Page 133 of Desperate People

I’m sending evidence—all of it—to a local reporter with a reputation for ruthless exposes.

Someone I trust.

Someone I worked with before.

Someone who will bury this slime where no one forgets.

Photos, videos, transaction records—this asshole kept everything.

And I send it.

All the filthy truth.

Sex workers, many looking underage judging by the photos this sick fuck keeps locked away on his hard drive.

Bank records.

Videos.

Chat receipts.

I keep digging, hunting, clawing deeper.

And then, I find it.

The moment he first noticed her.

A clip from some online newspaper—young Lucy, barely nineteen, glowing at some gala with her parents.

His file on her is massive.

Really fucking massive.

But I force myself to be thorough.

Slow.

I open every image.

I watch every video.

I examine every fucking document.

Disgust bubbles up, scorching my insides.

Anger boils.

Rage ignites like gasoline.

Wrath consumes me.

So much wrath it burns through every vein.

This bastard has been stalking her every move for years. Fucking years.

He’s written her letters, detailing how beautiful she is, what he wants to do to her.

Motherfucker.

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