Page 69 of Sweet Sinners
Naughty Finances
Don't Let the Fam See
So Risky
ASS HOLE
Your Future
How to Save Yourself
They read like threats, secrets darker than I imagined. A chill snakes down my spine, and my hand trembles on the mouse as I move the cursor slowly toward the first folder.
Taking a shaky breath, I click onPrecious Family.
Inside the folder is a scattering of photos, a collision of memories that twists my stomach in knots. My father and me laughing together, his arm draped protectively around my shoulders. My stepmother caught mid-smile, radiant, unaware of the storm brewing behind thescenes. Every image pulses with warmth and innocence—until suddenly, they don’t.
The next set of photos sends ice flooding through my veins. Someone has been watching us, lurking just beyond our awareness, capturing private moments meant for no one's eyes but ours. Pictures of me at school, candid shots at dinners with friends. Images that show stolen glances, tense and charged, exchanged between me and Connor. And the worst—photos of Dad leading me through the office, his expression filled with unmistakable pride.
My vision blurs, tears hot and sharp as they fill my eyes. It seems today I'm destined to drown in memories.
"Cali?" Maya’s voice breaks the spell, cautious as she approaches. She pauses a few feet away, her gaze cautious and uneasy. Her hesitation speaks volumes, but she straightens, pushing through her discomfort. "I'm sorry to interrupt now… and earlier. But I’m not comfortable with Connor being here—not after everything."
"He didn’t kill my father," I whisper firmly, wiping away a stray tear.
She shifts on her feet, glancing down, then back up again. Her voice lowers, filled with hesitant concern. "Are you sure you're not being blinded by…lust, or just desperate to keep someone familiar close?"
I exhale slowly, meeting her eyes without wavering. "I'm sure," I say softly but resolutely. "Could you please ask him to come see me, Maya?"
She hesitates, clearly torn. "You might believe he's innocent, but I still don't trust him. I don't want to be anywhere near him."
"I understand," I reply gently. "If you want to leave, I won’t hold it against you. But you've lived in this house longer than I have. You knew my father—trusted him. Please trust me when I say Connor’s innocent. I’m going to prove it."
Something in my voice must reach her, because her shoulders relax slightly, and her eyes soften with reluctant understanding. She gives a short nod before quietly leaving me alone again.
Drawing a ragged breath, I close the folder and steady my hand as I prepare to open the one titledYour Future.
I close my eyes, steeling myself, but when I open them again, the images grow darker, uglier. A knife gleams under harsh lighting; a gun rests ominously beside twisted rope. Photographs of my father and stepmother stare back at me, mutilated with violent red ink slashed across their faces, their smiles grotesquely distorted. The crimson stains are thick, aggressive—so brutal they’ve torn holes through the paper.
No hands are visible in any of the pictures, no clues to reveal if this threat comes from a calculated professional or someone consumed by madness. Yet, looking at the savage destruction laid out in front of me, it’s clear only someone truly deranged could do this.
My pulse pounds violently in my ears, tension spiraling tight, when a voice cuts through the silence. "Cali, I think we need some—"
"I found proof you’re not the killer," I whisper, interrupting softly, barely able to force the words out.
The door clicks shut, and Connor’s footsteps echo quietly as he approaches. He pauses behind me, close enough that heat radiates from him, grazing my skin without even touching. When he exhales sharply, his breath brushes my neck, sending a shiver down my spine and tightening every nerve inside me.
With trembling fingers, I continue clicking through the images, each more disturbing than the last, until I hover the cursor over a video file. I freeze, panic surging.
"I can’t watch this, Connor," I murmur, voice shaking. "Maybe I should just turn it all over to the policeand—"
"I need to see it," he interrupts, his tone firm and decisive, leaving no room for argument.
Before I can form a single word in protest, Connor spins the chair around, effortlessly scooping me into his arms and settling me onto his lap without even glancing down. His focus remains locked on the screen, his arm tightening protectively around my waist. "If you can't handle it, hide your face against me, just like you did with the horror movies," he murmurs roughly.
But it’s not the screen that scares me right now—it’s him.
Connor feels far more dangerous than anything that video could hold.
