Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Cain
Juliette sits in my leather chair like she owns it, which in a way she does.
Everything I have came from the Lockwood estate—the money, the property, the freedom to become what I am.
She made sure I inherited everything when she could have fought it.
She knew what I'd done and chose to protect me anyway.
"Tea?" I offer, though we both know this isn't a social visit.
"Whiskey. The good stuff Richard kept in his study."
I pour three glasses of the twenty-year-old Macallan that our adoptive father treasured more than his children.
Celeste takes hers without question, but Juliette holds hers up to the firelight, examining the amber liquid.
"He used to drink this while watching," she says quietly. "Patricia would play piano and he'd sit in his chair with his whiskey and just... watch."
"I know."
"Of course you do. You watched him watching." She takes a sip, grimaces. "It tastes like him. Like expensive cruelty."
Celeste looks between us, reading the subtext. "How long have you known? About what Cain did to them?"
"Since the night it happened." Juliette doesn't look at either of us, just stares into the fire. "I was supposed to be at Emma's house for a sleepover, but I came back. Forgot my retainer—stupid thing to die over, isn't it? A piece of plastic to keep my teeth straight."
I remember that night differently.
Remember making sure she was gone, safe, away from what I had to do.
But she came back.
She always came back when she wasn't supposed to.
"The house was so quiet," Juliette continues, her voice distant.
"That should have been my first warning.
It was never quiet when they were awake.
Always Patricia's piano or Richard's television or.
.. other sounds." She drinks deeply. "I went to my room through the back door, grabbed my retainer, and was about to leave when I saw you through the window. "
"You never said—"
"What was I supposed to say? 'Hey Cain, saw you murdering our parents last night, pass the orange juice?
'" She laughs, bitter. "I saw you sealing the windows.
Watched you tampering with the heating system.
Saw you sit outside their bedroom window as the screaming started.
And I went back to Emma's and said nothing.
Played board games and painted our nails while our parents died. "
"Juliette—"
"I've never thanked you." She looks at me now, eyes dry but infinite. "Twenty years and I've never actually said thank you for killing them."
"You don't need to—"
"Yes, I do. Because what you did that night saved me. Not just from them, but from what I might have become if they'd lived." She turns to Celeste. "He tells you he's a monster, doesn't he? That he's dangerous, corrupted, broken?"
Celeste nods.
"He's wrong. He's the closest thing to a hero I've ever known. He just uses different methods than the stories approve of."
"You sent me here," Celeste says suddenly. "You knew what would happen."
Juliette smiles, sharp and knowing. "I've been watching you both for years. My brilliant author writing about darkness she'd never touched. My brilliant brother living in isolation because no one could understand what he was. You needed each other."
"You've been playing matchmaker with a serial killer?"
"I've been saving you both from lives of magnificent loneliness.
" She stands, moves to the window. "Do you know how many manuscripts I've read from you, Celeste?
Not just the published ones, but every draft, every deleted scene, every margin note?
You've been writing about Cain since before you knew he existed.
Every antihero, every dangerous love interest—they were all shadows of him. "
"And you've been feeding him information about me."
"Little breadcrumbs. Mentions of your favorite books, your schedule, your relationship disasters." She turns back to us. "I'm not sorry. Look at you both now. Alive in ways you never were before."
"We killed Jake," Celeste says bluntly. "I held the knife."
"Do you know what he said to me at last year's Christmas party?
The one at the town lodge? I'd come to visit Cain for the holidays, and figured I needed to experience small-town Christmas.
Jake cornered me by the coat closet and said I looked just like Celeste, but more 'accessible.
' Said maybe he should give me a try since you were too proud to fuck a real man. "
My hands clench. If Jake weren't already dead, I'd kill him again, slower.
"I knew then he was dangerous," Juliette continues. "So, when Cain asked about you, I made sure he knew Jake was a threat. Made sure he knew you were coming home. I set the board, and you both played your parts perfectly."
She reaches into her designer bag, pulls out a folder. "But we have a problem. Several, actually."
Of course, we do. It couldn't be this simple, this clean.
"Detective Morrison isn't convinced Jake was the serial killer. He's been digging into timelines, patterns. He knows at least three of the murders happened when Jake was on duty elsewhere."
