Wanted the warning.
Below it, smaller, in a different hand:
Part manifesto.
Part case study.
Rules.
Corrections.
Commandments.
In the margins, there are scribbles, arrows, little boxes like someone was editing a legal document. Whole lines are crossed out in such heavy strokes the paper is torn. Some sections are blacked out with what looks like charcoal. There are smudges that aren’t ink. Rust-colored stains that could be anything and still feel like a dare.
I flip a few pages. Titles appear. Dates. Locations.
A hotel suite in Miami.
A private school in Connecticut.
A villa in Santorini.
A hedge-fund gala in Manhattan.
Every setting glossy, exclusive, expensive—beautiful enough to hide rot.
Elegance and violence. The oldest pairing.
Each entry is written like a file.
Not confession.
Not diary.
Observation.
There are headings:
Weakness.
Witness.
Collateral.
A crime justified.
The words sit on the page like bones.
My mouth twitches. Not a smile. A recognition.
“Pretty,” I murmur, alone in the chapel, my voice swallowed by stone. “Polished. Psychotic.”
It echoes faintly. The saints don’t react. Mary keeps staring past me like I’m not worth her suffering.
Good.
I don’t want an audience.
