Chapter 15 #2
Michael first, because he knew too much and served as a warning to others.
Then Sarah, because she wouldn't stop looking for us, wouldn't stop fighting.
Sterling's signature is on the death certificates.
He signed off on their murders, helped stage the accident scene.
But there's a final note, dated a week after Sarah's death:
Children told parents died in accident. Boy showing signs of trauma response—violence, isolation, possible memory of events. Girl adapting better. Recommend increased control measures for boy. Consider pharmaceutical intervention if behavioral modifications unsuccessful.
Those control measures were the "discipline sessions" that started when I was eight.
The pharmaceutical intervention was the pills they tried to force on me at twelve, the ones that made me feel nothing, that I learned to hide under my tongue and spit out later.
I sit back in Richard's chair, processing this.
Every truth I thought I knew is a lie.
Every tragedy in my life connects back to this room, these documents, these men who played God with children's lives.
My mother died trying to save us.
My father died because he sold us.
And I grew up thinking they abandoned us, that we were unwanted.
We were wanted.
By our mother, at least.
She died trying to get us back.
There's one more folder, newer than the others, dated for this year. "Christmas Shipment."
Inside are details for a delivery on Christmas Eve.
Twelve girls, ages fourteen to seventeen, coming up from Albany.
Routes mapped out, avoiding state police checkpoints.
The drop point is the cabin Morrison had in his wallet.
The buyers are already lined up—names, amounts, preferences listed like a shopping catalog.
Judge Hamilton wants "blonde, 14-15, athletic build."
Dr. Wallis wants "Asian, any age, compliant."
Father McKenzie wants "redhead, 16-17, religious background preferred."
And then I see it. Sterling's name.
Not just as a facilitator but coordinating the entire shipment, and being a buyer.
He's requested "one brunette, 15-16, similar to C.S., virgin essential."
C.S. Celeste Sterling.
He wants a girl who looks like his daughter.
A virgin who looks like Celeste.
The rage that fills me is ice-cold and infinite.
I've killed sixteen people, but none of them deserved death as much as Sheriff Sterling.
He's not just a trafficker, not just a corrupt cop—he's something worse.
Something that wears a father's face while harboring desires that would destroy his daughter if she knew.
I photograph everything, then pack the originals into a duffel bag.
This cottage might be maintained, but I doubt Sterling checks it often.
He won't know the documents are gone until it's too late.
I take one last look around the room where Richard conducted his real business, where my fate and Juliette's were decided like a transaction.
The chair where I sat as a seventeen-year-old, being told I was broken, wrong, in need of fixing.
I wasn't broken then. I was breaking free.
The drive back to my cabin takes twenty minutes, but I make it in fifteen, pushing my truck hard on the icy roads.
Something feels wrong.
My instincts, honed by years of hunting, are screaming danger.
Sterling's SUV is parked in my driveway, engine off, covered in a light dusting of snow.
He's been here at least an hour.
Long enough to do damage.
I can hear voices inside—Sterling's authoritative rumble, Celeste's sharper tones.
They're arguing, but Celeste sounds calm.
In control.
My girl can handle herself.
I enter quietly through the back door, moving through my own house like a ghost.
Their voices become clearer as I approach.
"—trying to protect you," Sterling is saying. "He's dangerous, Celeste. He's killed people."
"So have I, Dad. Does that make me dangerous too?"
"That's different. You were defending yourself from Jake. Cain is a serial killer."
"Cain is justice in a world where you let rapists walk free."
"I made mistakes with Jake, I admit that. But this isn't about Jake. This is about you marrying a psychopath."
"The only psychopath in my life is the one who raised me."
Silence.
Then Sterling's voice is smaller, desperate: "What does that mean?"
"It means I know, Dad. I know about the trafficking. I know about the girls. I know about everything."
"You don't know what you're talking about."
"Morrison told us everything before he died."
I choose this moment to enter, making my footsteps heard.
Sterling spins toward me, his hand going to his weapon.
