Page 34 of He Sees You

I check the window—locked from the inside, just as I left it.

The bedroom door shows no signs of tampering.

Nothing else is disturbed.

Even my laptop is exactly as I left it, still open to the last page I wrote.

Someone was in my room.

Someone who knows my favorite book, who calls themselves an admirer of necessary monsters.

Someone who can enter locked rooms without leaving a trace.

The rational part of my brain knows I should be terrified.

I should call my father, report this, pack my bags, and flee back to the city where stalkers at least leave digital footprints.

Instead, I'm opening my laptop, fingers flying over the keys:

He moved through her spaces like smoke, leaving gifts in impossible places, each one a promise that nowhere was safe from his attention. That nowhere was meant to be safe. Safety was the enemy of feeling, and he intended to make her feel everything.

Outside my window, snow begins to fall again, and somewhere in the distance, I swear I hear the faint strains of a violin.

CHAPTER FIVE

Cain

She holds the book like a prayer, fingers trembling against the aged binding, and I know I've chosen correctly.

From my position in the woods, I can see directly into her room through the window.

She never thinks to pull the curtain.

The first editionRebeccaglows amber in her lamplight as she opens it again, reading my inscription for what must be the fifth time.

Her lips move slightly, shaping the words: necessary monsters.

She understands, or she's beginning to.

I watch her set the book carefully on her nightstand, then return to her laptop.

Her fingers fly across the keys with the urgency of real inspiration—the kind that comes from touching something dangerous and deciding not to let go.

Every few minutes, she glances at the book, then at the raven feather she's moved to sit beside it.

Building a shrine to her secret admirer without even realizing it.

The snow that started an hour ago provides perfect cover, muffling any sound I might make.

Not that I make sounds anymore.

Twenty years of practice has taught me to move like the forest itself—present but unnoticed until it's too late.

Through the window, I can see her pause in her writing, stretching her arms above her head.

The movement makes her sweater ride up, revealing a strip of pale skin.

She's unaware of her vulnerability, unaware that someone studies every gesture, memorizing the way she moves when she thinks she's alone.