Page 43 of He Sees You

My phone buzzes.

Jake Bauer:

Just checking you're okay. Your dad asked me to keep an eye on things.

I don't respond.

But ten minutes later, I hear a car pull up.

Through my window, I watch Jake get out of his patrol car, adjusting his belt, checking his hair in the side mirror like he's arriving for a date.

The doorbell rings.

I save my document, considering my options.

I could pretend I'm not here, but my car's in the driveway.

He probably saw me at the window.

And ignoring a cop, even Jake, could make things worse.

"Celeste!" His voice booms through the door. "It's Jake Bauer. Just doing a welfare check."

Welfare check.Right.

I open the door but don't invite him in. "I'm fine, Jake."

"Your dad's worried. This killer's got everyone on edge." He leans against the doorframe, trying for casual but landing on presumptuousness.

He's filled out since high school, muscle gone soft around the edges.

His uniform is too tight, buttons straining. "Mind if I come in? It’s freezing out here."

"I'm actually writing?—"

"Perfect. I'll be quiet." He's already pushing past me, that quarterback confidence that assumes every door opens for him."Haven't been in this house in years. Remember when I picked you up for the Landry party?"

My stomach turns. "I drove myself to that party."

"Right, but I offered to drive you. You turned me down." He's examining the living room like he's cataloging possessions, picking up a photo of me and Dad from a few Christmases ago, setting it down wrong. "Just like you turned down everything else that night."

There it is. The thing that's been festering in him for over a decade.

"Jake, I really need to work."

"You embarrassed me that night." He turns, and his friendly mask slips just enough to show what's underneath. "In front of everyone. Tommy still brings it up sometimes. How the sheriff's daughter threw beer in my face because I tried to kiss her."

"You didn't try to kiss me. You cornered me in a bathroom and put your hands up my skirt."

His jaw tightens. "That's not how I remember it."

"That'sexactlyhow it happened. You were drunk, you followed me upstairs, and when I tried to leave the bathroom, you blocked the door."

"You were wearing that black dress. The one with the low back. You don't wear something like that unless you want attention."

The logic of every predator—clothing as consent, existence as invitation.

He steps closer.