Page 16 of He Sees You
"Redecorating?" I ask, nodding at the security panel.
"Just updating things." He pours coffee into the same chipped mug I used in high school. "Town's growing. Can't be too careful."
Lie number one. This town hasn't grown since the paper mill closed in 2008.
I follow him to the kitchen, noting how he keeps positioning himself between me and the windows.
The kitchen hasn't changed—yellow walls that Mom painted trying to "brighten the place up," an ancient coffee maker that runs 24/7, same scarred wooden table where we've eaten thousands of silent meals.
"So," I say, settling into my old chair, "want to tell me what's really going on?"
He freezes, coffee mug halfway to his lips. "What do you mean?"
"The security system. The new locks. The fact that you've checked your phone six times since I walked in. And—" I glance out the window, "—whoever's in that sedan down the road who's been watching the house since I arrived."
His jaw tightens. "You always were too observant for your own good."
"Occupational hazard. I write thrillers, remember?"
"I thought you wrote romance."
"Dark romance. There's a difference." I take a sip of coffee, waiting.
I learned interrogation techniques from him, after all.
Silence is more effective than questions.
He breaks after thirty seconds. "We've had some incidents."
"What kind of incidents?"
"The bad kind."
"Dad."
He sets down his mug hard enough to slosh coffee onto the table. "Four women dead in the last six months. Young women. Now some men, too. That's all you need to know."
My writer's brain lights up like Christmas morning. "Serial killer?"
"Jesus, Celeste." He runs a hand through his hair. "These are real people. Were real people. Amy had two kids. Monica Reeves—" He stops, jaw working.
"I'm sorry. You're right. It's just?—"
"It's research for you." His voice is bitter. "Everything's research."
We sit in silence, and my stomach churns. I crossed a line just now, and I know it.
Outside, snow begins to fall again, fat lazy flakes that will bury everything by morning.
I notice footprints in the snow near the tree line—large, boot prints, fresh enough that the edges haven't softened yet.
They lead from the woods almost to the back door, then veer away.
"Is that why there's someone watching the house? Because of the footprints?"
Dad's head snaps up. "What footprints—where?"
I point toward the trees.
