Page 120 of He Sees You
"Well," she says, her voice deliberately lighter, "speaking of transforming horrible things into something better..." She unzips the garment bag. "I brought Patricia's wedding dress."
The dress is exactly what I expected—expensive, elegant, pristine white silk that probably cost more than most people's cars.
It's been preserved perfectly, looking exactly as it must have twenty-five years ago when Patricia wore it to marry Richard.
The beadwork alone must have taken months, each crystal hand-sewn, each pearl perfectly placed.
"You want me to wear the dress of the woman who abused you?"
"I want you to transform it. She wore it to marry a monster. You'll wear it to marry the man who freed us from monsters. She stood for corruption. You'll stand for justice. Take her dress and make it yours."
I touch the silk.
It's cold, almost alive under my fingers.
The fabric whispers against itself, like it's telling secrets.
"It's beautiful," I admit.
"Beautiful things can come from horrible people," Cain says. "The ring, the dress—we're reclaiming them."
"Plus," Juliette adds, "I brought accessories."
She pulls out a second bag.
Inside are two guns—a Glock 19 and a smaller .38 Special.
Boxes of ammunition.
Three knives in decorative sheaths that could pass for jewelry.
"Something borrowed, something blue, something to kill your father with," she says with a dark smile.
"The .38 was Patricia's," she explains. "She kept it in her bedside table.”
"I need to show you something," I tell them, going to get the Lockwood documents.
I spread the photos on the table, focusing on the ones from various town events.
Christmas parties, summer gatherings, charity functions.
And in seven of them, there I am.
Age five through eleven, always in my best dress, always standing near my father.
But now I notice the other men in the photos.
Their eyes. The way they look at me.
"Jesus," Juliette breathes. "You were there. At the hunting parties."
That's what they called them.
Hunting parties where no one actually hunted animals.
"Look at this one." I point to a photo from a Christmas party when I was eight.
Richard Lockwood's hand is on my shoulder.
