Page 31 of He Sees You
He's quiet long enough that I think he won't answer. When he does speak, his voice is different, softer but somehow more dangerous. "Have you ever felt like you were wearing a skin that didn't fit? Like every interaction required a performance you were tired of giving?"
I nod, because yes, God yes, I know exactly what he means.
Every publishing party, every interview, every fake smile for readers who want me to be as safe as my dangerous characters.
"Here, I don't have to perform. The mountains don't care what you are, only that you respect them. The woods don't judge. They just exist, and they let you exist alongside them."
"And the deer skulls?" I ask, trying for levity.
His smile is sharp. "Memento mori. Reminders that death is natural, necessary. That there's beauty in bones once you strip away the rest."
A shiver runs through me that has nothing to do with the cold pressing against the windows. "My father thinks you might be killing those women."
I don't know why I say it.
Maybe to see how he'll react.
Maybe because the way he talks about death makes my pulse race in a way that should frighten me, but doesn't.
He doesn't flinch. "Your father's job is to suspect everyone. Do you think I'm killing them?"
"I don't know you well enough to think anything."
"But you're sitting here anyway."
"Maybe I have bad judgment."
"Or maybe." He leans forward, and I catch his scent—pine and something metallic, like cold air before snow. "Maybe you recognize something in me. The same thing I recognize in your writing. That understanding that darkness isn't the opposite of light—it's the place where light hasn't reached yet."
My phone buzzes. Dad, texting to check in. I ignore it.
"I should go," I say, but don't move.
"There's something you should know," Cain says. "About these woods, about what's happening here. Your father is looking for a monster, but he doesn't understand that sometimes monsters serve a purpose. Sometimes they're necessary."
"Are you trying to tell me something?"
"I'm trying to warn you that the truth is rarely as simple as good versus evil. And that your father, for all his good intentions, might not be able to protect you from what's coming."
"What's coming?"
He stands, dropping cash on the table for both our coffees. "Inspiration, hopefully. The kind you came here looking for."
He pulls on a black wool coat that makes him look even taller, more imposing.
Before I can respond, he pauses beside my chair, close enough that I can feel the heat from his body.
"Be careful walking alone," he says quietly. "Not everyone in these woods is content to simply watch."
Then he's gone, the bell above the door chiming his exit, leaving me with a racing heart and the certainty that I've justhad a conversation that was about something entirely other than what was said.
I sit there for another ten minutes, replaying every word, every look, every pause.
There was something predatory about him, but not in the way that triggers my usual alarm bells.
More like ... recognition.
Like looking at a wolf and understanding that you're seeing something pure, honest in its danger.
