“I never meant to be like him.“
November 8th, 2012
My name is Clara Vale, and I am 17 years old. You may recognize my last name, and if you don’t, count yourself lucky. My father is James Vale, or, according to the press, The Artisan, The Sculpter, or the Curator. Call him what you will, he has killed exactly 487 people. Many of their names I can still remember today.
I still remember their blood-curdling screams as my father would kill them in various ways in front of me. That’s something years of therapy still can’t erase. Although my father’s name is James Vale, most people know him by one of his ‘stage names’ as he would always call them when I was a child. The worst part about these names? These names weren’t exactly drawn out of a hat. The police and the newspapers chose these titles because they had never seen slaughter like this before.
My father didn’t just kill people. He would re-imagine them. Put them in poses and slice pieces of their skin off and ‘sculpt them’ all while forcing me to watch in the background. No matter how hard I try to shut out the memories of fear and pain in other people’s last moments, it never seems to work. I have always known my father was killing people, but as a child he always told me that if i told my mother or anyone, the bad guys would come and get me. Of course, I listened: I was a child, I loved my daddy and my tiny mind couldn’t register the extent of his actions. The thing is, my mother wasn’t the only person who was fooled by my father’s charming and charismatic demeanor-it was the whole town. To the town, James Vale was an active community member who hosted all of the summer cookouts, donated to the school, and ran every charity run that the town hosted…which explains why the town took the news of him being a killer like a stab in the throat.
Even now, 7 years after he was sent away to prison, where he killed himself shortly after, I still have people coming up to me, asking me if I feel guilty about not doing anything to stop him. I get an array of inquirers, often people who are part of the James Vale online discussion groups or people connected to one of the victims of his killings. The questions are always some variation of, “Why didn’t you stop him?” or “Do you feel guilty about what your father has done?” and especially, “Did you love your father and do you miss him?” Answers: “I was too young and didn’t fully realize what was going on.” “Yes, of course.” and “No comment.”
November 15, Saturday
Lately, over the past few months, dozens of children, local to Black Wood, have been reported missing. At first, people automatically jumped to the conclusion, “James Vale’s ghost is back from the dead!” but after a quick look in the cemetery, the people of Blackwood realized that they have a new killer on their hands. Of course, for a few weeks people looked at me suspiciously, eyed me like they had already made the conclusion that I was a murderer, like it’s a genetic trait that’s passed down. If I’m being completely honest, I have never killed anyone or even thought of doing such a heinous crime. Ironically enough, as a serial killers daughter, I am totally against killing.
Today is what I like to call a ‘dry day’. Dry days are the days when you get easily agitated and get the sense that all the people around you are just being dry and dull and predictable. It makes sense that I don’t have any friends. I could have been popular, would have been popular, had been popular before everyone found out about my father. Regardless, today is still a beautiful day in Black Wood. Walking down the cracked sidewalk, the uneven slabs digging into my sneakers with every slow step, the late afternoon sky is bruised purple and orange, the sun dipping behind the row of tired, aging houses that line the street. The air smells faintly of damp earth and fading summer blooms. My phone buzzes—Mom’s name flashing on the screen. No answer. Not today. Not since Dad’s secret came out. Mom has become a ghost—distant, cold, like she isn’t really here anymore.
Frustration coils tight in my chest. I glance at a jagged rock lodged between the sidewalk and the curb and kick it hard. But instead of the expected thud, there’s a startled gasp.
I look up from my phone, and my heart nearly stops. A boy is staring back at me—Jason Cross. I have seen him pass by in the hallways at school, but we’ve never spoken before.
He is sprawled awkwardly on the cracked concrete, papers scattered around him like fallen leaves. His dark black hair is messy, catching the last light of day, and his tall, muscular frame seemed almost out of place here, surrounded by peeling paint and rusty mailboxes. But it is his eyes — startlingly light grey, almost electric- that draw me in, like storm clouds ready to break.
“I—I’m so sorry,” I stammer, crouching beside him to help gather the papers fluttering in the light breeze.
