Page 97 of He Sees You
"Succinylcholine," he says, holding up the first syringe. "It'll paralyze him completely in under thirty seconds. He'll be conscious but unable to move or speak."
"How long does it last?"
"Long enough. Five to ten minutes. We only need three."
My hands shake as I pull on black running gear—we need to look like early morning joggers if anyone sees us.
The fabric is expensive, moisture-wicking, the kind serious athletes wear.
We are serious, just not about athletics.
His mother’s ring catches the lamplight, sending fractured rainbows across the dark fabric.
I've been wearing it for six hours, and it already feels like part of me.
Or maybe I'm becoming part of it—another woman claiming beauty from brutality.
"You're thinking about the ring," Cain observes.
"I'm thinking about her wearing it while she watched you and Juliette suffer. I'm thinking about how it's probably worth more than most people make in a year. I'm thinking about how it's mine now, and what that makes me."
"It makes you my wife. Or will, soon enough."
"Your wife." I test the words, taste them. "Celeste Lockwood."
"Unless you want to keep Sterling."
"No. I don't want anything from him except answers. And then justice."
"Second thoughts?" Cain asks, not looking up from his preparations.
"No. Just... awareness. This is different from Jake. That was reaction, instinct, self-defense. This is premeditated."
"This is justice." He turns to me, and his eyes are glacier-cold. "Morrison has been trafficking girls through these mountains for years. Girls younger than you were when Jake first tried to touch you. Some as young as twelve."
"I know." I zip up my jacket, check my watch. "We need to leave in ten minutes."
He crosses to me, frames my face with his hands. "You don't have to come. I can do this alone."
"We're engaged now. We kill together or not at all."
He kisses me, hard and brief, tasting of coffee and intent. "You're extraordinary."
"I'm yours."
"Same thing."
We perform a final check—syringes secured in the inner pocket of Cain's jacket, gloves in mine, alibis rehearsed.
We were never here.
We're asleep in his cabin, traumatized from Jake's attack, hiding from the world.
If anyone asks, we'll have each other as witnesses.
The perfect alibi: love.
I think about Morrison as we prepare.
