Page 45 of He Sees You
His face goes red, then purple.
"Interesting? You want interesting?" His hand moves to his belt, and for a terrifying moment I think he's going to—but no, his hand goes to his gun, resting on the holster. Not drawing it, but the threat is clear. "I could show you interesting. I could show you exactly what you write about. The forcing. The taking.Bet you'd stop romanticizing it real quick when it's actually happening."
"Get the fuck out."
"Or what? You'll tell daddy? He trusts me. I'm the one watching his precious daughter. Keeping her safe from the big bad killer." He leans in close, his lips almost touching my ear. "But who's keeping you safe from me?"
The slap happens before I decide to do it.
My palm connects with his cheek hard enough to snap his head sideways.
For a moment, we both freeze.
Then his hand tightens on his gun.
"You always were a bitch," he says quietly. "But that's okay. I like a challenge. And I've got time. Your dad's gonna be working this case for weeks, maybe months. Lots of long nights. Lots of opportunities for welfare checks."
He leaves without another word, but I see him sit in his patrol car for another twenty minutes, just watching the house.
Finally, he drives away, and I realize I'm shaking.
I need to get out.
Need air.
Need to be somewhere that doesn't smell like Jake's cologne and desperation.
I grab my keys and drive without thinking, but I know where I'm going.
The Lockwood estate.
I need to see where Cain came from, need to understand the darkness that shaped him.
The road winds up the mountain, gravel giving way to dirt, then barely a path at all.
The trees press close, branches scraping my car like fingers.
My GPS stops working a mile back—no signal up here. Just intuition and a half-remembered mention from Mrs. Santanoniabout the old estate being "up the mountain, past the stone bridge, can't miss it if you're looking for something haunted."
Then I see it.
The house is a corpse.
Once grand, probably beautiful, now it's rotting from the inside out.
Victorian bones showing through peeling paint.
Windows broken or boarded.
The front door hangs open like a mouth mid-scream.
Nature is reclaiming it—vines through the walls, a tree growing through what was probably a ballroom.
I park and get out, drawn to the decay like a character in one of my novels.
The air feels different here.
Heavier.
