Chapter 8: Natalie's Fury

Natalie and her mother were still in shock, dazed and numb. The world had turned upside down, and nothing made sense anymore.

Especially Natalie, who was completely knocked off her feet by this disaster. Every noise startled her; every phone call made her heart race.

Her father had died of illness before she married, making her promise on his deathbed to take care of her brother. Her father’s voice echoed in her head—Take care of your brother, Nat. She squeezed her eyes shut, wishing she could go back and do it all over. That promise echoed in her ears now, a burden she could never set down.

But now she’d failed her brother. And in such a bewildering way. The guilt was a weight she carried everywhere, heavier than the urn itself.

Natalie knew something was fishy, otherwise her brother wouldn’t have been cremated so quickly. She replayed the timeline over and over, looking for sense in the senseless.

But as for what exactly was wrong, she couldn’t figure it out. The truth was slippery, always just out of reach.

Of course, she didn’t just sit and do nothing. The day after bringing her brother’s ashes home, she went to the county, found a law office, and paid two hundred dollars for a consultation. The lawyer’s diploma hung crooked behind his desk, and his tie was stained with mustard. He barely looked up as he said, "Look, Ms. Grant, this just isn’t a death penalty case. Wrongful death at best, but with seven boys, blame gets spread thin."

The result was discouraging. The world didn’t care about justice for people like Ethan.

In her mind, a life for a life was only fair. Her heart screamed for justice, but the law was cold and unmoving.

Her brother was beaten to death—how could it just end with some compensation? She wanted to scream, to shake someone, to make them understand.

But Attorney Sanders at the firm said: “Death from fighting isn’t the same as intentional murder. Both sides share responsibility. It’s not enough for the death penalty.” He looked away, uncomfortable, already thinking about his next appointment.

And most importantly, it was a group fight over jealousy. The words made Natalie’s stomach turn.

Group fights dilute responsibility, spreading out both blame and prison time. The law treated suffering like something to be divided up and measured.

No matter what, the chance of the death penalty was almost zero. The lawyer shrugged, as if that settled things.

No, it was definitely zero. The words hung in the air, final and cruel.

At most, each would get a few years. Then they’d come home, eat barbecue on the Fourth of July, and laugh about the past.

After release, they’d go on with their lives. But Ethan would never get that chance.

Natalie was desperate, not knowing what to do, when the six parents came knocking. Their voices carried through the thin walls, demanding, accusing, pleading.

The first thing these six did when they entered was demand money. The smell of sweat and anger filled the tiny living room.

Before Natalie could even figure out what was happening, the six—riled up by the bystanders—started passionately explaining, laying out the whole story of Ethan’s death. Their words ran over each other, desperate to shift the blame.

Doing everything they could to prove: Your brother wasn’t killed by our kids, it has nothing to do with us. They wagged their fingers, voices cracking, faces red with shame and rage.

One father paced, hat twisting in his hands; another stared at the floor, jaw clenched. The room felt too small for all that anger.

Natalie snapped. Her hands curled into fists, her eyes blazing. For the first time since Ethan died, she felt something fierce and alive—something that would not, could not, be quieted. She straightened her back, meeting their eyes for the first time. "You want your money? You’ll have to take it from me." The room fell silent, and for a moment, nobody breathed.