Page 101

His chest rises once—and falls. “Jules⁠—”

“Why do you have it?”

His gaze pauses on the photograph in my hand, then drills into mine. “Because I killed him.”

The wallet slips from my fingers and hits the floor. For one impossible second, nothing in the universe makes a sound. All the air leaves the room. “What?”

Gage doesn’t look away. “I killed your father.”

Pain tears inside me, slashing my heart to ribbons. “No.”

“Jubilee—”

“No.” I press one hand flat against my chest, as if I can physically force air into it. “Three. Fifty-nine. Seven. Eighty-three. Eleven.” Tears blur the room. My voice cracks. “N-no. That’s not possible.”

Gage takes half a step. I jerk backward, and he stops instantly.

“Gage, I know you.” The words come out broken.

“I know.”

“You—you don’t—” I gesture helplessly at the room.

He sets his jaw. “I’m a serial killer, Jubilee.”

The sentence lands with less force than the first, because my brain has already started assembling the pieces. He continues quietly. “I hunt predators. Killers. Men who hurt people because nobody stops them.” His eyes never leave mine, and they only harden. It isn’t just resolve. It’s purpose. “I make them disappear. I purge the filth and cut out the rot.”

The room sways. “Oh, God.” My hand covers my mouth. The shovels. The raccoon. The plant. His complete lack of panic. “The man on the trail.”

Recognition resounds in his expression. “He was my target.”

“But I killed him first.”

“Self-defense, Jules.”

“Twenty-seven times.”

His hands clench into fists, but he drags in a breath. “He was trying to kill you. And I was hunting him.”

My stomach twists. “And my father?”

His eyes close briefly, his shoulders sinking. “He was my target too.”

A violent shiver runs through me, and my chest caves in. “No. No, that’s not right.”

He takes another cautious step. “Don’t.” He stops.

“He was my daddy.” The words rip out of me. “He taught me how to get back on the horse. He taught me how to build my first computer. He taught me puzzles and stupid command-line tricks and showed up to every horse show even when he had to fly out the next morning.” Tears pour down my face now. “He brought me snow globes and maps and sat beside my bed when I was sick. He was there every time I needed him.”

Gage stares at the floor. That hurts worse.

“Look at me.” His head lifts. Our eyes collide, and my throat contracts around another sob. “He loved me.”

“I believe you.” His voice deepens. “He traveled a lot for work, didn’t he?”

I touch my throat. “Three. Fifty-nine.”

“Did he ever get restless before some of those trips? Tense. Distracted.” His neck muscles bulge and strain. “Like part of him had already left before the plane did.”