Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
Cain
She holds the book like a prayer, fingers trembling against the aged binding, and I know I've chosen correctly.
From my position in the woods, I can see directly into her room through the window.
She never thinks to pull the curtain.
The first edition Rebecca glows amber in her lamplight as she opens it again, reading my inscription for what must be the fifth time.
Her lips move slightly, shaping the words: necessary monsters.
She understands, or she's beginning to.
I watch her set the book carefully on her nightstand, then return to her laptop.
Her fingers fly across the keys with the urgency of real inspiration—the kind that comes from touching something dangerous and deciding not to let go.
Every few minutes, she glances at the book, then at the raven feather she's moved to sit beside it.
Building a shrine to her secret admirer without even realizing it.
The snow that started an hour ago provides perfect cover, muffling any sound I might make.
Not that I make sounds anymore.
Twenty years of practice has taught me to move like the forest itself—present but unnoticed until it's too late.
Through the window, I can see her pause in her writing, stretching her arms above her head.
The movement makes her sweater ride up, revealing a strip of pale skin.
She's unaware of her vulnerability, unaware that someone studies every gesture, memorizing the way she moves when she thinks she's alone.
There's an honesty in solitude that disappears the moment people know they're observed.
But Celeste... Celeste might be the exception.
She might be more honest with an audience, more herself when someone's watching.
Her books suggest she understands that performance and authenticity aren't opposites—sometimes the truest version of ourselves emerges when we know someone's paying attention.
A car engine breaks the silence.
Sheriff Sterling's cruiser, earlier than usual.
He's been keeping irregular hours lately, trying to be unpredictable.
As if unpredictability could stop what's already in motion.
But it's not just Sterling.
There's another figure in the passenger seat.
Deputy Jake Bauer, I realize as they pull into the driveway.
Interesting.
Sterling usually comes home alone, preferring to keep his work and home life separate.
Something's changed.
I ease back deeper into the trees, though I keep Celeste's window in sight.
She's heard the car too—her fingers have stilled on the keyboard, head tilted in that way she has when she's listening.
She moves to her window, peering down at the driveway.
When she sees Jake, something crosses her face—not fear, but discomfort.
The kind of expression women perfect when dealing with men they can't quite refuse but desperately want to.
Twenty minutes pass before I circle back to my truck, parked a half-mile away on an old logging road.
The walk through the woods is meditative, each step calculated to leave minimal tracks.
By the time I reach my cabin, I know Sterling will already be there.
He’ll have seen his daughter with his own eyes and decided it’s time to check in on me.
It's a dance we do—him pretending his visits are random, me pretending I don't track his every movement.
Sure enough, his cruiser sits in front of my cabin, engine still running.
Exhaust fumes rise like spirits in the cold air.
Both doors open as I pull up.
"Sheriff," I greet, stepping out of my truck. "Deputy."
Jake Bauer is everything I remember from my research.
Thirty-two, been with the department six years, never made it past deputy because he lacks the intelligence for promotion.
Peaked in high school as varsity quarterback, still wears his class ring.
The kind of man who thinks his badge makes up for every inadequacy.
He's put on weight since high school, muscle turned soft, but he still carries himself like he expects people to step aside.
His uniform is too tight, buttons straining slightly.
He wears too much cologne—something aggressive and cheap that's meant to cover the smell of cigarettes and desperation.
"Lockwood." Sterling's voice carries exhaustion poorly disguised as authority. "We need to ask you a few questions."
"Of course. Would you like to come in? I have coffee."
They exchange glances.
Good cops never go inside unless invited.
Better cops never go inside even then.
"Here's fine," Sterling says.
I lean against my truck, the picture of cooperation. "How can I help?"
"Where were you last night between midnight and four AM?"
"Here. Sleeping, mostly. Though I did get up around two—the Schubert was bothering me."
Jake looks confused. Sterling doesn't. "Schubert?"
"The Winterreise. I've been working through it on violin. The sixteenth movement wasn't sitting right. 'Letzte Hoffnung'—Last Hope. Seemed appropriate given the current climate."
"Anyone who can verify that?"
I smile slightly. "The mountains don't take witness statements, Sheriff. Though your daughter might have heard it. The sound carries."
Sterling's jaw tightens at the mention of Celeste.
