Page 70 of Sweet Sinners
At the end, the assailant slaps a photo of my father onto the mannequin’s disfigured face, their movements slow and deliberate, as if savoring every second. Then, with a cold finality, they pour something thick and vividly red over the image, smothering it, the knife gleaming wet and violent beneath.
My grip on Connor’s shirt tightens instinctively. He navigates through the files, jaw tense, his body rigid beneath mine. My vision blurs, nausea twisting in my gut. Fictional horror I could handle, but this…this twisted reality is more than I bargained for.
Connor senses my distress, gently turning my chin away, his hand sliding up from my waist to cradle the back of my head, shielding me.
"No looking," he orders softly.
"Connor," I whimper, his name trembling from my lips as a broken plea.
"I've got you," he whispers roughly. "Just focus on—"
His voice fades into a dull roar as the grisly sounds slice into me. The sickening drag of a knife carving through flesh—or something disturbingly similar—echoes through the room, makingmy stomach churn. I flinch as a distorted, haunting voice breaks through the noise, thick with menace.
"Anyone who stands in my way will be punished. This is between us. Your family shouldn't have to pay for your sins, but you leave me no choice. Stop hiding behind them. Stop using them as a shield."
The words chill my blood, direct and unmistakable. Even with Connor holding me steady, dread seeps into my bones, stealing my breath. None of this makes sense. There’s a dark puzzle here, one I know I have to unravel—but how can I, when each new piece is more terrifying than the last?
A heavy sigh crackles from the speaker. "If they get involved, it’ll be their blood on my hands. But your daughter... I'll spare her. Call it a kindness."
Overwhelmed, I bury my face against Connor’s neck, squeezing my eyes shut to block out the nightmare unfolding on screen. My breath grows shallow, heart hammering painfully in my chest.
Connor stays silent, rigid, and unmoving, and now I’m second-guessing everything—showing him this, involving him, even pursuing answers at all. Knowledge was supposed to set us free, but this darkness—I didn’t ask for it. I didn’t want to uncover the twisted truths that my father had endured, masked behind practiced smiles and careful composure.
But I’m not my dad.
I can't just close my eyes and pretend this doesn't exist.
Chapter thirty-one
Connor
Folderafterfolder,eachclick drags me deeper into a nightmare. Photos upon photos, each one darker, uglier than the last. My gut twists sharply at the thought of Cali seeing even a fraction of this shit. I pause, noticing one folder still open, labeled simply with her name.
My pulse quickens as I click into it. There are dozens of pictures—of Cali at work, Cali coming home, Cali smiling obliviously, unaware she's being watched. There are even some of me, always in the background, always glaring or looking pissed off. One photo grabs my attention immediately: me, eyes blazing with rage, fixed on my stepdad. The caption beneath is short, damning: "LikelySuspect."
It's cold proof of a fucking setup, and anger simmers in my veins. Then I see another file—phone records, dates, times. Names I don't recognize.
"Cali, what are these?" I ask, voice tight, controlled.
"I don't want to look," she whispers, her voice thin, edged with a fragility that knots my chest.
I glance down at her, and that's when I see it—the trembling in her fingers, the uneven hitch in her breathing. Her shoulders start to shake uncontrollably, panic building in her body with each passing second. I recognize it instantly because I've been there—after my mother was murdered, after those first hellish nights in prison. My stomach clenches painfully.
"Shit," I murmur, turning her away from the screen. "Cali, hey—look at me."
Her eyes are glazed, unfocused, chest rising and falling in quick, shallow gasps. "I—I can't…"
"Yes, you can," I say firmly, cupping her face, forcing her to meet my gaze. "Breathe with me. Slow. In and out."
She shakes her head, tears pooling in her eyes, panic stealing the words from her throat.
"Cali," I urge softly, pressing my forehead to hers. "Just match my breaths. You're safe, I'm right here. Breathe."
Slowly, painfully, she starts to sync with me. Her frantic gulps for air begin to steady, until finally her trembling eases and she slumps against my chest, exhausted. I hold her tight, stroking her back, not letting go until her heartbeat returns to normal beneath my palm.
When she's finally calm enough to speak, I pull back slightly. "Has that happened before?"
She swallows thickly, nodding against me. "After my mom died. Dad made me see a therapist once a week—it helped. They almoststopped completely, until three years ago when…" Her voice trails off, haunted. "After Dad died, they came back. Nightmares, panic attacks, anxiety so bad I could barely function."
