Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Celeste
My lips still feel bruised.
I sit at my desk, fingers hovering over the keyboard, but all I can think about is the way Cain kissed me—like he was trying to crawl inside my skin, like he wanted to consume me whole.
I've written hundreds of kiss scenes, described passion in every possible metaphor, but nothing I've ever written comes close to what happened in that cabin.
The cursor blinks at me, mocking.
I'm supposed to be writing chapter fifteen, the scene where my heroine finally confronts her stalker.
Instead, I type:
He tasted like violence and salvation, like every dark prayer she'd never dared voice. When he kissed her, she understood that she'd been sleeping her whole life, and this—this terrible, beautiful awakening—was what she'd been writing toward without knowing it.
Delete.
Too on the nose. Too much like what actually happened.
I touch my bottom lip where he bit me, where I can still feel the indent of his teeth.
The wound has scabbed over, but every time I press my tongue against it, I taste copper and remember.
His hands in my hair.
The wall against my back.
The way he said "mine" like it was a vow and a threat combined.
My ankle throbs, wrapped tight in the bandage he applied with those careful, murderous hands.
The same hands that gutted Roy Dunham.
That arranged his intestines in the trees like Christmas garlands.
I should be horrified. Disgusted. Terrified.
Instead, I'm wet.
My phone buzzes.
Juliette:
How's the writing going? Your last pages were INCREDIBLE. Richard actually smiled, which basically means he orgasmed.
Guilt twists in my stomach.
Juliette has been my champion for three years, fighting for my work, protecting my vision from corporate sanitization.
And I'm keeping secrets about her brother.
Her brother, who kills people.
Who kissed me like I was air and he was drowning.
I type her back:
Making progress. The mountains are definitely helping.
Within a few moments, she’s already sent me a reply:
See? I told you! BTW, have you found any cute town locals to spend some time with while you’re away?
My heart stops.
I stare at the message, trying to formulate a response that isn't a complete lie but doesn't reveal the truth:
No. I haven’t even really given it a thought. I’m focused on the book.
I close my laptop, unable to focus.
I need coffee.
Real coffee, not the burnt offering my father calls coffee.
And I need to be around normal people doing normal things, to remind myself that the regular world still exists.
The drive into town is surreal.
Everything looks different now that I know what moves in the darkness.
Every shadow could be Cain.
Every person could be prey or predator.
The world has been reorganized into a binary that makes more sense than any legal system: those who hurt and those who stop them.
Stella's is busy for a Thursday morning.
The breakfast rush has passed, but the coffee crowd lingers.
I find a corner table and order my usual oatmilk latte, settling in with my laptop.
Around me, the locals are buzzing with gossip.
"—found him this morning. Hunter stumbled across it."
"Heard it was horrific. Like something out of a movie."
"Poor Sheriff Sterling. Man's aged ten years in the last month."
"They're saying it was a ritual. Satanic maybe."
"No, I heard it was a warning. That whoever did it wanted it found."
My blood runs cold. They found Roy.
The bell chimes, and my father walks in.
He looks worse than I've ever seen him—grey-faced, hollow-eyed, moving like every step costs him.
His uniform is wrinkled, coffee stains on the sleeve.
He spots me and makes his way over, collapsing into the chair across from me like his bones have given up.
"Dad."
"Hey, kid." His voice is rough, like he's been shouting or crying or both. "Didn't expect you to be here."
"Needed real coffee. You look..."
"Like hell. I know." He signals Stella, who brings him black coffee without asking. He downs half of it in one go, burning his tongue but not caring. "We found another body this morning."
I force my face to remain neutral. "Another woman?"
"No. Man this time. Roy Dunham. Ex-con. Been out on parole for about six weeks."
"How did he—was it the same killer?"
My father's jaw tightens. "It was... elaborate. Worst thing I've seen in thirty years on the force. He was in a tree, strung up like a deer being dressed. But that's not even the worst part."
I wait, my coffee growing cold in my hands.
"There was a deer skull placed in his... in his chest cavity. After the killer had..." He stops, takes another gulp of coffee. "The things done to that man, Celeste. It was personal. This wasn't random. It was rage. Pure, calculated rage."
"Maybe he deserved it."
The words slip out before I can stop them.
My father's eyes sharpen. "What makes you say that?"
"Ex-con, you said. What was he in for?"