As I reach out, my fingers brush the edges of the sheets, and my breath catches. These aren’t just any papers. They are thick files, heavy with secrets. Photos, typed reports, newspaper clippings — all about the recent disappearances. Faces of young children staring up at me, and faces of lost children staring up at me. Not the kind of stuff you could borrow from the library. These are, without a doubt, stolen, top secret.
“What are you doing with these?” I ask, my voice curious.
Jason’s eyes quickly narrow into slants of suspicion. “None of your business.”
He scoops up the papers quickly, his movements tense, then tucks them under his arm. I’m not ready to back down. Our town is small — everyone knows everyone — so I follow him as he turns toward the dense woods that edge the neighborhood.
The trees loom tall and thick, their branches like skeletal fingers clawing at the darkening sky. The scent of pine and damp leaves fills the air, and the soft crunch of dry twigs underfoot echo around us. Jason moves silently, almost like he belongs here, slipping deeper into the shadowed woods until he stops in a small clearing.
He kneels down and strikes a match, dropping it onto a pile of logs. He must have planned to come here. But why? The flame flickers in the gathering dusk before it catches dry leaves and twigs. The fire grows quickly, casting a warm orange glow that dances across his sharp features and makes his eyes gleam even brighter.
I stand just beyond the firelight, the chill of the evening creeping in, and ask, “What’s going on? What are you doing with those flies?”
Jason’s mouth twists into a bitter smile as he turns around to face me, still crouched on his knees, as if he has known I was behind him the entire time. “You really want to know?”
I nod, my heart pounding. I am unsure if it’s from the slight embarrassment of him knowing I was behind him the entire time, or what I may discover.
“They killed my parents,” he says, voice tight with grief and rage. “They’re behind this. The murders. The disappearances. It’s worse than you think.”
I swallow hard, the crackling fire filling the heavy silence. Jason’s parents were killed when he was in elementary school. Everyone in town knows of the Cross family fire. It was all anyone could talk about for years. I still remember Jason going to school that day, after everyone saw the news talking about how his house, his home, was burned down that night, and people were treating it like entertainment. But who is this “they” he is talking about?
“They’re part of a child trafficking cult-no, they are the child trafficking cult,” he whispers, eyes flickering to the shadows beyond the firelight. “They kidnap kids, torture them, record everything, then sell those videos to powerful people — officials, people like the ones who’ve disappeared. Some buyers want the kids themselves. The rest? They get killed.”
“Who is ‘they’?” I ask, desperate to know who is behind these disappearances.
“They are someone you would never expect. Let’s just say that.” He says he’s still facing me, but looks into the distance. What an annoying answer. “Just cut to the chase and tell me who it is.” I roll my eyes. I’m honestly surprised how interested I am in this case now. I’ve seen enough Dateline episodes to know how this ends.
“You ask and I shall deliver: The ‘theys‘, whom you so desperately seek to know, are the mayor, the governor, nearly all the people on the board of education.”
A cold shiver runs down my spine, the darkness inside me — Dad’s darkness — flaring like a warning. “What? No way. That’s absolutely insane!”
His gaze darts up to me. “That is the truth.” His cool, calm words ease over my mental rocks of tension, like water in a babbling brook. All of a sudden, his gaze darkens. “They’re the ones responsible for all this. My parents tried to stop it — and they paid for it with their lives. I’m doing what I have to. Trying to get closure.”
And then it hits me — between the lines, Jason isn’t just a curious inquirer about these murders; he’s trying to put a stop to them together. He’s playing detective in a case that could get him, and anyone involved, killed. Just now I realize how dangerous Jason’s plan is. I decide I will reprimand myself later, after I am out of this crazy situation.
I started to turn away, but his hand shot out and grabbed my wrist. His grip is firm, desperate, but not cruel.
“Don’t go to the police,” he says, voice low, urgent, and almost pleading. “They’re everywhere. They control the police. If they find out what I know — what you know — they’ll come for us.”
“Have you told anyone?” I ask. He shakes his head slightly. “Oh my god, why haven’t you told anyone?” My voice cracked with the shrill demand. This guy is insane if he thinks he can take on this case all on his own.
“Because I didn’t want anybody caught in this,” he says, eyes blazing in the firelight. “It’s not just about power or politics. It’s about protecting kids. You think your dad was the worst? They’re monsters. They destroyed my family. They’ll ruin yours if you’re not careful. And, well, I told the sheriff.”
