The realization settled over me with quiet finality. I could see it now—the path she’d walk, whether I helped her or not. The only question was whether she’d walk it alone, stumbling in the dark, or with someone who knew the terrain.
“From now on, you come to me first.”
“What?” She looked up, confused, hope flickering across her features like a candle in the wind.
“Anything you’re planning. Anyone you’re watching. You come to me first. We’ll discuss it, plan it properly together.”
It may be too late for her now, but at least I could do was help her not end up in prison.
Julia stared at me, understanding dawning slowly across her face.
“The letters,” I said finally, shifting into practical mode because that’s what we needed now. “The photographs. The evidence you’ve collected. I need all of it.”
“Okay.” The word came out barely audible, thick with relief.
“Show me.”
She led me upstairs to her bedroom—a typical teenage space with posters on the walls and textbooks stacked on a desk. But beneath the bed, hidden in a locked box, was everything. Letters she’d written but never sent. Photographs she’d taken during her surveillance. Notes about my patterns, my routines, my suspected victims. A shrine to an obsession that could have destroyed both our lives.
We carried it all downstairs to the fireplace. One by one, we fed the papers into the flames, watching them blacken and turn to ash. The photographs took longer, the glossy paper resisting the fire before finally succumbing. The hard drive of her laptop was removed and smashed into little pieces. By the time we were done, nothing remained.
“Your grandmother will be home soon,” I said, checking my watch. “You should probably get cleaned up before she arrives.”
Julia nodded. “Mr. Hayes?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you,” she quietly said, “For killing my father.”
That was the problem, wasn’t it? She saw this as salvation. As justice delivered by a benevolent hand. She didn’tunderstand—couldn’t understand yet—what I’d actually given her. Not freedom. Not peace. Just a different kind of prison.
I’d never regret killing her father.
But standing here now, looking at this eighteen-year-old girl with gratitude shining in her eyes, I understood the full cost of that decision.
I’d created a mirror.
Not intentionally. But mirrors didn’t require intention—they simply reflected what stood before them.
I couldn’t help but think about the irony. I’d killed her father to protect her, to free her from his abuse. I’d thought I was saving her by removing a monster from her life. Instead, I may have created something worse.
The road to hell, as they say, is paved with good intentions.
12
Shay
The kitchen smelled like rosemary and butter.
I leaned against the counter, watching Tom move between the stove and the cutting board with the kind of ease that suggested he’d done this a thousand times before. He’d rolled his sleeves to his elbows—which I very much appreciated—and I found myself tracking the flex and release of his forearm as his fingers curled around the knife handle, the play of tendon and muscle beneath skin.
“You’re staring,” he said without looking up.
“I’m supervising.”
“You’re in the way.”
“I’m providing moral support.” I shifted closer, let my hip bump against his. “It’s an important role.”