"Sexual assault. Minor. Fifteen-year-old girl in Columbus." Dad runs his hand through his hair. "Found some stuff at the scene. Prison library books. Your books, actually. Had notes in the margins, sick stuff about you."
My stomach turns, but not from disgust.
From relief.
Roy had been planning something, and Cain stopped him.
"He was obsessed with you," Dad continues, not noticing my reaction. "We found a notebook full of... fantasies. Photos of you from articles, events. Some taken recently, here in town. He'd been watching you."
"But now he's not."
Dad looks at me strangely. "No. Now he's very dead. But Celeste, this killer—whoever's doing this—they're escalating. Getting more violent. More personal."
"Maybe they're protecting people."
"Protecting?" His voice rises slightly. Stella glances over, concerned. He lowers his voice. "They're butchering people. That's not protection, that's psychopathy."
I think about Jake's hands trying my bedroom door.
About Roy's sick notebook.
About how my father has no idea what dangers have been removed from my path.
"What if the victims weren't really victims? What if they were predators themselves?"
"That's not how justice works. We have laws, courts, systems—"
"Systems that let Roy out after six years for assaulting a minor? Systems that give people like him access to my books so they can fantasize about me?"
Dad reaches across the table, takes my hand. His palm is callused, familiar. The hand that taught me to ride a bike, that checked for monsters under my bed. Now it hunts a monster whom I’ve been in bed with. "Celeste, you're scaring me. You sound like you're defending this killer."
"I'm just saying maybe it's not as black and white as you think."
He pulls back, studying me with cop eyes now, not father eyes. "Do you know something? Has someone approached you? Threatened you?"
Yes. Kissed me. Killed for me. Promised to keep killing for me.
"No, Dad. I'm just tired of everyone acting like all victims are innocent. Sometimes the people who die bring it on themselves."
"Christ, your books really are affecting you." He scrubs his face. "Speaking of people acting strange, Jake called in sick today. Asked to be removed from your protection detail."
"Oh?"
"Yeah. Said he needed some time to deal with personal issues. Wouldn't elaborate." Dad frowns. "He seemed off yesterday too. Jumpy. Kept asking questions about the Lockwood property."
"Cain Lockwood?"
Dad's expression darkens. "Stay away from him, Celeste. I can't prove it yet, but he's involved in this somehow. The skulls, the violence, the way he just appeared in town around the time the killings started—"
"He's lived here for years."
"Five years. And you know when the first suspicious death was? Four and a half years ago. Ruled accidental at the time, but now I'm not so sure."
"Who was it?"
"Local dealer. Mark Webb. Found at the bottom of Black Mountain ravine. Could have been a fall, but the bones were... arranged. Posed. We just didn't see the pattern then."
Mark Webb. I remember him vaguely from high school.
Used to sell to kids, particularly liked getting freshman girls high at parties. Another predator removed.
"There were others too," Dad continues, lost in his theory now. "Deaths we ruled accidental or natural. A coach who died in a hunting accident—arrow through the throat, but his bow was found strung wrong. A landlord who fell down stairs, broke his neck. All could be accidents, but..."
"But what?"
"But they all had histories. Sealed records, dismissed complaints, rumors. The coach had been accused of inappropriate conduct with students but never charged. The landlord had multiple harassment complaints from female tenants. And they all happened after Lockwood came back to town."
My coffee is cold, but I drink it anyway, needing something to do with my hands.
Cain has been cleaning house for years, removing threats before they could fully manifest.
He's been making this town safer while my father chased shadows.
"I have to go," Dad says, standing.
His legs shake slightly—exhaustion or age, or both. "Need to coordinate with state police. They're sending a unit to assist. This is getting too big for just us." He pauses, looks down at me. "Lock your doors, Celeste. Windows too. And if Lockwood approaches you—"
"Call you immediately," I lie.
"Good girl."
After he leaves, I sit there, staring at my coffee.
My father is hunting the man I kissed last night.
The man who saved me from at least two predators.
The man whose sister is my editor and friend.
I reach for my coffee and feel something in my pocket that wasn't there before.
A folded piece of paper.
My hands shake as I unfold it, recognizing Cain's handwriting:
The old Lockwood estate. Midnight. Come alone, or don't come at all. I have something to show you about your father. —C
I look around the café, but he's not here.
When did he slip this into my pocket?
This morning when I left the house?
I didn't see him, didn't feel anything.
But then, I never do until he wants me to.
My phone rings. Juliette.