Page 40 of He Sees You
What did it say about her that she preferred this—this invasion, this consumption—to the safe, consensual relationships she'd known before?
Maybe it said she was broken. Or maybe it said she was finally awake.
Celeste deleted this, but I saved it.
Tomorrow, I'll leave it for her with the photograph.
Let her see that someone preserves the words she abandons, finds beauty in the darkness she fears.
But first, there's Jake to consider.
I pull up his personnel file on my laptop—easy enough to access when you know how.
Jake Bauer, graduated two years before Celeste.
Multiple complaints in high school for "inappropriate attention" toward female students, all buried by his father, who owned the local hardware store.
Joined the force at twenty-six after failing out of community college.
Three excessive force complaints, all involving men who "disrespected" women Jake felt protective toward.
A pattern of possessive behavior disguised as chivalry.
His social media is a goldmine of red flags.
Photos from high school, where he's always positioned near Celeste, even in group shots.
Comments on her author page that toe the line between supportive and obsessive.
A Twitter account where he argues with anyone who leaves negative reviews of her books.
And now he's on Celeste's protection detail.
I walk out onto my porch, violin in hand. The snow has stopped, leaving the world muffled and white.
Sound will carry perfectly tonight.
I position myself facing the direction of the Sterling house and begin to play—Paganini's “Caprice No. 24”. The Devil's Laugh, some call it.
Technical, violent, beautiful.
Let her hear this and think of me.
Let Jake hear it and know something watches from the darkness.
The music cuts through the night like confession, each note a promise.
I play until my fingers ache, until I know she's listening, until I can feel her attention like heat across the distance between us.
When I finally stop, the silence feels alive.
Waiting.
I go back inside and prepare tomorrow's gift.
The photograph, the deleted passage, and something new—a key.
Not to anything specific, not yet.