I scoff. Out of all people to be involved, he tells the sheriff? The police? The person who has the most power over him, us, in this situation. Well, I suppose that means I can tell the police then. I wrench my hand free, heart racing. “I’m telling the police.”
Jason’s face hardens. “If you do, they’ll come for me — and you. I only told the sheriff but who knows what the police will do if told? This goes all the way up. Your dad’s darkness isn’t the worst out there. These people want everyone silent.” Gosh, he had to rephrase the same statement just to prove his point. Repetitive, but effective.
The fire pops and hisses, sparks flying up into the dark canopy of trees. The woods seem to close in around me, the shadows growing thicker, heavier, like the weight of his words pressing down on my chest. The fire crackles in front of us, painting our faces in shifting golds and oranges. My arms are crossed over my chest, more out of instinct than defiance, but I can’t ignore the way the wind has picked up — soft at first, then sharper, like it’s scraping through the trees just to find skin to sting.
I shift my weight from foot to foot, trying to stop my body from shaking. My dark grey cashmere sweater helps, but only a little. The thin black skirt I’d decided to wear today wasn’t built for cold forest air after sundown. I hadn’t exactly dressed for mystery and murder.
Jason glances over, eyes flicking down, then back up. “Shoot. Are you cold?”
I don’t answer, but I must have been visibly shivering, because he’s already unzipping his jacket and standing up to hand it to me. “Here,” he says, voice low, almost sheepish.
Before I can say anything, he steps behind me and gently drapes it around my shoulders. His touch is warm, unexpectedly gentle, like he’s afraid I might break. The jacket is oversized, the inside soft fleece, the outside navy canvas smells faintly of pine, smoke, and something that’s just… him. It swallows me whole, but I don’t mind.
“Thanks,” I murmur, pulling it tighter around me.
Jason moves to stand beside me again, but this time, closer, friendlier. The firelight carves shadows across his face — highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the high bridge of his nose, the softness in his expression. I’m not sure he lets many people see. His light grey eyes look silver in the glow, and for a moment, everything else fades — the cult, the files, my father.
He leans in a little, not quite close enough to touch, but just enough that I can feel the awkward tension between us, like the air is suddenly electric. But, there is no way that I’m kissing a boy I just met. That’s just so cliche.
“I should go home now,” I said suddenly, stepping back a fraction.
Jason’s expression doesn’t change, but something in his eyes flickers — just for a second — like he understands exactly what didn’t just happen.
“Right,” he says quietly.
I don’t plan to look back as I walk away, the sleeves of his jacket dangling past my hands. All of a sudden, Jason calls out to me, “Wait!” he says. A million different thoughts race through me like a relentless torrent of droplets in the midst of a storm. “Has he changed his mind about doing this with me? Is this all a made-up lie?” Jason jogs up to me. We are now standing at the edge of the forest, moonlight illuminating his features brighter than any flame ever could. “Meet me at The Grind tomorrow. I’ll be there with the sheriff and trust me, he’ll help.” He adds with a wink, “Also, meet me in the library during lunch at school on Monday!” He says those last words with the hint of a smile tracing his lips. Then, he spins around and darts back into the woods, toward his house, shouting, “See you tomorrow!” as he disappears into the darkness. The woods feel colder now that I am alone again, the wind threading through the trees like a warning. My boots crunch softly against the gravel shoulder as I make my way back into town.
The whole walk home, my thoughts keep circling.
We almost kissed. Jason Cross. Quiet, popular, too-beautiful Jason Cross.
But more than that, he’s connected to the murders. Not just observing them, not just reading about them. He’s tangled in them. Chasing them.
He claims it to be justice. Closure. But I know how easy it is for lines to blur. I’ve seen what obsession can do. I’d grown up with it. My boots scuff over the cracked sidewalks, and Jason’s jacket hangs heavy on my shoulders, still warm from his body heat, still smelling like pine and fire.