"That's circumstantial—"
"He also has a witness who saw you near the Mitchell farm the night Patricia Morse died." She pulls out a photograph from the folder. It's definitely me, definitely that night. "Traffic camera from the gas station two miles away. You're usually more careful."
I study the image.
One mistake in five years, and now it might unravel everything.
The timestamp is clear, the license plate visible.
Patricia Morse died within an hour of this photo being taken.
"There's more," Juliette says. "Morrison isn't just a good cop playing by the rules. I did some digging of my own. He's been taking bribes from a trafficking ring operating out of Albany. They use rural properties as waypoints, moving girls through small towns where no one asks questions."
"How do you know this?"
"Because one of my authors escaped from them three years ago. She recognized Morrison when he appeared on the news about Jake's death. He was one of the men who 'sampled the goods' before they were moved on."
The temperature in the room seems to drop.
Another predator, this one with a badge and state authority.
"He's been building a case against you for days," Juliette continues, spreading more papers on my desk. "Interview transcripts, timeline analysis, psychological profiles. He's good, thorough. He plans to arrest you tomorrow night."
"Unless we stop him first," Celeste says quietly.
We both turn to look at her.
She's standing by my desk, holding something I didn't realize she'd found.
My adoptive mother’s engagement ring, pulled from the hidden drawer where I've kept it for twenty years.
"This was hers, wasn't it?" She holds the ring up to the light.
Two carats, emerald cut, surrounded by smaller diamonds.
Worth more than most people's cars.
"You kept it."
"Yes."
"Why?"
I take the ring from her, feeling its familiar weight. "The night I killed them, she was wearing it. Even as she clawed at the windows, as she gasped for air, that ring caught the moonlight. It was the only beautiful thing in that room of monsters."
"But why keep it?"
"Because something this beautiful shouldn't be tainted by someone so ugly. Because I knew someday I'd meet someone who deserved it. Because every time I looked at it, I remembered that even monsters can own beautiful things, they just can't make them beautiful."
"Were you planning to give it to me?"
"Eventually. When the time was right."
Celeste laughs, dark and amused. "The time was right the moment you left that first feather on my windowsill."
"That's what I told him," Juliette interjects. "There's nothing traditional about your relationship. Nothing proper or appropriate. So, why wait for the 'right' moment?"
I look at Celeste, really look at her.
Bruised from Jake's attack, bloodstained from our violence, standing in my cabin at three in the morning, discussing how to murder a detective.
She's never been more beautiful.
"You're right," I say, and drop to one knee.
"Oh my God," Juliette breathes. "You're actually doing this now?"
"Celeste Sterling," I begin, holding up the ring.
"You write about darkness and I create it.
You imagine monsters and I am one. You dreamed of being consumed by something larger than yourself, and I dream of consuming you.
This ring belonged to a woman who hurt me, who tried to break me, who died choking on her own greed.
I want you to wear it as proof that beautiful things can be reclaimed, that darkness can be transformed into light, that two monsters can make something better than what created them. Will you marry me?"
She doesn't hesitate. "Yes."
I slide the ring onto her finger, and it fits perfectly.
Like it was waiting twenty years for the right hand.
"This is insane," Juliette says, but she's smiling. "Beautiful and insane and perfect."
Celeste admires the ring, then looks at me. "Your mother's ring on my finger. Your victims' blood on our hands. Your sister's blessing on our union. We're not exactly Hallmark material."
"No," I agree, standing and pulling her against me. "We're something better."
Juliette clears her throat. "As touching as this is, we still have the Morrison problem. He'll be here tomorrow with a warrant and backup. You need to disappear or deal with him tonight."
"Tonight," Celeste says. "We deal with him tonight."
"We?" I ask.
"We're engaged now. Your enemies are my enemies." She looks at Juliette. "Will you help?"
"I already am. I've arranged for one of the trafficking survivors to go public tomorrow afternoon. A tell-all interview with a major news outlet. Morrison's name features prominently. By tomorrow night, he'll be too busy defending himself to arrest anyone."
"That's not enough," I say. "He needs to be stopped permanently."