Page 4 of He Sees You
"I'm going to remember why I started writing these stories. Before they became products and streaming deals, and market analysis. When they were just about that feeling—" I pause,searching for words, "—that delicious terror of being seen by something in the dark."
"Actually," Juliette says, standing as well, her movements fluid as water, "I think it's brilliant."
Everyone turns to look at her.
"My brother and I grew up there. He still lives there, actually," she continues, smoothing an invisible wrinkle from her skirt. "He always says the mountains clear your head. Says the silence helps you hear things you've been drowning out." She smiles, something flickering across her face too quickly to identify. "Plus, small towns always have the best secrets. All those people who've known each other forever, thinking they know everything about everyone."
"It's almost December," Richard protests. "You'll get snowed in."
"Perfect. Isolation breeds creativity."
"Or insanity," Juliette mutters.
"In my genre, they're the same thing."
Richard sighs, the sound of a man accepting his fate. "January fifteenth, Celeste. That's non-negotiable. And I want updates. Weekly pages."
"Fine."
"And if you're not delivering by Christmas, you're coming back."
"I'll deliver."
I head for the door, then pause. "You want darkness? You want a hero who makes readers question their own moral compass? Who makes them afraid to be alone but more afraid to be without him?" I look back at them, and for the first time in months, feel something spark in my chest. Not quite inspiration, but the promise of it. "Give me two months in the mountains. I'll write you a monster worth falling in love with."
"Just don't become one of your own headlines," Juliette calls out, trying to be funny.
I don't answer.
I'm already walking toward the elevator, typing a text to my father:
Coming home. See you in two days.
His response is immediate:
Celeste, wait, we should talk first.
I delete the message and type another:
Already booked the rental car. Need to get out of the city. See you soon. Don't worry. I'll be fine.
As the elevator descends, I scroll through my phone's photos, looking for something I can't name.
My finger stops on a picture from the Christmas before last—I'm sitting at my childhood desk, laptop open, snow falling outside the window.
I look peaceful, focused, real in a way I haven't looked in months.
I almost delete it, then stop.
There's something in the window behind me, barely visible through the snow.
A shadow among the trees. Probably just a trick of the light or a deer.
I zoom in, but the image just pixelates into abstract darkness.
Thirty-four floors down, I emerge into the New York winter.
Snow swirls around me, immediate and shocking after the stuffiness of the office.
