Page 16 of Sweet Doe
Sunday, October 27th – Went to brunch with Cara. Laughed more in two hours than I've seen her laugh all month with Alex. She needs friends who understand her. She needs someone who can make her laugh like that every day.
The entries go on and on, an exact record of my life written by someone who's been watching me like I’m a lab rat and he’s studying me. Some of his observations are uncomfortably accurate…
But it's the personal commentary that makes me want to fold in on myself. The way he interprets my moods and behaviors through the lens of his obsession… Like he's already a part of my life instead of a stalker documenting it from the shadows.
I flip to more recent entries, looking for clues about his plans.
December 20th – She bought a red dress for the trip to Holly Grove. She'll look beautiful in it. Alex won't appreciate what he has, but I will. Soon.
December 23rd – Last day of watching from a distance. Tomorrow night, everything changes. Tomorrow night, she becomes mine.
Tomorrow night. Christmas Eve. The night he murdered his fucking brother and destroyed my life.
My hands are shaking so badly I can barely turn the pages, but I force myself to keep reading. There has to be something useful here. Some details about his plans or this location that could help me escape.
That's when I find the photographs that aren't of me.
They're mixed in with the surveillance shots, easy to miss at first glance. But as I look closer, I realize they're pictures of Alex. Not recent ones. These look like they're from years ago, maybe even decades. Two young boys who look almost identical, standing side by side in what appears to be a church.
But in every single photo, one of the boys has been mutilated. His face scratched out with ink. His body circled in red marker. Sometimes there are words scrawled across the image in angry, jagged handwriting:
WEAK.
UNWORTY.
MISTAKE.
The boy being defaced is always the same one. Always the one who isn't Asher.
Alex.
There are dozens of these photos, spanning what looks like years of their childhood. School pictures. Family portraits. Candid shots at birthday parties and holidays. And in everysingle one, Alex has been violently removed from the narrative, turned into a target of rage.
What happened between them? What could drive someone to this level of hatred for their own twin?
But there's no time to psychoanalyze his childhood trauma. I suddenly realize the chopping outside has stopped, which means he’ll be coming back inside any moment. I need to put everything back exactly as I found it and get back to the bedroom before he realizes I've left the bed.
I'm about to close the notebook when I spot something that makes my heart sink.
Phase 1: Remove Alex from the equation. Make it look like he snapped under pressure. Leave evidence pointing to jealous rage and subsequent flight.
Phase 2: Bring Sloan to the mountain house. Let her adjust to her new reality. Begin building trust and dependency.
Phase 3: Move to a permanent location. Alaska or Canada. Complete isolation. No chance of discovery or rescue.
He’s planning to take me even farther into the middle of nowhere.
The notebook slips from my nerveless fingers, pages fluttering as it hits the floor. Both places are thousands of miles away from everything and everyone I know. If he gets me there, I'll disappear completely. No one will ever find me.
I scramble to pick up the notebook, my hands shaking as I try to find the right page again. There has to be more information. Details. Timelines for when he plans to move me.
But the sound of the front door opening sends panic shooting through my nervous system like lightning.
"Sloan?" His voice carries through the cabin, closer than I expected. "Where are you?"
Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
I shove the notebook back onto the desk, trying to arrange everything exactly as I found it. But my hands are shaking too badly, and I can hear his footsteps moving through the main living area. Any second now, he's going to realize I'm not in the bedroom where he left me.
