Page 36 of Sweet Sinners

A tear slips down my cheek, splashing quietly onto the paper, smudging the red ink slightly. It hits me like a blow—how alone he must've felt, trapped in a nightmare he couldn't share, even with his own daughter.

The leaks, the scandals attacking our family's reputation, the threats—it all aligns perfectly. Whoever did this is still close. Still within reach.

But why stay? Why linger in the shadows after getting away with murder?

None of this makes sense.

I curl up tighter in the oversized chair, the frustration and heartache clawing fresh wounds into my chest. A quiet voice in my head warns me—I should call Dr. Anderson, should catch myself before this spiral pulls me under—but I don’t.

Not yet. Instead, I press my cheek against the cool leather, breathing in the familiar scent, and pretend just for a second that I’m a little girl again.

Safe in my father's lap, listening to his gentle reassurance that everything will turn out fine, that I'm doing exactly as I should.

I give myself a minute—maybe ten—to drown in grief before finally lifting my gaze to the USB drive. It sits small and harmless-looking in my palm, mocking me like a silent dare.

My dad kept it hidden for a reason. Whatever’s inside must’ve been important—dangerous, maybe. But was it meant for me? What if it’s deeply personal, something he never wanted me to know? Or worse, what if this was left by the person who stole him from me?

My pulse drums in my ears as I turn it over between my fingers, battling the dread and morbid curiosity tangling inside me. Finally, before my courage slips away, I slide it into the port on my computer.

The screen lights up, and a dozen folders spring open before me, each title more disturbing than the last:

Precious Family CAUGHT Naughty Finances Don't Let the Fam See So Risky ASS HOLE Your Future How to Save Yourself

They read like threats, secrets darker than I imagined. A chill snakes down my spine, and my hand trembles on the mouse as I move the cursor slowly toward the first folder.

Taking a shaky breath, I click on Precious Family .

Inside the folder is a scattering of photos, a collision of memories that twists my stomach in knots.

My father and me laughing together, his arm draped protectively around my shoulders.

My stepmother caught mid-smile, radiant, unaware of the storm brewing behind the scenes.

Every image pulses with warmth and innocence—until suddenly, they don’t.

The next set of photos sends ice flooding through my veins.

Someone has been watching us, lurking just beyond our awareness, capturing private moments meant for no one's eyes but ours.

Pictures of me at school, candid shots at dinners with friends.

Images that show stolen glances, tense and charged, exchanged between me and Connor.

And the worst—photos of Dad leading me through the office, his expression filled with unmistakable pride.

My vision blurs, tears hot and sharp as they fill my eyes. It seems today I'm destined to drown in memories.

"Cali?" Maya’s voice breaks the spell, cautious as she approaches.

She pauses a few feet away, her gaze cautious and uneasy.

Her hesitation speaks volumes, but she straightens, pushing through her discomfort.

"I'm sorry to interrupt now… and earlier. But I’m not comfortable with Connor being here—not after everything. "

"He didn’t kill my father," I whisper firmly, wiping away a stray tear.

She shifts on her feet, glancing down, then back up again. Her voice lowers, filled with hesitant concern. "Are you sure you're not being blinded by…lust, or just desperate to keep someone familiar close?"

I exhale slowly, meeting her eyes without wavering. "I'm sure," I say softly but resolutely. "Could you please ask him to come see me, Maya?"

She hesitates, clearly torn. "You might believe he's innocent, but I still don't trust him. I don't want to be anywhere near him."

"I understand," I reply gently. "If you want to leave, I won’t hold it against you. But you've lived in this house longer than I have. You knew my father—trusted him. Please trust me when I say Connor’s innocent. I’m going to prove it. "

Something in my voice must reach her, because her shoulders relax slightly, and her eyes soften with reluctant understanding. She gives a short nod before quietly leaving me alone again.

Drawing a ragged breath, I close the folder and steady my hand as I prepare to open the one titled Your Future .

