Page 44 of He Sees You
Not quite threatening, but not quite safe either.
The kind of positioning that gives him deniability.
I was just talking to her, Sheriff. Just checking on your daughter like you asked.
"You were always such a cocktease. Acting all superior with your books and your big words. Writing in that journal likeeveryone else was beneath you. Now you write porn for bored housewives."
"I write dark romance."
"Same thing. All those sex scenes, all that violence." His eyes are glassy, and I smell whiskey under his cologne. He's been drinking. At ten in the morning. "You write about women wanting dangerous men. Being forced. Liking it."
"That's fiction, Jake. Fantasy. Not reality."
"But it comes from somewhere, right? These desires?" He moves closer. I back up until I hit the wall. "I've read your books, Celeste. All of them. Bought them hardcover, full price. Your heroines always end up with the psychos. The stalkers. The killers. Is that what you want? Someone dangerous?"
"I want you to leave."
"Like that freak Lockwood?" His face twists with disgust. "Yeah, I saw you two at Stella's. Cozy little coffee date. Your dad know you're hanging out with the prime suspect?"
"Cain's not?—"
"Cain?" He laughs, ugly and sharp. "First name basis already? That's quick. But then, you always did like the weirdos. The outcasts. That's why you spent high school writing in corners instead of going to games, supporting the team. Supporting me."
"I didn't owe you support, Jake."
"I was quarterback. I was somebody. You should have been grateful I even noticed you."
"Grateful?" The word tastes like poison. "You assaulted me."
"I tried to kiss you! Jesus, you make it sound like—" He stops, runs his hand through his thinning hair. "Look, we were kids. I was eighteen, hormones and beer and bad decisions. But I'm trying to apologize here."
"No, you're not. You're trying to rewrite history so you're the victim."
His hand shoots out, slamming against the wall beside my head.
I don't flinch, but my heart races.
I can see the veins in his neck, the flush spreading down from his face.
"You think you're so fucking special. So much better than everyone else. But you're here, aren't you? Back in this shithole town, alone in this house while daddy tries to catch a killer." His breath is hot on my face, sour with alcohol and rage. "Writing your sick fantasies while a real psycho leaves you presents."
I go cold. "What do you know about presents?"
He pulls back slightly, realizing he's said too much. "Your dad mentioned the book. The feather. We're monitoring the situation."
They know.
My father knows about the gifts and hasn't said anything.
"I'm trying to protect you," Jake says, his voice softer now, manipulative. "We could be good together, Celeste. I've grown up. I've got a good job, stability. I could give you a normal life."
"I don't want a normal life."
"No," he says, bitter again. "You want a killer. Someone who'll treat you like the whores in your books. Someone who'll stalk you and obsess over you and probably end up strangling you in your bed."
"At least that would be interesting."
The words slip out before I can stop them.