Our house sits near the end of a narrow street on the edge of town, tucked under a willow tree whose branches brush against the roof like a whisper. The paint on the siding had started to peel, soft grey curling at the edges, and the porch steps groan under my weight as I climb them. The garden is long dead, overrun with dry weeds and dirt patches. Mom used to tend to it every Sunday morning, humming while she wore her floppy sunhat and denim apron. Now the watering can sits rusted under the porch, forgotten like everything else.
Through the front window, I can see the soft flicker of the TV bouncing against the walls. I let myself in quietly.
The inside smells like lavender tea and closed-up air. Mom is curled on the couch under a knit blanket, her mouth slightly parted in sleep, the glow of the screen painting her face in cold blue light. Her robe is slipping off one shoulder, and the thin lines around her eyes seem deeper in sleep — like she can’t escape the weight of everything, even in dreams.
I step closer, eyes flicking to the TV. It’s the late-night news.
The anchor’s voice is clipped, urgent. “Authorities still have no leads in the disappearances of several children. So far, whoever is committing these crimes has left behind no traceable DNA, no surveillance footage, and no confirmed witness accounts.”
They don’t know who it is. Or do they? Could the man reporting the news be affiliated with this?
“The FBI has now joined the investigation,” the anchor continues, “and a task force is being formed to investigate what some are calling the most coordinated series of stolen children in state history.”
My hand grips the edge of the couch cushion. Jason is being hunted-by everyone involved in this.
And he has brought me into it.
Mom stirs slightly but doesn’t wake. She mumbles something — maybe a name, maybe nothing — and shifts, pulling the blanket higher. Her once-golden-black hair is now limp and greyed at the edges. Her skin was pale. The same woman who used to laugh so loud that the neighbors heard. Who baked too many pies in the fall? Who could shut down any town hall debate with a single icy glare?
Now she barely speaks. She hasn’t stepped outside in weeks. And she can’t even look at me, her own daughter, flesh and blood, without flinching.
Because I have my father’s face.
The sharp cheekbones, jet-black eyes, the lips that curled in that way he used to smile when he thought no one was watching. A predator’s smile. It lives in my reflection like a warning.
The only thing I’d inherited from Mom was her black hair, big eyes, and — I hoped — whatever pieces of her goodness and stability in her heart still remain.
“I’m going to bed,” I whisper, even though she is still asleep.
My room is silent, dimly lit by the glow of a single lamp. The walls greet me the way they always have: Lined with photographs of people most had tried to forget. Victims of my father. Carefully labeled, gently arranged. It isn’t an obsession. It’s a vigil.
A reminder of what I come from.
And who I never want to become.
I slip off Jason’s jacket once I am back in my room and fold it neatly at the foot of the bed. The sleeves still smell faintly like pine smoke and soap and something quieter I can’t name. My fingers linger a second longer than necessary.
That moment by the fire won’t leave my head. The closeness. The way he looked at me was like he was seeing something no one else had bothered to. The way his eyes had softened before I’d pulled away.
We almost kissed.
And the worst part is—I want him to. Still do, even now.
But how can you want someone whose hands could soon be covered in blood?
I pace towards the window, jacketless again, arms tight across my ribs. The night outside is still and dark, the sky veiled in thin clouds. The streets are empty. But I can feel it in my bones—that buzz in the air, like something had been set in motion and couldn’t be stopped.
Downstairs, the news is still playing. I’d seen it now—those files, those eyes. He isn’t the only person connected to this now; I am too. And I think that is what scares me most.
And yet, he’d wrapped me in his jacket like I was something breakable. Something worth saving.
I turn back to my mirror, the one I always stare into like it owes me answers.
My reflection blinks back at me, long black hair. Black eyes. Sharp, severe features that never soften, even when I try to be gentle.
The face of a girl trying so hard to be different from her father, while walking towards the same fire.
And then the lyric comes into my head like a whisper I haven’t asked for, soft and uninvited.
Red lights, stop signs, I still see your face in the white cars, front yards…
I exhale slowly. I know exactly what that feels like.
To keep seeing a face even when you’re trying to drive away from it. Even when you know you should’ve taken a different road. I touch the mirror once, then step back into the quiet. “I’m the hero of a story I don’t want to be in.” And tomorrow, I’ll step deeper into it anyway.
