cavalry.