Page 116 of He Sees You
The bride wore white, but her hands were stained red. She walked down an aisle of bones, toward a man who killed as naturally as others breathed. Her father gave her away with trembling hands, knowing he would not survive the reception. This was not a union of souls but a binding of darkness, two predators becoming one pack, sanctified by blood rather than blessing.
I've been writing for six hours straight, fueled by rage and coffee that's gone cold.
My manuscript is due to Juliette in three days, but that's not why I'm racing to finish.
I need to document this while it's raw, while the pain of discovering my father's truth still burns fresh.
Fiction drawn from fact, truth wearing the mask of story.
The protagonist in my novel just discovered her father trafficked children.
She's planning to kill him on her wedding night.
She thinks this makes her a monster, but her lover—a serial killer who only hunts predators—tells her monsters don't feel guilt about removing evil from the world.
They feel satisfaction.
They feel complete.
Art imitating life, or life imitating art?
I can't tell anymore.
The boundaries dissolved the moment I held the knife that killed Jake, the second I watched Morrison die, and I was fascinated rather than terrified.
Cain is in the kitchen, cooking something that smells like rosemary and death.
He's been quiet since showing me the documents from the Lockwood cottage, giving me space to process.
But I catch him watching me, those grey eyes tracking my every movement like he's waiting for me to shatter.
I won't shatter.
I'll sharpen instead.
The wedding dress hung in the closet like a shroud.
White silk and lace, pristine and pure, waiting to be baptized in blood.
She wondered if the stains would show, or if the darkness would soak in so deep that the dress would remain white, holding secrets in its fibers like the woman who wore it.
Her fiancé had asked if she was sure. Sure about the dress, the wedding, the killing that would follow. She'd laughed—a sound like breaking glass.
"I've never been more sure of anything," she'd said. "My father sold children while teaching me to ride a bike. He funded my education with blood money. Every good memory I have is tainted with someone else's suffering. So yes, I'm sure. I'm sure that he needs to die, and I need to be the one holding the blade."
My phone buzzes.
A text from Dad:
Are you sure about this?
I don't respond.
He doesn't deserve reassurance.
He deserves the fear that comes from uncertainty, from knowing your daughter holds your life in her hands.
Another buzz.