November 16, Sunday
The Grind smells like cinnamon, scorched milk, and something tired. The bell over the door jingles as I walk in, a brittle sound that cuts through the low murmur of students and soft indie music. Afternoon light filters through the smudged windows, painting everything in shades of warm gold and dust.
Jason’s already here.
He’s sitting at a corner table beneath a rusty wall sconce, sleeves rolled up, fingers wrapped around a paper coffee cup that’s probably long gone cold. He looks like he hasn’t moved in a while. When he sees me, he offers a half-smile — the kind that doesn’t try too hard, because it doesn’t need to.
Beside him sits a man I recognize instantly.
Sheriff Elias Marrin.
The same man who put my father in handcuffs on our front lawn, who held my mother’s hand when the reporters wouldn’t stop shouting, who told me I wasn’t to blame even when the whole world thought otherwise. His uniform hasn’t changed — dark green jacket, silver badge dull under the café lights — but something in his face softens when he sees me.
“Clara,” he says, with the kind of warmth people usually reserve for old family friends or tired pets. “You’ve grown.”
My throat tightens, but I manage a quiet, “Hi.”
He gives me a nod that feels almost protective. “It’s good to see you.”
Most people don’t say that. Most people don’t mean it when they do. But Sheriff Marrin always looked at me like I was just a kid caught in the wrong storm. Never the storm itself.
He turns to Jason, placing a hand on his shoulder. “How’s Rebecca holding up?”
Jason’s eyes drop to the table for a second before flicking back up. “She’s… good. Still working overtime.”
“Town’s lucky to have her,” Marrin says. “Smart woman. Heart like a cathedral.”
Rebecca. She’s the only one who ever really looked me in the eye besides the sheriff when my father was first discovered, the only adult who didn’t flinch when she saw my last name. The town therapist, and the kindest person I know. She keeps her grief folded neatly, tucked into soft sweaters and tea-stained notebooks.
“She asks about you sometimes,” Jason says to the sheriff.
Marrin smiles at that — a real one. Then he drops into the seat across from us and leans forward.
“Listen,” he says quietly. “We’re not doing this here. Too many ears, too many eyes. But I’ve read the reports. The files I gave Jason.” He glances over each shoulder, voice lowering. “Some of the names on that list? They’re more than just powerful. They’re protected. And they’ve been hiding this for years.”
My fingers tighten around the key he slides across the table. It’s small. Cold. Ordinary. But it feels like a line being crossed.
“My office,” Marrin says. “Side door’s always unlocked for you two. Upstairs above the Town Hall. Come at night if you have to. I’ll leave the lamp on.”
Jason says nothing, but I can feel the tension in him — the way he straightens slightly, the way his leg starts bouncing beneath the table.
Marrin stands, then hesitates.
“I don’t know where this ends,” he says. “But I know what it looks like when kids get hurt because adults didn’t do enough to stop it.”
His eyes settle on me, kind and heavy. “You were just a little girl, Clara. You didn’t choose what happened to you.”
He gives me a nod — not like he’s dismissing me, but like he sees me. Then he tips his hat slightly, old-fashioned as ever, and walks out the door.
November 17, Monday
The wind slices through the courtyard like it’s trying to wake the dead as Jason steps out of his car and into the brisk fall air. My pleated navy skirt sways around my knees as I cross the cracked concrete toward the school entrance. My white dress shirt is stiff under the navy V-neck sweater, collar brushing against my chin. I hate how formal the uniform feels. Starched, proper, tight. Like it’s trying to clean me up on the outside so no one remembers who I am on the inside.
But they remember anyway.
I hear the whispers before I see the eyes.
“There she is… Vale’s daughter.”
“Jason better watch his back.”
“Bet she’ll slit his throat in his sleep.”
I keep walking, Jason beside me.
I’m used to it by now — the looks, the half-laughed slurs, the names hissed like slaps. Freak. Murder spawn. Psycho girl. They’ve all been recycled so many times, they’ve lost their sting. My name became a ghost long ago — just something they use when the gossip gets boring.
I don’t flinch anymore.
Jason walks beside me like he doesn’t hear them — or like he doesn’t care. Maybe both.
