Page 32 of He Sees You

My phone buzzes again.

Juliette this time:

Did you meet him? Cain? He just texted me (rare!) saying he ran into you.

Just left actually. He's ... intense.

That's one word for it. Brilliant is another. Dangerous is probably a third, though not in the way your father thinks.

What do you mean?

Cain doesn't hurt people. He just sees through them. Sees things they'd rather keep hidden. It makes people uncomfortable. They mistake that discomfort for danger.

But I wasn't uncomfortable, I realize.

If anything, I felt seen in a way that should terrify me.

I want to ask her more, but Stella appears to clear the table and pump me for information about my "handsome friend."

I escape with vague pleasantries and a promise to come back soon.

The Book Nook is my next stop, partly for research materials and partly because I'm not ready to go home yet.

The store is empty except for Mrs. Santanoni, who's run it since before I was born.

"Celeste! I have all your books in the window display," she says proudly, gesturing to an arrangement of my novels surrounded by fake snow and tiny Christmas trees.

I smile and thank her, then drift toward the local history section.

If I'm going to write about this place, I should understand it better.

I pull out a few volumes about the Adirondacks, the founding families, and local legends.

One book catches my eye—Death in the Mountains: A History of Adirondack Tragedies.

I flip through it, scanning entries about logging accidents, hunting mishaps, people who simply vanished into the woods and were never found.

Then I see it.

A small entry from twenty years ago: "Richard and Patricia Lockwood, prominent local philanthropists, died in their home from carbon monoxide poisoning. They are survived by their adopted children, Cain and Juliette Lockwood, who were away at the time of the accident."

Adopted.

Juliette never mentioned that.

Neither did Cain, though, why would he in a ten-minute conversation?

Still, something about it nags at me.

I take a photo of the entry with my phone, then read on.

The article includes a photo of the family from a charity gala.

Richard Lockwood was handsome in that political way—silver hair, practiced smile.

Patricia was beautiful but fragile-looking, her hand gripping her husband's arm like she might fall without support.

Between them stand two teenagers—Juliette, maybe sixteen, already showing the poise she'd carry into adulthood.