He turned back to the wall, his strokes violent now. The roller scraped and squeaked. He was pressing so hard, the paint was streaking, pooling in uneven lines.
I moved to the next section of wall, and Ryker followed, our rollers creating parallel green stripes. His still too aggressive, mine too tentative.
Fear gripped my voice. Maybe it was best to skip ahead pastsomesections for now. Because right now, I needed to focus on the parts that mattered to the case. The other stuff … maybe if we survived all the case-related confessions, maybe then I’d have the luxury of revealing the rest. Slowly. Carefully. The way I should have been able to do from the beginning.
“When I was sixteen, this wealthy foster family took me in. I thought I’d finally made it. New clothes, promises of a car, fancy parties. Turns out, they just wanted the image of fostering a troubled teen for political points.”
The familiar ache in my chest made me want to punch something. But I kept my voice level. Gave him the sanitized version.
I didn’t mention the fights I’d gotten into at that school. The way I’d learned to use my fists because words never worked. That could wait. That could stay buried.
“The neighbor—Daniel, the man in the woods—he was myage. Started hanging around the pool, finding excuses to be near me. I thought he liked me at first.” I laughed bitterly. “Turns out, he just thought he was entitled to me.”
Ryker had stopped painting again. Just stood there, roller raised.
“He was aggressive. Kept pushing boundaries. When I told him no, that I wasn’t interested, he completely lost it.” I swallowed hard. “Started screaming at me by the pool. Called me ‘pathetic foster trash.’ Said I should be grateful someone like him even looked at me. That I was nothing. Nobody.”
And that, ladies and gentlemen, planted some serious self-esteem issues. A stronger person wouldn’t have let that loser get under their skin, but he’d preyed on my biggest insecurity.
“He. Said. WHAT?”
I took a deep breath. “He told me I was lucky he even wanted me.” The memory tasted like bile. “That girls like me—damaged, broken, throwaway girls—we don’t get to say no to guys like him.”
Ryker’s roller hit the floor. He didn’t pick it up.
He pressed his palms against the unpainted section of wall, head bowed, shoulders slumped, breathing ragged.
Oh God. This was too much. I’d said too much.
“I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “I shouldn’t have?—”
“Don’t.” His voice was raw. “Don’t you dare apologize.”
But he still wouldn’t look at me.
Why won’t he look at me? He didn’t agree with that guy, right?
Or was this it? The moment where Ryker’s mental math finally added up all my broken pieces and decided the sum wasn’t worth the trouble?
I picked up his roller and set it in the tray. Gave him space. Gave myself space to figure out how to backtrack, how to make this okay, how to be the version of Faith that didn’t make him look like he wanted to put his fist through the wall. Or look at me like I was …different.
“He started making my life hell after that,” I continued, softer now. “Little things at first. Spreading rumors at school that I’d slept with half the football team. Then it escalated. Dead animals left in my locker. My homework destroyed.”
Ryker finally turned. His eyes were dark, his jaw still grinding.
“My counselor said it sounded like erotomania: a delusional belief that I was meant to be with him. Mix that with narcissistic injury from my rejection, and you get a dangerous combination.”
Ryker’s eyes sharpened. “You saw a counselor about this? Is there documentation?”
“I don’t know. Maybe? It was years ago.”
“I’ll see if we can track it down. A professional assessment of his obsessive behavior, on record, years before his death?” He nodded slowly. “That’s gold for establishing a pattern. That he was the threat, not you.”
I moved to smooth out the uneven patches Ryker had left on the wall. Anything to avoid looking at him, to avoid seeing whatever expression was on his face now.
“When I aged out and moved away, I thought it was over. But he kept surfacing every few years. In person.”
“Anything with phone records?” he suddenly asked.