He’s wearing the school’s navy blazer, hands shoved deep in the pockets. His steps are slow, steady. People part when we pass, like the sea parting for a shipwreck. I half expect someone to throw salt over their shoulder.
A group of seniors leans against a row of lockers by the main hall. One girl, Taryn, leans back on her elbows, eyeing me like I’m roadkill.
“Hey Jason,” she calls sweetly. “Blink twice if she’s got you hostage.”
Laughter ripples around her. A guy behind her, Cam, adds, “Hope you don’t end up carved into a statue like her dad’s trophies.”
Jason stops.
So do I.
The hallway suddenly dips into silence. Lockers clang shut in the distance. Shoes squeak on the polished tile. The air hangs thick.
Jason turns, slow and calm, eyes locked on Cam. “Say one more thing,” he says, voice low.
Cam opens his mouth — but nothing comes out.
“I’m serious,” Jason says. “That’s enough.”
Taryn’s lips curl into a fake-smile-sneer hybrid. “Aww. Protective now? Cute. You’re not scared she’ll snap and gut you in your sleep?”
Jason doesn’t answer. He just takes a step forward.
And for once, they back off.
We keep walking.
Inside the classroom, the desks are the same chipped plastic and metal they’ve always been — arranged in three uneven rows with too little space between them. Some are covered in carved initials, others in faded gum. I slide into the front seat by the window, the one I always take.
Sunlight filters through the glass in fractured lines, catching dust motes midair like slow snow. Across the aisle, a girl with bubblegum-pink nails shifts away from me. As if murder is contagious through proximity.
Let them think that.
I pull out my notebook and try to focus. Try.
But my brain won’t sit still. It keeps spiraling back to what Jason showed me yesterday. The fire. The files. The cold clarity in his voice when he said, ‘They killed my parents.’
And now we’re digging. Today, in the library. In broad daylight, in the quiet space between book aisles, we’re going to lift the curtain and look at the monster behind it.
But the thing is, monsters are familiar to me.
Jason might be hunting some. I was raised by one.
After 45 long, treacherous minutes of history, the bell finally rings, shrill and echoing like a slap through the hallway. I move quickly, dodging shoulders and swinging backpacks, the wave of students spilling out into the corridor like a stampede. My bag bumps against my hip as I head toward the stairwell, but before I even reach the top step, I see her.
Savannah Brighton.
Wrapped in head-to-toe confidence, standing in the middle of the hall like she owns gravity. She doesn’t even move when people try to get around her — they just flow past like she’s a rock in a stream. Her platinum hair gleams under the flickering fluorescent lights, and her glossy lips curl into a smile that says she’s been waiting for this moment all morning. Even though I have a good 2 inches on her, her lack of fear makes her seem ten-feet-tall.
“Clara,” she purrs, stepping directly into my path.
I don’t stop walking. Just keep going slow enough so I don’t bowl her over.
She blocks me fully, arms crossed, that little tilt of her chin saying this won’t take long.
“You really think Jason’s going to stay interested?” she asks sweetly. “I mean, you can play the whole dark mystery thing, but we all know what this is. He’s probably just curious about the girl whose dad turned people into meat art.”
I blink once and let out a small laugh. I don’t even mean to — it just slips out.
Not the panicked kind. Not nervous. It’s sharp and dry, like a knife edge. Sometimes, I don’t blame the serial killers, because if I were one, I probably would have killed her by now. As bad as it sounds, she’s made my life miserable enough that she deserves it.
Savannah looks thrown for half a second, confused as to why I am laughing at her. That cracks me up even more.
“Something funny?” she snaps.
I shrug. “I just find it funny that you never felt the need to talk to me until Jason gets in the picture. You seem confident, but inside you must feel quite small and angry. “Why should the weird serial killer’s daughter get to be around Jason Cross?” I say, doing by best Savannah impression. “Really, Savannah, to think that you get so torn up over a boy. I expected better from you.” She looks enraged. The cool and confident demeanor from before has been replaced by a look of pure fury. Her face has turned a shade of red so bright, one might think she painted her face that color.
I smile without teeth, step past her, and keep walking.
