Chapter 14 #2
Morrison's eyes are terrified now, rolling frantically, tears streaming down his paralyzed face.
"But first," I say, kneeling on his other side, "we have questions. Blink once for yes, twice for no. Understood?"
One blink.
"You've been trafficking girls through these mountains for years."
One blink. No point in denying it now.
"Jake knew about it."
One blink.
"That's why Sterling protected him. Jake had leverage."
One blink, but there's something else in his eyes.
Something eager, like he wants to tell us more.
"Sterling," Cain says slowly, reading the signs. "He's involved too."
One blink.
Violent, emphatic.
My blood turns to ice. "My father is part of the trafficking ring?"
One blink.
"For how long?" I realize he can't answer that with blinks. "More than five years?"
One blink.
"More than ten?"
One blink.
"More than twenty?"
One blink.
Twenty years.
My whole life, my father has been... I think about all the late nights, the unexplained money for my college despite his sheriff's salary, the way certain criminals disappeared from custody while others walked free.
The family vacations we could suddenly afford.
The new car he bought me for high school graduation—paid in cash.
"Jesus Christ," I breathe. "He's been doing this since before I was born."
"Since your mother left," Cain says suddenly. "She found out, didn't she?"
Morrison can't answer complex questions, but his eyes tell us everything.
"That's why she left," I say numbly. "Not because she couldn't handle being a cop's wife. Because she discovered what he really was."
"The Lockwoods," Cain says suddenly, his voice sharp with realization. "They knew."
Morrison's eyes go wide.
One blink.
"They had evidence on Sterling. That's why he never investigated the abuse."
One blink.
"That's why their deaths were ruled accidental so quickly."
One blink.
I'm going to be sick.
My father knew Cain and Juliette were being abused and did nothing because their parents had dirt on him.
He sacrificed children to protect his secret.
Children the same age as me.
"Jesus," I breathe. "Richard Lockwood probably supplied kids to the trafficking ring. That's how he knew. He was part of it."
One blink.
Cain goes very still. "My adoptive father trafficked children."
One blink.
"Through Sterling's network."
One blink.
"Some of those children... they came through our house."
One blink.
I watch Cain process this, see something shift in his eyes.
Not guilt—he was a child, a victim.
But understanding.
The scope of the evil he was raised in, that we were both raised adjacent to.
"Where's the evidence?" Cain demands. "Where did Richard keep it?"
Morrison can't answer, can only blink frantically, his eyes rolling upward.
"The estate," I guess. "The Lockwood estate."
One blink.
"Hidden?"
One blink.
"In the house?"
Two blinks.
"Somewhere else on the property?"
One blink.
"The old groundskeeper's cottage," Cain says suddenly. "Richard used it as an office sometimes. Said it was for business."
Morrison blinks once, emphatically.
There's evidence on the Lockwood property that could destroy my father.
Evidence that's been sitting there for twenty years, waiting.
Morrison is trying desperately to communicate something else, his eyes rolling toward me, then Cain, then me again.
His face is purple now, the paralytic affecting his circulation.
"There's more," Cain says. "Something about Celeste."
One blink.
"About why Sterling let me live when he knew I was killing?"
One blink.
"He's using me. I'm cleaning up his problems. The dealers, the predators—they were all connected to the trafficking ring. Competition or liabilities."
One blink.
Morrison's eyes are gleaming now, vindictive even in paralysis.
He's enjoying this revelation, watching my world shatter.
"Every person you've killed," I say to Cain, "my father knew about them. Wanted them dead. You've been his unwitting executioner."
"Marcus Webb," Cain says suddenly. "The dealer. He was competition."
One blink.
"Patricia Morse. The social worker. She was getting too close to the trafficking."
One blink.
"Timothy Bradley, the coach. He was sampling product without paying."
One blink.
"Every single one."
One blink.
"My father didn't catch you because you were doing his work for him."
Through the paralysis, Morrison manages something like a smile.
"Enough," Cain says. He positions the second needle. "This is for every girl you've touched. Every life you've destroyed. Every father you've corrupted."
"Wait," I say. "Morrison, one more question. The cabin address in your wallet—that's where you keep them? The girls?"
One blink.
"Are there girls there now?"
Two blinks.
"But there will be soon?"
One blink.
"When?"
He can't answer. But his eyes flick upward, toward the sky.
"Tonight?"
Two blinks.
"Tomorrow?"
One blink.
"Christmas Eve," Cain says. "You're bringing in a shipment on Christmas Eve when law enforcement is distracted."
One blink.
The digitalis goes in smooth, directly into the jugular.
Morrison's eyes widen impossibly, his body trying to convulse but unable to move.
The heart attack is immediate, massive, devastating.
His face purples, eyes hemorrhaging, foam tinged with blood at his mouth.
"Does it hurt?" I ask clinically, watching him die.
"Every nerve is firing," Cain says. "His heart is tearing itself apart. He can feel everything but can't scream. It's agony in its purest form."
"Good."
It takes three minutes.
Three minutes of agony he can feel but can't express.
Three minutes of his heart exploding in his chest while his mind remains conscious.
I count them down on my watch, observing his death with the detachment I use for writing scenes.
The way his eyes bulge, bloodshot and desperate.
The foam turning pink, then red.
The strange gurgling as his paralyzed throat tries to scream.
At two minutes, he knows he's dying.
The knowledge is clear in his eyes—not just fear but understanding.
This is justice.
Brutal, illegal, but justice nonetheless.
At two and a half minutes, he looks at me.
Really looks at me.
And I see him recognize something—I'm not horrified.
I'm satisfied.
The sheriff's daughter has become something he never expected.
At three minutes, he's gone.
Cain checks his pulse.
Nothing.
Morrison is meat now, nothing more.
We work quickly, staging the scene.
Morrison collapsed on his run, phone fallen from his armband, wallet scattered as he clutched his chest.
We take the cash but leave the cards—robbery but not thorough.
Desperate, opportunistic.
The kind of thing an addict might do finding a collapsed jogger.
I pocket the paper with the cabin address.
We'll need that for Christmas Eve.
"We should go," Cain says. "It's 6:35. The early runners will start arriving soon."
We jog back to the truck, maintaining pace in case anyone sees us.
Just another couple out for morning exercise.
My body feels electric, alive in ways that have nothing to do with the run.
We've killed together now.
Planned it, executed it, covered it up. We're partners in the deepest sense.
In the truck, reality crashes over me.
"My father is a monster."
"Yes."
"He knew what your parents were doing to you."
"Yes."
"He let Jake hurt those women."
"Yes."
"He's been trafficking girls."
"Yes."
"Everything I am came from blood money. My education, my apartment, my entire life was funded by selling children."
"That's not your fault."
"No, but it's my responsibility now. Knowing makes me responsible."
"What do you want to do?"
"I need to write. I need to get these feelings out before they poison me."
"Celeste—"
"Please. Just... take me home. To your cabin. I need to write about daughters who discover their fathers are the real monsters. I need to make sense of this."