Then their crowd parted and I saw him—the maggoty bastard who’d murdered my father. A burning rage swelled from the pit of my stomach. I gritted my teeth, biting back the angry words that threatened to spill from my mouth. I wanted to kill him, to rip him to pieces with my bare hands. His beady, black eyes, too small for his plump red face, scanned our party with disgust. I scowled at him as he sauntered toward the edge of the platform. The train was coming closer, growing louder.
“Hey!” I wanted him to look at me. To see my father in my eyes.
“What are you doing,” Simon said, pulling me back. “Be quiet! Are you mad?”