I close my eyes, steeling myself, but when I open them again, the images grow darker, uglier.

A knife gleams under harsh lighting; a gun rests ominously beside twisted rope.

Photographs of my father and stepmother stare back at me, mutilated with violent red ink slashed across their faces, their smiles grotesquely distorted.

The crimson stains are thick, aggressive—so brutal they’ve torn holes through the paper.

No hands are visible in any of the pictures, no clues to reveal if this threat comes from a calculated professional or someone consumed by madness. Yet, looking at the savage destruction laid out in front of me, it’s clear only someone truly deranged could do this.

My pulse pounds violently in my ears, tension spiraling tight, when a voice cuts through the silence. "Cali, I think we need some—"

"I found proof you’re not the killer," I whisper, interrupting softly, barely able to force the words out.

The door clicks shut, and Connor’s footsteps echo quietly as he approaches. He pauses behind me, close enough that heat radiates from him, grazing my skin without even touching. When he exhales sharply, his breath brushes my neck, sending a shiver down my spine and tightening every nerve inside me.

With trembling fingers, I continue clicking through the images, each more disturbing than the last, until I hover the cursor over a video file. I freeze, panic surging.

"I can’t watch this, Connor," I murmur, voice shaking. "Maybe I should just turn it all over to the police and—"

"I need to see it," he interrupts, his tone firm and decisive, leaving no room for argument.

Before I can form a single word in protest, Connor spins the chair around, effortlessly scooping me into his arms and settling me onto his lap without even glancing down.

His focus remains locked on the screen, his arm tightening protectively around my waist. "If you can't handle it, hide your face against me, just like you did with the horror movies," he murmurs roughly.

But it’s not the screen that scares me right now—it’s him.

Connor feels far more dangerous than anything that video could hold.

At the end, the assailant slaps a photo of my father onto the mannequin’s disfigured face, their movements slow and deliberate, as if savoring every second.

Then, with a cold finality, they pour something thick and vividly red over the image, smothering it, the knife gleaming wet and violent beneath.

My grip on Connor’s shirt tightens instinctively. He navigates through the files, jaw tense, his body rigid beneath mine. My vision blurs, nausea twisting in my gut. Fictional horror I could handle, but this…this twisted reality is more than I bargained for.

Connor senses my distress, gently turning my chin away, his hand sliding up from my waist to cradle the back of my head, shielding me.

"No looking," he orders softly.

"Connor," I whimper, his name trembling from my lips as a broken plea.

"I've got you," he whispers roughly. "Just focus on—"

His voice fades into a dull roar as the grisly sounds slice into me. The sickening drag of a knife carving through flesh—or something disturbingly similar—echoes through the room, making my stomach churn. I flinch as a distorted, haunting voice breaks through the noise, thick with menace.

"Anyone who stands in my way will be punished. This is between us. Your family shouldn't have to pay for your sins, but you leave me no choice. Stop hiding behind them. Stop using them as a shield."

The words chill my blood, direct and unmistakable. Even with Connor holding me steady, dread seeps into my bones, stealing my breath. None of this makes sense. There’s a dark puzzle here, one I know I have to unravel—but how can I, when each new piece is more terrifying than the last?

A heavy sigh crackles from the speaker. "If they get involved, it’ll be their blood on my hands. But your daughter... I'll spare her. Call it a kindness."

Overwhelmed, I bury my face against Connor’s neck, squeezing my eyes shut to block out the nightmare unfolding on screen. My breath grows shallow, heart hammering painfully in my chest.

Connor stays silent, rigid, and unmoving, and now I’m second-guessing everything—showing him this, involving him, even pursuing answers at all.

Knowledge was supposed to set us free, but this darkness—I didn’t ask for it.

I didn’t want to uncover the twisted truths that my father had endured, masked behind practiced smiles and careful composure.

But I’m not my dad.

I can't just close my eyes and pretend this doesn't exist.