Page 25 of Psychotic Faith
A dress. The kind of dress that makes statements, stakes claims, starts wars. The kind of dress that says I belong to someone dangerous.
My phone buzzes before I can process either gift. Unknown number, but I know those words:
"Put them on."
My fingers type back, fury making them clumsy: "You sick fuck."
"You were dripping in them." His response is immediate, like he's been waiting.
Heat floods my face, my thighs clenching at the memory. "I'm calling my father."
"No you're not."
He's right. I won't. We both know I won't. Instead, I lift the dress, hold it against my body. The mirror shows me what I'd look like wearing it: dangerous.
"Wear it when you're ready for me," his next message says.
"Why would I?"
"Because you want to see what happens next."
I throw the phone on my bed, needing distance from his words, from the truth in them. The silk slides over my skin like his hands would, marking me as his even as I turn away. The dress fits perfectly. Of course it does. He's memorized my body through his cameras, knows every curve. My nipples peak against my towel, my body betraying me even in anger.
I pull on jeans and a cardigan instead, the uniform of someone harmless, someone who doesn't dream about violence, someone who doesn't even think about killers.
The library needs me at eight for volunteer training. New people to teach about reading to children, about being gentle and kind and everything I'm not anymore.
Twenty minutes later, I'm standing in the children's section, surrounded by primary colors and innocence, explaining our reading program to three new volunteers. Two retirees looking for purpose, and Janine Chapman, fresh from Northwestern with her education degree and enthusiasm that makes my chest hurt.
"The kids can be shy at first," I tell them, pulling picture books from the shelves. "But if you're patient, they'll open up. Books are safe spaces for them."
Janine hangs on every word, taking notes in a rainbow notebook, her blonde ponytail bouncing when she nods. Twenty-two years old, bright-eyed, trusting. She reminds me of my mother, somehow.
The library door chimes at eight-thirty. Trent Neumann enters like he owns the place, which technically he partially does: major donor, board member, predator in philanthropist's clothing.
"Ms.Winters!" His voice carries across the library, too loud for the space. "Just the person I wanted to see."
My stomach clenches, acid burning my throat. But I paste on my librarian smile. "Mr.Neumann, what brings you here today?"
"Quarterly inspection of our charitable investments." He approaches our small group, but his eyes have already found their target. They lock onto Janine like a hawk spotting a rabbit. That same sexual assessment disguised as professional interest I've seen in a thousand memories.
"And who's this dedicated young woman?" He extends his hand to Janine, holding hers a beat too long when she shakes it.
"Janine Chapman, sir. I just graduated Northwestern. Early childhood education with a minor in library science."
"Remarkable." His thumb brushes her wrist before releasing her hand. "Such dedication in one so young. You know, we're always looking for bright minds at Neumann Pharmaceuticals."
Janine's eyes widen. "Really?"
"Absolutely. In fact, we're launching a new educational initiative. Bringing pharmaceutical knowledge to young children, teaching them about health and wellness." He hasn't looked away from her once. "I find group settings dilute the learning experience. Real growth happens with focused attention, wouldn't you agree, Ms.Chapman?"
"I… yes, that makes sense."
His hand finds her shoulder, fingers pressing down with possessive weight, a touch that looks paternal but feels like ownership. The same possessive touch I saw in those old photos of him with my mother at the hospital fundraiser, weeks before she died.
"Consider it a paid internship. I'd mentor you personally. One-on-one sessions where we can really focus on your development."
"That's incredibly generous," Janine breathes, practically glowing.
