Chapter Four #2
My stomach twisted. A bad guy. My mind flashed to Simmons, his name a shadow over every hushed argument I’d overheard as a kid.
The journals I’d found, pages filled with his obsession—twins, experiments, control.
My parents’ fear when his name came up, their willingness to pay to keep him quiet.
I shifted in my chair, the wood creaking under me.
“Yeah,” I said, voice low. “A villain like that . . . could work.”
Helen’s eyes lit up, and she poised her fingers over the keyboard.
“Exactly! I want mine to feel real, you know? I knew someone once—well, kind of.” She waved a hand, vague, like she was brushing off a memory.
“They had two sides to them, the one they showed to the world and the one that was capable of some real sick stuff. But in a book, how do you make that convincing? Like, what’s a bad guy like in your story, Ashen? ”
My pulse kicked up, a warning. She wasn’t asking me about my life, she was looking for inspiration for her romance. “I don’t have a story yet.”
Her smile was gentle. “Ashen Ryse, you have a pen name, there must be a story kicking around in that head of yours. Let your imagination go. When you imagine a villain in a story, a realistic modern villain, what is he like?”
I had already done and said too much. In a moment of remorse after returning the journals, I’d tried to sway Dylan and the others to spare my family .
. . to keep my actions a secret. Although it wasn’t as if anyone could read those journals and not condemn my parents’ contribution and silence, I still wanted to protect them.
But Helen wasn’t involved in any of that.
And Ashen could say anything, and it didn’t matter because he and Helen were crafting characters with imaginary conflicts. That space felt like freedom. Her words echoed now, loosening something in me. She wasn’t asking for my secrets. Just . . . ideas. Fiction. Right?
“Maybe, uh . . .” I sucked in a breath. “Maybe the villain is already dead, but what he did is still affecting all the characters. He’s still there in the shadows, trapping everyone in the role he forced them into.”
Her fingers flew across the keys. “Dead? That’s genius. And I love the idea that he’s gone but still very much there.” She chewed her bottom lip. “But how do you affect someone’s life after you’re dead?”
“He could have blackmailed them into doing something incriminating while he was alive. Something so heinous that if it ever got out, none of the characters would escape the public and legal backlash.”
“Oh, yes. Perfect. And unique. Maybe someone Judy’s father knows? One of his friends?”
“No. Not a friend. Someone who knew a secret about her father and used it against him, then blackmailed him enough to damn him by association.”
Her eyes widened. “You’re giving me chills—in a good way. Don’t stop. Keep going. This is exactly the inspiration I need. Even if I change it, it’s going to springboard me into a powerful plot; I just know it. Do all the characters know what the villain was up to?”
Memories of snippets of whispered conversations nipped at me. “The ones being blackmailed, yes, but not those around them. At least that’s how it would start. Then as the truth surfaces, they become collateral damage.”
Her fingers paused and her eyes darkened. “Everyone in a romance gets a happy ending.”
My lips pursed before I said, “So, you don’t want realistic.”
She sat up straighter. “No, no, I do. I’m sorry. What kind of things would you imagine this villain was guilty of?”
For a second her gaze was piercing instead of gentle and frazzled, and I stiffened. “I don’t know. There are a lot of sick people out there in the world.”
She looked down. “Sorry. You probably think I’m asking you to write the story for me.”
I instantly felt awful for shitting on her enthusiasm.
Reaching out, I briefly grazed the curve of her cheek with the back of my knuckles.
“No, I’m sorry. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to help you with your story.
What do I think the villain was guilty of?
Being a sociopath, probably. Vain. Obsessive. Cruel. Manipulative.”
She swallowed visibly. “But what did he do?”
Simmons’ experiments didn’t belong in a romance, but maybe his reasons for what he did could help Helen.
“He wasted his life trying to prove he was worthy of love from a father who was, himself, a horrible human being. What do they say? Hurt people hurt people? He was raised in a home full of shame, then abandoned and mocked by the father he’d dreamed would one day want him—toss in someone he loves killing herself—and you have the blueprint for someone who has lost his humanity. ”
“You sound like you might almost know someone like that.”
I shrugged. “I read the journals of a sociopath once. Ten out of ten, would not recommend. I thought I knew how low people could sink, but I didn’t.” Too much, I was sharing too much. I quickly added, “I read it for a college class.”
Her eyebrows rose and fell. “Who was the author?”
Shaking my head, I said, “I don’t remember, but I wouldn’t tell you even if I did. If I could go back and not have read it, I would.”
She leaned forward. “I understand.”
I rolled my shoulders back. “It’s fine.”
She shifted closer still, her flowery scent—bold, fresh, not matching her frilly vibe—making my head spin. “One day, it will be,” she whispered like a vow.
Her face was close to mine . . . so close. “Could you still see me without your glasses?”
Her lips parted. “Yes. They’re decorative. Writers wear glasses.”
I removed them and placed them between us then cupped her chin between my thumb and forefinger. “You’re trying so hard to be someone you think you should be, but you’re already perfect just the way you are.”
Her tongue flicked over her bottom lip. “I’m not, but I’m trying.”
The echo of my own words was my undoing. I leaned in and gently brushed my lips over hers. She tasted like lip gloss, coffee and . . . hope.