Page 68 of Pose for Me

"Oh, my dear," he drawls, his voice dripping with condescension. "Good behavior, a sympathetic parole board, and prison overcrowding can work wonders. It's amazing what a cocktail like that can do for a man's prospects."

The smug satisfaction in his tone makes my skin crawl. He stands there, so fucking pleased with himself, as if he's pulled off some great feat. As if conning his way out of a well-deserved prison sentence is something to be proud of.

"Besides," he continues, gesturing vaguely towards Lacy, "it helped that I had a good woman waiting for me on the outside." Oddly, he makes no move to free her, shows no concern for her predicament.

I scoff, unable to contain my disbelief and disgust. "How the hell did you two even meet? What, did you put an ad in the prison newsletter? 'Convicted murderer seeks deranged stalker for long walks on the beach and terrorizing my daughter'?"

My father's eyes narrow slightly at my sarcasm, but then his expression shifts, a look of mock hurt crossing his weathered features. "Now, now, Rayne. Is that any way to talk to your dear old dad? She was a pen pal, she gave me the only comfort I could get in that prison." He tsks, shaking his head. "And here I thought we could have a nice family reunion."

He takes a step closer, his movements slow and deliberate. I stand my ground, refusing to give an inch. From the corner of my eye, I can see Knox tensing further, ready to spring into action at a moment's notice. River steps up behind me, pressing against my back and I reach down to grasp his hand.

"You want to know how this all came about?" my father continues, spreading his arms wide as if he's about to tell a grand story. "It's quite simple, really. A beautiful twist of fate, you might say."

He pauses, clearly savoring the moment, relishing the attention. "When I got out, I had no intention of finding you. As far as I was concerned, that chapter of my life was closed. I was going to start fresh, make a new life for myself."

A sardonic smile plays at his lips. "But then, one night, as I was picking up a few essentials at the grocery store, who should I see but my darling daughter?" His eyes lock onto mine, a predatory gleam in their depths. "You were standing there in the produce section, deliberating between two different types of apples. So focused, so oblivious to the world around you."

My father's eyes glint with a sinister light as he continues his tale, each word dripping with a perverse satisfaction. "I couldn't believe my luck. There you were, all grown up and beautiful. The spitting image of your mother." His gaze rakes over me, leaving me feeling dirty and exposed. "I followed you that day, all the way back to that quaint little studio of yours."

He takes another step closer, and I have to fight the urge to back away.

"After that, it was easy," my father says with a casual shrug. "I did some digging, found out about your little photography business. It wasn't hard to... convince Lacy to help me."

Lacy shifts in her chair, a proud smile spreading across her face despite the circumstances. "He told me all about you, Rayne," she says, her voice sickeningly sweet. "How you two had been estranged for so long, how he just wanted to reconnect with his little girl. It was so touching, so romantic in a way. I couldn't resist helping. He even got me to book a session with you so we could connect and become friends."

She’s a fucking nutcase.

I stare at Lacy, incredulous at her delusion. A bitter laugh escapes my lips, harsh and humorless.

"Oh, he told you all about me, did he?" I ask, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "I bet he painted quite the picture. Poor, misunderstood father, just wanting to reconnect with his ungrateful daughter." I take a step closer to Lacy, my eyes boring into hers. "Tell me, Lacy, did he also mention how he brutally murdered his first wife? My mother?"

The words hang in the air, heavy and charged. For a moment, the only sound in the room is our collective breathing and the soft hum of the overhead light.

I watch as my father's smile falters, just for a fraction of a second. It's barely noticeable, but I catch it. That tiny crack in his facade is all the confirmation I need.

Lacy's eyes narrow, darting between me and my father. "No," she says, shaking her head vehemently. "No, you're lying. You're just an ungrateful child who doesn't appreciate everything your father has done for you. He told me you might say things like this, try to turn me against him."

I can't help it. I look at her like the crazy bitch she is, my disgust and disbelief written plainly across my face. This woman who thought she was living out some twisted romantic fantasy, who the hell believed the lies of a murderer without question. The pity I might have felt for her earlier evaporates like mist in the morning sun.

"He was in prison for murdering her, you stupid bitch," I snarl, my words sharp enough to cut glass. "He killed her because she stopped him from trying to fuck me. That's the sort of man you crawled into bed with."

As the words leave my mouth, I watch the transformation unfold on my father's face. The mask of civility he had been wearing crumbles away, revealing the monster I remember from my childhood. His features contort with rage, twisting into an ugly snarl that sends a chill down my spine despite my determination to stand my ground.

His eyes, once coldly calculating, now burn with a manic fury. The lines on his face deepen, etching canyons of hatred across his weathered skin. His jaw clenches so tightly I can almost hear his teeth grinding together. The veins in his neck and forehead bulge, pulsing with each ragged breath he takes.

"You little cunt," he spits, his voice a guttural growl that barely sounds human. Flecks of spittle fly from his lips as he continues his tirade. "You were always an ungrateful little bitch, just like your whore of a mother!"

He takes a menacing step forward, his hands curling into fists at his sides. The knuckles stand out white against his skin, scarred and calloused from years of violence. I can see the tension in his arms, the way the muscles bunch and coil beneath the fabric of his shirt. He's like a serpent preparing to strike, all coiled rage and deadly intent.

"I should have had you killed years ago," he snarls, his words dripping with venom.

The sight of him, ranting and raving like the unhinged psychopath he truly is, solidifies something within me.

I've heard enough. Like fuck am I standing here having any more 'sparkling conversation with dear old dad'.

Time seems to slow as I bring up my right hand–the one that had been grasping River's, the one he had subtly slipped his gun into when he stepped behind me. The weight of the weapon is unfamiliar yet comforting in my palm. My finger curls around the trigger.

I don't hesitate. I don't second-guess. I simply act.

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