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He slides his fingertips down to the strings of my pajama pants, pulling them until they untie. It’s slow, and his gaze never leaves mine. His fingers loop around the waistband, not moving for a second, as if asking for permission. When I don’t say anything, he begins to tug at them, bringing them down around my ankles.

His lips press against my thighs. “Forgive me. Let us be together, Wynnie.”

My mouth opens in protest, but his touch moves to the outside of my panties, and I’m no longer able to speak. Before he can go further, I swallow hard and reach down to pull my pants back up. I have to come back to reality before I do something I’ll regret.

Preston moves back to his feet, our bodies pressed against each other, his hands tight on my back to keep me there. When he dips down to kiss me, I keep our lips from touching.

“I want you to leave. Now.”

He licks his lips, a defeated sigh escaping once again.

“Anything for you, darling.”

The sudden removal of his hands makes my skin feel empty, and I watch as he leaves out the same door he came in through. I throw myself over the back of my couch and scream into the cushions because I’m torn. I want him to stay. I want to call after him to come back and keep touching me. At the same time, I’m so relieved he’s gone.

15

Darling

Several days have passed since dinner with Preston… even less since he showed up at my house in the middle of the night, and yet I still can’t shake this feeling. Preston had surprised me both times, in completely different ways. When I think of him, I no longer think of the gentle giant I used to—I’d expected him to be demanding and arrogant. Threatening, even.

More so, I’d expected myself not to falter. I’d rehearsed how to dominate the situation, how I wouldn’t let him take over the conversation or steer the subject to things I didn’t want to discuss. The opportunity never even presented itself; he let me have full control.

I hate how everything has been so much worse since he showed up and got on his knees. It made me realize how… Preston, he still is. It makes me have questions about him; I want to know more. The thought that maybe I do want him rips through my head. I despise how when I think of him, I see him on his knees begging for me.

I hate how much I like it.

And God, when I think back to dinner, how he looked in that gray suit and carried himself like a man who has never been told no. There was a moment when he leaned back in his chair that a vision of me ripping his suit off of him and climbing into his lap right there flickered. It had come on so suddenly and so unwanted; I had to squeeze my hand around my knife until my fingers ached, to keep me from doing just that.

Lucky for me, desire is nothing compared to ire, and I’m choosing that.

Preston Grant is, in fact, a murderer, no matter how well he tries to hide it or twist it. The burnt citrus cologne can’t hide the scent of blood on his hands. Charming words can’t erase the tears he caused.

Despite being a dangerous man, he isn’t trying to hurt me, and that sits wrong in the pit of my stomach—it would be easier if his goal were to kill me, but he simply wants me to choose him. I guess in his fucked-up mind, the only way to get me to do that is to get rid of everyone.

I haven’t forgotten why I’m still here, though. Blaire deserves justice. And I deserve it too, because I now have the image of Caleb’s dead face ingrained in my brain forever, along with the movie reel of Ellie dying from my hands. If I have to become him to do that, then so be it.

My journey must go on.

Preston’s sister is gone, but his brother? He’s still alive and breathing. He’s still out there living in his high-rise, spoiling his girlfriend with expensive items.

Robert Grant is smarter and quieter than both of his siblings, but no cleaner. He’s not invincible; I just need to find a crack in the fortress.

I’ll dismantle the Grants piece by piece. I’ll expose everything—his secrets, the killings, the fixation. I’ll make him watch the life he’s built burn down around him.

* * *

I put myself in the same dress I’d worn on the night of mine and Preston’s date. Fitting, I guess, that I’m wearing it now to Hudson’s funeral.

Though I was invited, I’m back and forth about whether I should go. I don’t feel like we ever hit a level of being friends, despite being forced to listen to his jokes and sharing half of my sandwich every day during lunch breaks. Even if we ever did hit that category, I don’t think I can qualify myself as his friend anymore, since I’m the one who planned his murder.

Occasionally, guilt will make itself present, but only shortly. Yes, Hudson’s death was partially my fault, but mainly because Preston saw him as a threat.

I stare at myself, adjusting the neckline of my dress. The cut on my face is in the beginning phases of healing into a thin pink line, but it’s still very much a visible, ugly scab.

The police have been swarming Hudson’s house and the library since his body was found. Staff are being questioned, and they are checking security footage in his neighborhood, but nothing helpful has come up yet. The way he died has them spinning. Stabbed, throat slit, but no sign of forced entry, and nothing was stolen. At first, they thought it was a break-in gone wrong, but now they aren’t so sure.

The detective in charge is a nonsensical woman, wanting to see our schedules, emails, and even our group chat. I gave her what she wanted, said all the right things, and pretended to mourn. The only real question she had for me was the cut beneath my eye, but I’d explained that a branch caught me on my morning run, and I’m pretty sure she bought it.