Chapter 4 #2
Stella appears with a plate of pastries neither of us ordered. "On the house," she chirps, clearly thrilled to see Cain talking to someone. "You two know each other from the city?"
"My sister is Celeste's editor," Cain explains, and I watch Stella file this information away for future gossip distribution.
She leaves us alone, and we sit in surprisingly comfortable silence for a moment.
I break off a piece of croissant, acutely aware of him watching me eat.
There's something unsettling about his focus, the way he seems to catalogue every movement.
"Can I ask you something?" I say.
"You're going to anyway."
That makes me smile despite myself. "Why here? Juliette lives in Manhattan, but you chose ... this."
He's quiet long enough that I think he won't answer. When he does speak, his voice is different, softer but somehow more dangerous. "Have you ever felt like you were wearing a skin that didn't fit? Like every interaction required a performance you were tired of giving?"
I nod, because yes, God yes, I know exactly what he means.
Every publishing party, every interview, every fake smile for readers who want me to be as safe as my dangerous characters.
"Here, I don't have to perform. The mountains don't care what you are, only that you respect them. The woods don't judge. They just exist, and they let you exist alongside them."
"And the deer skulls?" I ask, trying for levity.
His smile is sharp. "Memento mori. Reminders that death is natural, necessary. That there's beauty in bones once you strip away the rest."
A shiver runs through me that has nothing to do with the cold pressing against the windows. "My father thinks you might be killing those women."
I don't know why I say it.
Maybe to see how he'll react.
Maybe because the way he talks about death makes my pulse race in a way that should frighten me, but doesn't.
He doesn't flinch. "Your father's job is to suspect everyone. Do you think I'm killing them?"
"I don't know you well enough to think anything."
"But you're sitting here anyway."
"Maybe I have bad judgment."
"Or maybe." He leans forward, and I catch his scent—pine and something metallic, like cold air before snow. "Maybe you recognize something in me. The same thing I recognize in your writing. That understanding that darkness isn't the opposite of light—it's the place where light hasn't reached yet."
My phone buzzes. Dad, texting to check in. I ignore it.
"I should go," I say, but don't move.
"There's something you should know," Cain says. "About these woods, about what's happening here. Your father is looking for a monster, but he doesn't understand that sometimes monsters serve a purpose. Sometimes they're necessary."
"Are you trying to tell me something?"
"I'm trying to warn you that the truth is rarely as simple as good versus evil. And that your father, for all his good intentions, might not be able to protect you from what's coming."
"What's coming?"
He stands, dropping cash on the table for both our coffees. "Inspiration, hopefully. The kind you came here looking for."
He pulls on a black wool coat that makes him look even taller, more imposing.
Before I can respond, he pauses beside my chair, close enough that I can feel the heat from his body.
"Be careful walking alone," he says quietly. "Not everyone in these woods is content to simply watch."
Then he's gone, the bell above the door chiming his exit, leaving me with a racing heart and the certainty that I've just had a conversation that was about something entirely other than what was said.
I sit there for another ten minutes, replaying every word, every look, every pause.
There was something predatory about him, but not in the way that triggers my usual alarm bells.
More like ... recognition.
Like looking at a wolf and understanding that you're seeing something pure, honest in its danger.
My phone buzzes again.
Juliette this time:
Did you meet him? Cain? He just texted me (rare!) saying he ran into you.
Just left actually. He's ... intense.
That's one word for it. Brilliant is another. Dangerous is probably a third, though not in the way your father thinks.
What do you mean?
Cain doesn't hurt people. He just sees through them. Sees things they'd rather keep hidden. It makes people uncomfortable. They mistake that discomfort for danger.
But I wasn't uncomfortable, I realize.
If anything, I felt seen in a way that should terrify me.
I want to ask her more, but Stella appears to clear the table and pump me for information about my "handsome friend."
I escape with vague pleasantries and a promise to come back soon.
The Book Nook is my next stop, partly for research materials and partly because I'm not ready to go home yet.
The store is empty except for Mrs. Santanoni, who's run it since before I was born.
"Celeste! I have all your books in the window display," she says proudly, gesturing to an arrangement of my novels surrounded by fake snow and tiny Christmas trees.
I smile and thank her, then drift toward the local history section.
If I'm going to write about this place, I should understand it better.
I pull out a few volumes about the Adirondacks, the founding families, and local legends.
One book catches my eye—Death in the Mountains: A History of Adirondack Tragedies.
