Page 127 of He Sees You

The chandelier above creaks again, louder this time. Plaster dust drifts down like snow.

"Now," Celeste says, turning to her father, "I believe you wanted to give a toast?"

Sterling looks at her, then at me, then at the gun on his hip.

For a moment, I think he might actually draw it, might try to end this in a shootout in a ruined ballroom.

But then his shoulders slump.

"I need that drink first," he says.

Juliette pours champagne into cracked crystal glasses she found somewhere in the house.

We raise them, standing in our strange triangle—killer, writer, victim.

"To my daughter," Sterling begins, his voice cracking, "who I failed in every way that matters. May you get exactly what you deserve."

"And to my father," Celeste responds, "who made me exactly who I am. May you also get what you deserve."

We drink.

The champagne is bitter, too warm, perfection for this moment.

"It's nearly one," I say, checking my watch. "We have somewhere to be."

Sterling's eyes widen. "The shipment?—"

"Will be handled," Celeste says. "Every girl saved, every buyer dealt with."

"You don't understand. If I don't call?—"

"Then you'll call," I say simply. "You'll make whatever call needs to be made to ensure those girls arrive where expected. Because if you don't, if even one girl disappears into the trafficking network because of your contingency plan, I'll make your death last for days instead of hours."

Sterling looks at his daughter for mercy, finds none.

"You should go, Daddy," she says. "We have a wedding night to attend to."

"Celeste, please?—"

"Go. Now. Before I decide to make you the first wedding gift we unwrap."

He stumbles toward the door, pauses. "Your mother would be horrified by what you've become."

"My mother ran from you. I'm doing something better. I'm ending you."

Sterling leaves, his footsteps echoing through the dead house. We listen until his car starts, until he drives away.

"Two hours until the shipment," Juliette says. "You should change."

Celeste looks down at Patricia's dress, now decorated with dust and candle wax and tiny spots of blood from our kiss.

"No," she says. "I want to be wearing white when I kill them. I want them to see a bride coming for them and know that death wore a wedding dress."

"Poetic," I say.

"Everything is, if you frame it right." She turns to me, my wife now, my partner in all things dark. "Ready for our wedding reception?"

"The one where we slaughter human traffickers?"