Beside him, Jake perks up with interest that has nothing to do with the investigation.
"You met her today," Sterling says.
It's not a question.
"We ran into each other at Stella's. My sister is her editor—it would have been rude not to introduce myself."
"Your sister," Jake interjects, trying to sound casual, "she visit often?"
"Rarely. She prefers the city."
"But Celeste came back." Jake's tone shifts, becomes too familiar. "Can't blame her. City's no place for a woman like that. She needs to be somewhere safe. Protected."
The way he says "protected" makes my fingers itch for my knife.
I can see it all over him—the high school fantasies he never outgrew, the way he probably cornered her at parties, mistaking proximity for possibility.
Men like Jake think wanting something enough makes it theirs.
"You knew her in school," I say. Not a question.
Jake's chest puffs out. "We had history together. Senior year. She was a junior." His smile is predatory nostalgia. "Smart girl. Too smart for her own good sometimes. Always writing in those notebooks, thinking she was better than everyone."
"Jake." Sterling's warning is mild. Too mild. He doesn't see what his deputy is.
"Just saying, she's filled out nice. City did her good.
" Jake's eyes glaze slightly, lost in memory or fantasy.
"Remember that Halloween dance, Sheriff?
She went as Sylvia Plath. Nobody got it except the English teacher.
Spent the whole night sitting in the corner, writing and watching everyone like she was taking notes. "
He was watching her. Even then.
I hate that.
I hate that he was watching her with his eyes, doing what I should’ve been doing.
"Is there something specific you're investigating?" I ask Sterling, ignoring his deputy entirely.
"Another body was found this morning."
This is news.
I haven't left any recently, which means either they found Roy faster than expected or there's another player. "Same pattern?"
Sterling's eyes narrow. "How do you know there's a pattern?"
"Small town. People talk."
"People also die," Jake adds, trying to sound threatening. "Especially women who fit a certain type. Dark hair, early thirties, independent."
Like Celeste.
He doesn't say it, but the implication hangs in the air like frozen breath.
"Then it's fortunate you're providing protection," I say mildly.
Jake steps forward. "You seem pretty unconcerned for someone whose property is covered in skulls."
"They're deer skulls, Deputy. From legal hunts, all tagged and recorded with Fish and Wildlife. Would you like to see the permits?"
"What I'd like," Jake says, moving closer, "is to know why a man lives alone in the woods, playing violin at all hours, collecting bones."
"Jake," Sterling warns.
But Jake's on a roll now, trying to establish dominance. "See, I remember you from school. Always watching people. Always apart. And now women are dying and you're sniffing around the sheriff's daughter—"
"That's enough." Sterling's voice cuts through Jake's posturing. "Mr. Lockwood, we're talking to everyone in the area. Routine investigation."
"Of course." I meet his tired eyes. "If there's any way I can help, please let me know. I imagine you want whoever's doing this caught before—" I pause delicately, "—before someone else gets hurt."
The threat in my courtesy is subtle enough that only Sterling catches it.
He studies me for a long moment, and I see him cataloging details—the scars on my hands, the way I stand—balanced, ready—the complete absence of fear despite being questioned about murders.
"Stay available," he finally says. "We might have more questions."
"I'm not going anywhere."
They get back in the cruiser, but Jake turns for one last look. "Nice place you got here. Very isolated. Anything could happen and no one would know."
"Yes," I agree. "It's perfect that way."
After they leave, I go inside and check my security system.
Six cameras cover the property, all hidden, all recording to drives that upload to the cloud.
If they come back without a warrant, I'll know.
If they bring a warrant, I'll know sooner.
My phone buzzes. Juliette.
"Tell me you haven't been arrested," she says without waiting for me to say a word.
"Why would I be arrested?"
"Because Celeste texted me that her father went to question you about the murders. Cain, please tell me you're not—"
"I'm not anything," I cut her off. "The sheriff is questioning everyone."
"Good. Good." She sighs. "How was it meeting Celeste? She said you were 'intense.'"
"She was interesting."
"Cain, that's what you say about particularly challenging taxidermy. She's brilliant and gorgeous and—"
"And your client."
"And my friend. Be nice to her if you see her again. She's having a rough time with her writing."
"What kind of rough time?"