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His hand innocently grabs my leg, and I imagine my nameless monster breaking each of those fingers as they tickle dangerously close to the X marked on my skin.

I carefully remove Grant’s hand from my thigh. I’m so tired and lean my head on Dani’s shoulder instead.

As soon as I have more energy, I need to tell Dani what’s going on. If I end up dead, at least I will have told someone, and hopefully stop him from doing this to someone else. The thought of such a possibility—of him killing another girl—makes me want to scream.

Something is definitely wrong with me.

I’ve heard about rape fantasies, and perhaps I’ve indulged in those thoughts in the past. But that was merely sexual curiosities since I’m not overly experienced in it.

But this?

I can’t deny it anymore. I was more than turned on at the thought of being his next victim than anything else. Dying at his hands, like it’s a prize to win. Sacrificing myself for something so sacred.

When we finally get home, I spend an entire hour in the shower, scrubbing myself. My sweat, his sweat, his essence all over me. Whatever it is, it lives in my bones, and no amount of water will wash it away.

I crawl into bed and revel in the scent of my body wash, though I still smell him on me. I stare out the window at the morning light as it drifts through the layered trees.

I lift my knees and wince as the X splits, and I examine it and start admiring it. The pain is excruciating now as it blisters and bruises on my pale skin, and I don’t bother to dull it.

He’s marked me… I’m just not sure what that means. I stare at it in fascination, and while it scares the living hell out of me, part of me thinks it’s beautiful.

Will I become one of the countless lost souls of Kinsmen, a darkness that’s plagued this town for centuries? A deep and succulent part of an unknown history. Truths and stories only the trees really know.

I grab my computer and open the private browser, typing in death fetish. I quickly delete it, disgusted with myself for even thinking those words or manifesting these hideous thoughts by typing them. There is no way I want that or even want to get off on it. Yet…there was no other explanation for his effect on me. I don’t want to die, and I’m certainly not suicidal.

I type in various other sex fantasies, mainly BDSM. It’s somewhat reassuring knowing the statistics show approximately six in ten women have these types of thoughts in one way or another, and that experts say they are common.

But this isn’t a rape fantasy, this is something else entirely. Following years of inner numbness, I’ve never felt more alive than I did the moment he held that blade to my throat.

I sleep the rest of the day, and don’t emerge from my room until five PM. Dani and Misty are both in their rooms, so I grab a left-over piece of pizza and head back upstairs.

Instead of reading like I should, I decide to see if I can find anything on the Order. Of course, all that comes up in the search engine is Shadowface and the media circus he created.

That is not what I’m looking for right now. So I try to dig in deeper into my search but can’t find much about them.

This leads me to more dead-ends, so I give up and type in Lincoln’s name instead, and hundreds of search results pop up. There are literally hundreds of Lincoln Kennedys in the US, which isn’t helpful, so I type in Kinsmen.

That search yields me his school profile and a superficial IG. He couldn’t have a more basic name if he planned it like that. And who knows, maybe that’s exactly what he did.

My mind keeps going back to that boy, and the familiarity I have when I see Lincoln. That boy was an orphan; he was most certainly an orphan. My father insinuated as much because he didn’t have a family. Lincoln was also an orphan.

I take another route in my thinking, deciding to search the missing people presumed to be the Shadowface victims. I do a quick search of obituaries from 2002, or anything related to the victims of the time. I scan a few links and nothing sticks out.

I keep scanning until I stumble upon an obituary that catches my attention. More specifically, a name that catches my attention. And the name is not Lincoln.

Kim Peters, a beloved mother and friend, passed away unexpectedly on October 31, at twenty-two years of age. Born on March 3, 1980, she left behind her cherished three-year-old son, Mikael Peters. Mikael was the joy in Kim’s life, and she was dedicated to her studies at Kinsmen University, where she attended on a scholarship to help build a better life for her and her son.

Mikael Peters.

I swallow hard as that name circles my mind. I type in Kim Peters and Kinsmen University to see what else pops up. I scan the university site and finally come upon a photo of my father and my stomach sinks. I stare at it for a few seconds, making sure of it. It’s a younger version of him with more hair, and he’s in a group photo. He is at some sort of campus event, and the photo is captioned: Kinsmen University, 2002.

A woman is smiling up at my father, who has his arm around her. She was stunning…long blonde wavy hair, low cut jeans, and a belly shirt. The name at the bottom catches my eye next to my father’s. Kim Peters, the same woman that died unexpectedly. No taunting photo, just a life that got cut short. No explanation.

My hand flies to my mouth as I stare at the photo of a woman who died during that era, smiling adoringly up at my father.

The world spinning around me, I close my eyes. It’s so overwhelming, I might pass out. My stomach tightens, twists and twirls. Years after this woman died, my father brought her orphan son into our house. And he never spoke of her.

I hate thinking it…I hate that there is a connection, as small as it might be, that my father could technically be Shadowface. SF insinuated it as well.