Page 56 of He Sees You
He spots me and makes his way over, collapsing into the chair across from me like his bones have given up.
"Dad."
"Hey, kid." His voice is rough, like he's been shouting or crying or both. "Didn't expect you to be here."
"Needed real coffee. You look..."
"Like hell. I know." He signals Stella, who brings him black coffee without asking. He downs half of it in one go, burning his tongue but not caring. "We found another body this morning."
I force my face to remain neutral. "Another woman?"
"No. Man this time. Roy Dunham. Ex-con. Been out on parole for about six weeks."
"How did he—was it the same killer?"
My father's jaw tightens. "It was... elaborate. Worst thing I've seen in thirty years on the force. He was in a tree, strung up like a deer being dressed. But that's not even the worst part."
I wait, my coffee growing cold in my hands.
"There was a deer skull placed in his... in his chest cavity. After the killer had..." He stops, takes another gulp of coffee. "The things done to that man, Celeste. It was personal. This wasn't random. It was rage. Pure, calculated rage."
"Maybe he deserved it."
The words slip out before I can stop them.
My father's eyes sharpen. "What makes you say that?"
"Ex-con, you said. What was he in for?"
"Sexual assault. Minor. Fifteen-year-old girl in Columbus." Dad runs his hand through his hair. "Found some stuff at the scene. Prison library books. Your books, actually. Had notes in the margins, sick stuff about you."
My stomach turns, but not from disgust.
From relief.
Roy had been planning something, and Cain stopped him.
"He was obsessed with you," Dad continues, not noticing my reaction. "We found a notebook full of... fantasies. Photos of you from articles, events. Some taken recently, here in town. He'd been watching you."
"But now he's not."
Dad looks at me strangely. "No. Now he's very dead. But Celeste, this killer—whoever's doing this—they're escalating. Getting more violent. More personal."
"Maybe they're protecting people."
"Protecting?" His voice rises slightly. Stella glances over, concerned. He lowers his voice. "They'rebutcheringpeople. That's not protection, that's psychopathy."
I think about Jake's hands trying my bedroom door.
About Roy's sick notebook.
About how my father has no idea what dangers have been removed from my path.
"What if the victims weren't really victims? What if they were predators themselves?"
"That's not how justice works. We have laws, courts, systems?—"
"Systems that let Roy out after six years for assaulting a minor? Systems that give people like him access to my books so they can fantasize about me?"
