Page 81 of He Sees You

The one with the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling that Dad put up when I was seven, back when he could fix everything with a band-aid and a bedtime story.

He's standing in my doorway now, looking like he's aged ten years in one night.

"We need to talk."

"We really don't."

"Celeste—" He enters without invitation, sits on the edge of my bed like he used to when checking for monsters. The irony isn't lost on me. "I'm sending you to Aunt Rebecca's. Tonight. I already called her."

"I'm not going to California, Dad."

"This isn't a request. You were nearly—" His voice breaks. "Jake nearly killed you. And Lockwood... what he did to Jake... no one should see that. No one should be around that."

I pull my knees to my chest, studying him.

My father, the good sheriff, the protector of the innocent.

Except he protected Jake for years, and we both know it.

"How many, Dad?"

"What?"

"How many women complained about Jake that you ignored?"

His face crumples. "That's not?—"

"How many?"

"Seven." The word comes out like pulled teeth. "Seven formal complaints over six years. But I thought... he was young, made mistakes. I thought I could guide him, help him be better."

"You thought wrong."

"I know that now." He reaches for my hand but I pull away. "But that doesn't mean you should be with someone like Lockwood. He's dangerous, Celeste. What he did tonight?—"

"What he did tonight was save me."

"He butchered Jake. Mutilated him. That's not protection, that's psychopathy."

"That's justice." I stand, start packing a bag. Not for California. "The justice you failed to provide for seven women."

"Where are you going?"

"Out."

"Celeste, please." He stands too, blocking my path to the door. "I know I failed. I know I didn't protect you or those women. But I'm trying to protect you now. Lockwood isn't what you think he is."

"You're right. He's exactly what I know he is." I meet his eyes steadily. "He's a killer. He's dangerous. He's probably killed more people than just Jake. And he's mine."

Dad's face pales. "You can't mean that."

"I've never meant anything more in my life."

"He's manipulating you. Stockholm syndrome or?—"

"I held the knife, Dad."

The words hang between us like a confession in church.