Page 112 of He Sees You

By our mother, at least.

She died trying to get us back.

There's one more folder, newer than the others, dated for this year. "Christmas Shipment."

Inside are details for a delivery on Christmas Eve.

Twelve girls, ages fourteen to seventeen, coming up from Albany.

Routes mapped out, avoiding state police checkpoints.

The drop point is the cabin Morrison had in his wallet.

The buyers are already lined up—names, amounts, preferences listed like a shopping catalog.

Judge Hamilton wants "blonde, 14-15, athletic build."

Dr. Wallis wants "Asian, any age, compliant."

Father McKenzie wants "redhead, 16-17, religious background preferred."

And then I see it. Sterling's name.

Not just as a facilitator but coordinating the entire shipment, and being a buyer.

He's requested "one brunette, 15-16, similar to C.S., virgin essential."

C.S. Celeste Sterling.

He wants a girl who looks like his daughter.

Avirginwho looks like Celeste.

The rage that fills me is ice-cold and infinite.

I've killed sixteen people, but none of them deserved death as much as Sheriff Sterling.

He's not just a trafficker, not just a corrupt cop—he's something worse.

Something that wears a father's face while harboring desires that would destroy his daughter if she knew.

I photograph everything, then pack the originals into a duffel bag.

This cottage might be maintained, but I doubt Sterling checks it often.

He won't know the documents are gone until it's too late.

I take one last look around the room where Richard conducted his real business, where my fate and Juliette's were decided like a transaction.

The chair where I sat as a seventeen-year-old, being told I was broken, wrong, in need of fixing.

I wasn't broken then. I was breaking free.

The drive back to my cabin takes twenty minutes, but I make it in fifteen, pushing my truck hard on the icy roads.

Something feels wrong.

My instincts, honed by years of hunting, are screaming danger.