Chapter 8 #2
"Hey," I answer, trying to sound normal.
"Okay, what the hell did you write? Richard just called an emergency meeting. He wants to fast-track your publication. Move it up three months."
"What?"
"These new pages, Celeste. They're extraordinary. Dark and raw and real in a way your work hasn't been in years. Whatever you're doing up there, keep doing it."
"I'm just... finding inspiration."
"Well, find more. Richard wants the full manuscript by the end of January now. Can you do it?"
End of January.
Six weeks to finish a book about a woman falling for her stalker while my own stalker is killing people who threaten me.
"I can do it."
"Good. Oh, also—weird question, but have you noticed anything strange about Cain? He called me last night. Actually called, not texted. Wanted to know if you were okay."
"Why wouldn't I be okay?"
"That's what I said. But he seemed... concerned. Said the mountains can be dangerous for people who aren't prepared. Which is weird because he's never cared about my other authors who visited."
"Maybe he's just being protective. Small town, your brother looking out for your friend."
"Maybe." She pauses. "Celeste, I know this is none of my business, but... be careful with him."
"You said he was harmless."
"He is. To most people. But Cain doesn't do anything halfway. If he's interested in you—and asking about you suggests he is—just know that his interest can be... intense."
"How intense?"
"He had a girlfriend once. In high school, before our parents died. Rebecca. She broke up with him after three months. Said he was too much. Too focused. Too possessive. She moved away the next year, wouldn't say why."
"What happened to her?"
"Nothing. She's fine. Married with kids in Vermont now. But she still won't talk about Cain. Won't come back here. It's like whatever happened between them scared her off permanently."
Or saved her, I think.
Maybe Cain let her go because she couldn't handle what he was.
Maybe she's alive because she ran.
"I remember there was this thing," Juliette continues. "She had a stalker senior year. Some college guy who wouldn't leave her alone. Then one day, he just disappeared. Dropped out, moved away, never contacted her again. Rebecca left town a month later."
"You think Cain—"
"I don't think anything. I'm just saying, be careful. My brother protects what he considers his. And if he's decided you're his..."
She doesn't finish, but she doesn't need to.
If Cain's decided I'm his, then I am.
The question is whether I want to be.
"Thanks for the warning."
"I just don't want you getting hurt. You're my best author and my friend. And Cain... Cain's my brother, and I love him, but he's not like other people. He doesn't see the world the way we do."
No, I think.
He sees it clearly.
Sees the predators and the prey, the guilty and the innocent.
And he acts on what he sees.
"I'll be careful," I promise, another lie added to the pile.
After we hang up, I try to write again. This time, the words come:
She stood at the crossroads between two worlds—the daylight world of law and order, where her father hunted monsters, and the darkness where her monster hunted those the law couldn't touch.
She knew she should choose the light. Should tell someone what she knew.
Should stop this before more blood is spilled.
But the blood being spilled was poison, and the monster spilling it was hers. How could she betray the only person who'd ever seen her completely and chosen to protect rather than possess?
She couldn't. She wouldn't.
She would meet him at midnight, in the place where his ghosts lived, and she would choose the darkness. Choose him.
Because sometimes the real horror isn't the monster in the shadows—it's the one with a badge and keys to your door.
I save the document, then pull up a search engine.
It takes some digging, but I find her. Rebecca Harrison, married, two kids, works as a graphic designer.
Her social media is locked down tight, but there's one public post from last year.
A memorial for someone named David Reese.
The caption reads: "Five years free. Thank you to my guardian angel, wherever you are."
David Reese.
I search the name plus our town.
A small article from five years ago—college student, twenty-two, died in a car accident just outside town limits.
Single car, ran off the road into a tree.
No signs of foul play.
But Cain had just moved back to town five years ago.
My phone buzzes.
A text from an unknown number.
I open it to find a photo of Jake Bauer's personnel file.
Highlighted in yellow: three excessive force complaints. Two sexual harassment warnings. One sealed juvenile record.
The message below reads: Your father never saw this version. The official file was cleaned. Ask yourself why.
I delete the message, but the implication remains.
My father, the good sheriff, the protector—what else doesn't he see?
What else has been hidden from him?
Or worse, what has he chosen not to see?
The clock on the café wall reads noon.
Twelve hours until midnight.
Twelve hours to decide if I'm brave enough to fall completely into the darkness I've been writing about my whole life.
But really, the decision's already made.
It was made the moment Cain kissed me and I kissed him back.
When I tasted copper and wanted more.
When I chose the monster over the man.