The words land in my chest with a heaviness. I think about the women. Four confirmed, maybe more. Women who looked like Morgan. Women who looked like Charlie's biological mother. Women this man decided weren't "right" and took it upon himself to fix.
Trenton steps closer. "Where are the others?"
Harris looks at him, really looks. Studies his face the way a man studies a problem he hasn't figured out yet. "You won't find them. Not without me."
"That's not what I asked."
A smile. Small. Tight. The kind of smile that doesn't reach the eyes. "I know it's not."
I'm watching his hands. They're at his sides, palms open, fingers slightly curled. The posture of a man who's decided he's going to talk his way out of this.
"Hands where I can see them," I say.
He lifts them slowly. Palms out. The universal gesture of I'm not a threat.
Trenton moves to pat him down. I keep my distance, my hand on my weapon and my eyes on Harris's face. The smile hasn't left. It's gotten smaller, more precise, like he's narrowed it down to exactly the shape he wants.
Trenton finds the second knife in Harris's boot, a folding blade, small, the kind you'd use for field dressing. He pockets it without comment and continues the search. Phone. Wallet. A folded piece of paper that turns out to be another map, this one hand-drawn, with dates and times written in the margins.
Harris watches Trenton take the map.
"That's where they are," he says. "All of them. The ones who weren't right."
Trenton unfolds the map and holds it so I can see. The locations are marked with small crosses, several of them, spread across three counties. Each one has a date beside it. The latest is eight years ago, and the most recent a few days ago.
I look at Harris's face and I'm hit with a realization. The women weren't the point. The killing wasn't the point. The point was the process: the finding, the watching, the deciding they weren't right, the making them pure. Charlie's mother was part of it. The other women were part of it. Morgan was going to be part of it.
Harris reads my face. I can see him doing it, watching the pieces click into place, watching me understand the scope of what he's done.
"You see it now," he says, almost gently. "You see what I've been building."
"You're not building anything," I tell him. My voice is steady but something is happening behind my ribs, something hot and dark and barely contained. "You're killing women because they won't be what you want them to be."
His smile wavers. The first crack appears in that carefully maintained facade of calm.
"They're supposed to be better," he says. "They're supposed to be pure. I help them become what they're meant to be."
Trenton's hand finds my shoulder, a touch that says, Wait. A touch that says, I'm here. A touch that reminds me we're in this together.
"Morgan isn't part of your fantasy," Trenton says. His voice is low, even, the kind of tone that could talk a man down from a ledge or push him over it. "Charlie isn't part of your fantasy. They're real people who belong to themselves."
Harris's face hardens. "Charlie is mine. I created her. Her mother?—"
I'm moving closer without meaning to, closing the space between us until I can smell him. "She chose to leave you. Just like Morgan would choose to stay with us. You don't get to decide who belongs to who."
His eyes find mine. They're dark, not just brown, but deep, the kind of dark that swallows light. The kind of dark that's been growing for a long time.
"You think you know her," he says. "You think because she lets you touch her that she's yours. But she's not. She's waiting for someone who can make her what she's supposed to be."
The rage comes up so fast I don't have time to stop it. My fist connects with his jaw and he staggers back, blood blooming at the corner of his mouth. He's still smiling.
"That's it," he says. "Show me who you really are."
Trenton's hand is on my arm now, pulling me back. I let him, stepping back. I breathe.
"This isn't about us," I tell Harris. The taste of his blood is on my knuckles. "This is about justice for the women you killed. This is about Charlie never having to be afraid of you again."
His smile falters. Not because of what I said but because of the name. Charlie. His daughter's name in my mouth. The reality of her existence, separate from him, making choices he can't control.