Behind me, I hear her scoff, mutter something under her breath. Probably another threat, or a slur. I don’t care. I’ve heard worse from my own blood.
Let her talk.
Lunch
The library is so silent, except for the rustle of papers and the quiet buzz of the overhead lights. I move past the front desk where our school’s sassy librarian sits, past rows of towering bookcases that smell like dust and dry ink, toward the far corner near the windows.
Jason is already there, a folder open between his long fingers. He doesn’t look up right away, but when he does, there’s a flicker of something like relief in his expression.
His white dress shirt is slightly rumpled, like he’s been running his hand through his hair all morning. His navy pants fit just right — effortless, clean. Even here, in this cold-lit room, he looks like he belongs on a magazine cover instead of tangled in blood and conspiracy.
“Hey,” he says quietly.
“Hey,” I reply, dropping into the seat beside him.
The table is tucked between two tall shelves, tucked enough that it feels like its own small world. A few tables are scattered around the library — one with a sleeping senior, another with two freshmen hunched over Chromebooks — but no one’s close enough to hear.
I glance around, then lean in just slightly.
“Do you think anyone can hear us?” I whisper.
Jason’s smile is small and easy. “Nope. That’s why I picked this spot. Even the librarian can’t hear unless you shout.”
I nod, but I still speak quietly. It feels like anything louder might crack the spell.
He flips a page in the folder — printed emails, redacted reports, grainy surveillance stills.
“Sheriff Marrin flagged a name that showed up twice in the ledger I found in my parents’ old safe. This guy here”—he taps a name with his finger—“he’s connected to a fake orphanage and reports for the local news every night.”
I squint at the paper. “That’s not a coincidence.”
“Nope,” he says. “And it gets worse. Sheriff says there’s a second drop site just outside town. A cabin. Remote. Like, off-grid.”
I shiver, but it isn’t the cold.
“Do you think it’s active?” I ask.
Jason’s jaw tightens. “We’re going to find out. Just so you know, if I have to kill one of these people, I will.”
The words sit heavy between us. Not dramatic. Just certain.
Outside the window, the sky has turned overcast, clouds moving slowly and low across the treetops. The library light buzzes softly. Somewhere, a pencil clatters to the floor.
Jason leans back in his chair, arms crossed loosely over his chest. “You sure you want to keep going with me on this?”
I look him right in the eyes. “You already know the answer.”
Later that night
I’m sitting cross-legged on my bed, the hum of the heater filling the silence like a lullaby no one asked for. Jason’s jacket is folded neatly on the back of my chair, still holding the shape of his shoulders, like some ghost of warmth that doesn’t quite belong here. Or maybe it does.
The lamp on my nightstand flickers once — a slow, yellow heartbeat. I stare at the photographs taped to the wall beside my desk. Old newspaper clippings. Victims of my father. Labeled, categorized, remembered.
I don’t look away. Not tonight.
I think about what Jason said in the library — “Just so you know, if I have to kill one of these people, I will.” He says it like he’s already halfway there, like there’s no turning back and we both know it. And I think… maybe there never was a turn to begin with. Just this long, inevitable hallway of secrets, dragging us by the throat like a leash on a dog.
Jason doesn’t know what it feels like to be the daughter of the monster. To walk down a hallway and have people flinch when you pass. To hear your father’s name whispered like a curse in rooms you’ve never even stepped into. I was born into the fire he’s just now walking into.
But that’s the thing about darkness. It doesn’t really scare you once you’ve lived inside it.
It becomes home.
What haunts me most isn’t that Jason is considering killing these people.
It’s that I understand why.
I think about Savannah, about the way her voice drips like sugar over poison. About how she looked at me like she already knew I’d lose one of her mental games— because girls like her always assume they’ve won before the game starts.
But Savannah doesn’t know the rules of my game.
She doesn’t know what it’s like to watch someone get sculpted into a statue in your own living room. To scrub blood off your dolls because your father forgot you were playing in the corner. To hear a scream and not flinch because it’s just another Tuesday.
She doesn’t know that I’m not afraid of girls like her.
Because I survived a man like him.
I press my palm to the mirror again, the same way I always do when the silence gets too loud. My reflection stares back: sharp cheekbones, black eyes, hair like obsidian waves framing a face that doesn’t feel like mine.