He looks haggard, worse than I've ever seen him.
His uniform is wrinkled, badge tarnished, eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep or too much whiskey.
Probably both.
"Lockwood." He says my name like a curse.
"Sheriff." I set the duffel bag down heavily, watching his eyes track it.
He knows that bag, knows where I've been, what I've found. "Productive morning?"
"That's breaking and entering."
"It's my property. Hard to break into what you own. Though I'm curious why you've been maintaining it."
His face drains of color. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"The padlock was new. The hinges oiled. Someone's been keeping that cottage ready for use."
Sterling's hand moves to his gun. "You're paranoid."
"Am I?" I pull out the photo of him with the unconscious girl. Hold it up so he can see it clearly. "Is this paranoia?"
He draws his gun, points it at me. "Where did you get that?"
"Richard kept excellent records. Insurance, he called it."
"Put it down. All of it. Give me the bag."
"No."
The gun swings to Celeste. "Give me the bag or I'll—"
"You'll what? Shoot your own daughter? Go ahead. Make my job easier."
"Your job?"
"Removing predators from this world. You're next on my list, Sterling."
The gun swings back to me. "You killed Jake. Morrison. All of them."
"Jake and Morrison, yes. The others were just practice."
"You son of a bitch—"
"I'm the son of Sarah Reeves, actually. You remember her? The woman who begged you to help find her children? The one you had killed when she wouldn't stop looking?"
Sterling's face goes white. "That was Richard—"
"On your orders. With your help. Your signature is on every document."
"Cain," Celeste says quietly. "What did you find?"
"Everything. Your father's been trafficking children for thirty years. My biological parents were murdered for trying to get Juliette and me back. And Sterling here has a special request in for Christmas Eve—a teenage girl who looks like you."
She stands slowly, turns to face her father. "Is that true?"
Sterling's hand shakes, the gun wavering. "Princess, I can explain—"
"Is. It. True?"
"It's not what it sounds like—"
I pull out the request form, read it aloud. "One brunette, 15-16, similar to C.S., virgin essential." I look up at Sterling. "C.S. Your daughter's initials."
Celeste takes the paper, reads it herself.
When she looks up at her father, there's nothing in her eyes.
No anger, no disgust, no sadness. Nothing.
"You wanted a girl who looks like me."
"It wasn't—I wouldn't—she was just supposed to be for housework—"
"Stop lying." Her voice is ice. "For once in your pathetic life, tell the truth."
Sterling drops to his knees, the gun clattering away. "I'm sick. I know I'm sick. But I never touched you, never would have—"
"Because I'm your daughter? Or because you preferred victims who couldn't fight back?"
He's sobbing now, ugly gasping sobs.
The powerful sheriff is reduced to a pathetic creature begging for understanding that will never come.
"Walk me down the aisle," Celeste says suddenly.
Sterling looks up, confused. "What?"
"Christmas Eve. Walk me down the aisle at my wedding. Play the loving father one more time. Then disappear forever."
"Celeste—"
"Or everyone sees these documents by morning."
"You're blackmailing me?"
"I'm giving you a chance you don't deserve. Take it or don't."
Sterling retrieves his gun slowly, holsters it. Stands on shaking legs. "After the wedding, I'll leave?"
"After the wedding, you'll be gone one way or another."
He understands the threat but has no choice. "Midnight? At the estate?"
"Where else would we marry but where it all began?"
Sterling stumbles to the door, pauses. "The shipment on Christmas Eve—"
"We'll handle it," I say. "Those girls will be freed."
"And the buyers?"
"Will be dealt with."
He nods, understanding.
After he leaves, Celeste collapses into my arms.
"Christmas Eve," she whispers. "We get married and kill my father on the same night."
"Poetic justice."
"Our wedding gift to each other—removing a monster from the world."
I kiss her forehead, tasting salt from tears she won't let fall. "Three days to plan a wedding and multiple murders."
"The perfect Christmas," she says, and means it.