I flip through it, scanning entries about logging accidents, hunting mishaps, people who simply vanished into the woods and were never found.
Then I see it.
A small entry from twenty years ago: "Richard and Patricia Lockwood, prominent local philanthropists, died in their home from carbon monoxide poisoning. They are survived by their adopted children, Cain and Juliette Lockwood, who were away at the time of the accident."
Adopted.
Juliette never mentioned that.
Neither did Cain, though, why would he in a ten-minute conversation?
Still, something about it nags at me.
I take a photo of the entry with my phone, then read on.
The article includes a photo of the family from a charity gala.
Richard Lockwood was handsome in that political way—silver hair, practiced smile.
Patricia was beautiful but fragile-looking, her hand gripping her husband's arm like she might fall without support.
Between them stand two teenagers—Juliette, maybe sixteen, already showing the poise she'd carry into adulthood.
And Cain, perhaps eighteen, dark-haired even then, standing slightly apart despite the family pose.
His eyes, even in the old photo, seem to look through the camera rather than at it.
"Tragic story, that one," Mrs. Santanoni says, appearing at my elbow with her uncanny ability to materialize when gossip is possible.
"The Lockwoods were pillars of the community.
Took in those two children when they were young, gave them everything.
The boy was never quite right after their deaths, though.
Came back here to live in their old estate, all alone in the mountains.
The girl did better—went off to the city, made something of herself. "
"You knew them? The parents?"
"Everyone knew them. Richard was on every board, Patricia played piano at church.
Perfect family, from the outside. Though.
.." she lowers her voice conspiratorially, "there were whispers.
There always are in small towns. About why the children were so eager to leave.
About why the boy came back but never restored the house.
Just built that cabin on the property and let the main house rot. "
"What kind of whispers?"
Mrs. Santanoni glances around the empty store as if someone might be listening.
"The Lockwood boy was troubled. Got into fights at school, though he was always defending someone else.
Had a temper when it came to bullies. One time, Bobby Pike was picking on a freshman, and Cain nearly put him in the hospital.
Took three teachers to pull him off. After that, Richard sent him away to some military school for his senior year. "
"But he came back."
"After the parents died, yes. Inherited everything—the house, the money, the land. Could have gone anywhere, done anything. Instead, he lives up there like some kind of gothic novel character, playing violin at all hours, collecting those awful skulls."
I buy the book along with a few others, my mind spinning with all this new information.
Cain and Juliette, adopted siblings.
Dead parents.
A house left to decay while he lives in self-imposed exile on the same property.
A history of violence, but targeted.
Protective.
The drive home feels shorter, my mind occupied with puzzles.
The sedan is back in position near our house, engine running.
I wave at the officer inside, getting a startled wave back.
At least they're not being subtle about the protection detail anymore.
Inside, the house is still empty, but there's evidence Dad came home for lunch—dishes in the sink, coffee pot refreshed.
I head to my room, eager to write while the inspiration is hot.
I pull the raven feather from my pocket and lay it on my desk, and notice there's something else on the desk that wasn’t there before.
A book.
Specifically, a first edition of Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier, my favorite novel, the one I wrote my college thesis on.
The one I've mentioned in exactly two interviews, both obscure literary journals that maybe a hundred people read.
My hands shake as I open it.
There's an inscription on the title page in elegant handwriting:
"Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again." Perhaps you'll dream of darker places. —A fellow admirer of necessary monsters
No signature. No explanation.
Just the impossible presence of a book that shouldn't be here, couldn't be here, unless someone came into my room while I was gone.
I check the window—locked from the inside, just as I left it.
The bedroom door shows no signs of tampering.
Nothing else is disturbed.
Even my laptop is exactly as I left it, still open to the last page I wrote.
Someone was in my room.
Someone who knows my favorite book, who calls themselves an admirer of necessary monsters.
Someone who can enter locked rooms without leaving a trace.
The rational part of my brain knows I should be terrified.
I should call my father, report this, pack my bags, and flee back to the city where stalkers at least leave digital footprints.
Instead, I'm opening my laptop, fingers flying over the keys:
He moved through her spaces like smoke, leaving gifts in impossible places, each one a promise that nowhere was safe from his attention. That nowhere was meant to be safe. Safety was the enemy of feeling, and he intended to make her feel everything.
Outside my window, snow begins to fall again, and somewhere in the distance, I swear I hear the faint strains of a violin.