Sometimes, I wonder if I’m just a shadow of my father wearing a girl’s skin.
But then I remember: I choose to remember the victims.
I choose to survive.
I choose to be better.
Even if it doesn’t look like it from the outside.
Even if the line between justice and vengeance is starting to blur.
Jason’s walking that line too. Maybe that’s why I trust him. Or maybe it’s because, for the first time in forever, someone looked at me and didn’t see the headline — just the girl standing beneath it.
My phone vibrates in my skirt pocket.
Jason: I’m in front of your house in my car. I wanna tell the sheriff what we found today.
I sit up straight and text back: Be down in a sec!
I leap out of bed, tossing my hair into a loose, low ponytail. I yank on navy sweatpants and the tight black tee I sleep in. Quietly, I throw open my door, toes slipping into my sneakers, and dash down the hall. Mom’s room is next door—her door cracked open, light off. I pause to listen: soft snore, good. I sigh with relief, then slip down the last steps and out the front door.
Beyond the hedges, Jason’s BMW idles in the driveway. Sleek black under the streetlamp, its polished lines angled like a predator. He looks up as I approach, still in his school uniform: navy blazer slung over his shoulder, crisp white shirt, navy pants—his formality grounding him in the terrible calm I need.
He offers a small smile. “You ready?”
“Yeah.”
I slide into the passenger seat. It smells of pine air freshener and leather. Jason starts the engine. The lights from the dash cast a soft halo on his face. His eyes catch mine, lingering a heartbeat too long. My heart skitters. I hide it with a cough.
He jerks the car into motion. We pull away from the curb.
The drive is tense. I keep thinking about the files, the cabin, the abandoned orphanage. If this really is bigger than we thought.
When we arrive, the office is dark. Streetlamps paint the facade in strobes of light and shadow. Jason kills the engine, and we climb out, jackets pulled close.
He leads the way to the side door—just like Marrin said. I lift the latch. It’s unlocked.
Soft click. We slip inside, flashlights on.
There’s no sheriff.
But the filing room lights are on inside.
Jason pushes the door open, and I follow. The room smells of paper and dust. Long rows of metal cabinets stretch toward the far wall. One drawer stands open—too low, too easily reachable.
Uh oh.
Jason and I exchange a look.
He kneels, shining his light inside the drawer.
I peer over his shoulder.
The blood instantly drains from my face.
Stacks of folders—the names and labels hit me like a punch:
“Jeremy Hayes – age 7 – Missing 03/15 – Next”
“Mia Torres – age 9 – Recording sent.”
“Samuel Ling – age 6 – Next”
“Grace Wu – Missing 04/02 – Recording sent.”
Every folder is a child. Missing. Recorded. Next.
My breath catches. This isn’t just files. This is evidence of systematic horror. From the sheriff’s own office!
Jason’s voice is a whisper, trembling: “Clara… these creatures—Marrin’s one of them.”
I swallow. I taste bile. My chest tightens. “He’s—he’s part of it.” It comes out in a terrified stutter.
He hits the drawer, shutting it. My teeth chatter.
From behind us—
“Took you long enough to find out.”
My head snaps up.
Sheriff Marrin stands in the doorway, the dim light catching his silver star. He’s smiling. A grin so masochistic, I’d swear it was carved into his skin.
My legs go stiff. My mouth dries.
He steps forward. Then two more dark figures follow out of the shadows:
The mayor—Mayor Hawthorne—suave, smug, in a tailored suit.
And the head of education—Dr. Carling—her face cool and unsmiling.
My vision swims.
Jason steps in front of me, jaw tight, his blazer still slung over his shoulder. “What is this?”
Marrin’s grin widens. “Oh, it’s just some entertainment.”
Mayor Hawthorne crosses his arms. “Meet our new recruits.”
Dr. Carling tilts her head. “You’re coming with us.”
Jason’s hand squeezes mine. “Clara—”
Before he can blink, they step forward, silhouetted.
A cloth is pressed over my face. I inhale—
My vision floods black. Jason’s muffled shout is the last thing I hear before I topple.
Good work 🙂 Wonderful descriptions