Chapter 9 #2
Wire me up, send me back to him, make me play the devoted girlfriend while they build their case.
Turn me into bait for the monster who's already caught me.
No. This is bigger than law enforcement can handle. This is personal.
This is mine.
I pull up my laptop and start researching everything I can find about the Wolfe family, diving deeper than my father ever could with his limited law enforcement resources.
What I discover makes my father's investigation look like amateur hour.
Over the past nine years, at least twenty-six people connected to my father's case have died in "accidents" or "suicides."
Witnesses who might have testified found dead from apparent drug overdoses despite having no history of substance abuse.
Police officers who asked too many questions transferred to dead-end assignments or forced into early retirement after manufactured scandals.
A forensics technician who found inconsistencies in the crime scene evidence died in a car crash when her brakes mysteriously failed.
All dead. Most within the first two years after my parents' murder.
Cassius wasn't just covering his tracks—he was killing anyone who might connect him to that night.
The scope of it is breathtaking.
Terrifying.
The work of someone who plans decades ahead and leaves nothing to chance.
Someone who spent years positioning himself to corrupt their daughter.
I find more evidence of his reach.
Bank records showing payments to corrupt officials.
Photographs of judges taking envelopes of cash.
A network of influence and intimidation that reaches into every level of city government, every branch of law enforcement.
He doesn't just run a criminal organization—he owns the system that's supposed to stop him.
The realization breaks something fundamental inside me.
I throw my laptop across the room, watch it shatter against the wall in an explosion of plastic and sparks.
I sweep the files off my coffee table, papers scattering like snow across the hardwood, and grab my father's favorite coffee mug—the one that says "World's Best Dad" that I've kept on my kitchen counter for longer than I can remember—and hurl it at the mirror, watching both explode into fragments.
The physical destruction feels good. Necessary. Like breaking the spell he's had me under.
But it's not enough. Nothing will be enough until he pays for what he's done.
I sink to my knees among the broken glass and scattered evidence, staring at a photograph of my parents on their wedding day.
Young, beautiful, full of hope for a future that a twenty-seven-year-old sociopath would cut short sixteen years later.
They trusted the system.
My father believed in justice, in the law, in doing the right thing even when it cost him everything.
And where did it get him?
A bullet in the head while his daughter watched from hiding.
The system failed them. Failed me. Failed everyone who tried to stop monsters like Cassius from taking what they wanted.
But I won't fail them.
I gather the scattered papers, organize them into neat piles despite my shaking hands.
Evidence of his crimes.
Proof of his guilt.
Documentation of a year-long conspiracy that starts with multiple judge murders and ends with him manipulating their daughter.
There's enough here to destroy him if it reaches the right people.
But "if" is doing a lot of work in that sentence.
He's had years to buy judges, intimidate prosecutors, eliminate witnesses.
Years to make himself untouchable, except he's not untouchable. Not to me.
I'm the one person who can get close enough to hurt him.
The one person he trusts completely.
The one person he loves, and more importantly, the one person who knows exactly how to destroy him.
I walk to my bedroom and open the safe hidden behind my dresser.
Inside, wrapped in an old pillowcase that still smells faintly of my mother's perfume, is my father's personal weapon—a .38 Special he'd purchased for protection after receiving threats during high-profile cases
The gun feels heavier than I expected.
I've never fired a weapon before, but I know the basics from crime shows and legal cases.
Point, squeeze the trigger, hope for the best.
At close range, with my target standing still and unsuspecting, accuracy matters.
After a quick Google search, I check the cylinder with fingers that barely shake now—still loaded after all these years.
Six bullets. More than enough for what I have in mind.
But first, I need to hear it from his own mouth.
Need him to admit what he did, who he is, and most importantly, why he did it.
I need the confession for my own closure, but also for insurance.
If something goes wrong, if he kills me instead of the other way around, at least there will be evidence.
A recording that might reach the right people might finally give my parents the justice they deserve.
I set up my phone to record, prop it against a lamp where the camera won't be visible, but the microphone will catch everything.
Test the audio quality by speaking from different locations around the room.
It's not perfect, but it's good enough to capture a confession, then I wait.
The gun sits on my coffee table like a black promise.
The collar around my throat feels heavier with each passing minute, a reminder of how thoroughly he's owned me.
The evidence scattered around my living room tells a story of systematic corruption and calculated murder spanning nearly a decade.
I've spent the last year becoming someone strong enough to stand beside a monster.
Tonight, I find out if I'm strong enough to kill one.
Hours pass. I don't turn on the lights as darkness falls, preferring the shadows.
They feel appropriate for what's coming.
I practice what I'll say to him, how I'll get him to confess.
The questions I need answers to before I pull the trigger.
Why my father? Was it just business, or was it personal?
Did you know about me that night? Did you see the light in my room and know you were orphaning a child?
When did you start watching me? How long have you been planning this corruption?
Do you love me, or am I just another victim?
That last question might be the most important, because despite everything—the lies and manipulation and murder—part of me still loves him.
Part of me still wants to curl up in his arms and pretend none of this is real.
That's the part I need to kill first.
Out of nowhere, there’s a knock at my door, soft but insistent.
His voice, muffled through the wood, "Selene? I know you're in there. Your lights are off but your car's in the lot."
Of course he checked.
Of course he knows my habits, my routines, the make and model of my car.
He probably has keys to my apartment, has had them since the beginning.
Another knock, more insistent. "Little wolf? Please open the door. Whatever's wrong, we can fix it."
We. Like we're a team. Partners. Equals.
Like he didn't murder my parents and spend years orchestrating my psychological destruction.
I stand up slowly, gun heavy in my hand, and move toward the door.
This is it.
The confrontation I've been building toward for over a year without knowing it.
The woman who opens this door won't be the same one who closes it.
One way or another, everything changes tonight.
I reach for the deadbolt with my free hand, the gun aimed at where his chest will be when the door opens.
He's been waiting over a year to have me completely.
To own me fully.
He has no idea I've been waiting years to kill the man responsible for taking my parents.