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There were several betrayals left for him to complete, yet.
Gradually, the screen flickered to black.
“That bad, huh?” Rafe said, his tone emotionless.
She couldn’t look at him. There was nothing about this she wanted to talk about, and she was afraid too much of her thoughts were showing on her face. But for once, his malfunctioning empathy wire seemed to be connecting, because he didn’t say anything else, though she noticed his knuckles were bone-white where they gripped the counter.
June, she thought.Whoever sent me this, they’ve been having me followed for months.
All that anger. She could sense it pouring from the screen in a black torrent.
Before she could lose her nerve, she clicked one of the photos. Adonica1.jpeg. At first, she didn’t understand what she was looking at. It appeared to be a document of some kind, typed out like somebody’s manifesto. Filthy words, charged with anger and repressed desire.
From the killer?She wondered, sucking in a breath.
And then she saw the email address.
I’ve started writing about you, instead of to you, since you won’t respond to me. Sometimes I want to punish you for what you did to me. But sometimes, I can almost understand. You told me once to find a girl who liked me for who I am. You smiled when you said it, and I thought you were talking about you. That you were telling me not to bother with other girls.
So I didn’t.
When I write about you now, do you know what I like to do with you? I like to make you feel totally fucking helpless. You beg in my stories, Donni. Even if it hurts, you beg. This version of you loves being tied down andfuckedout of her goddamn mind. She takes the punishment for the blame that you refuse to accept.
All of her thoughts went trembling and cold-edged, like ice in a glass.
(She takes the punishment)
“What the fuck, Rafe?”
“I don’t know how this got on here.” There was a note of something in his voice. Not quite defensiveness, though she suspected that was part of it. It almost sounded like he was trying to recuse himself, but there was no apology in his voice. “I wrote that when I was nineteen.”
“But youdidwrite it.”
“Why are you pointing the finger at me? I’m not the fucking killer.”
“And you think that makes it okay? Or are you admitting at last that you were too young?”
His brows slanted down. “Donni,” he said, touching the laptop. “This wasn’t from me.”
That wasn’t what she’d been accusing him of, but she no longer trusted herself to speak. If she did, she thought she might start screaming and screaming and never stop.
She opened the other photo, squaring her shoulders tight, and made herself stare at the screen. Maybe it would be another letter, worse than the last. There were dozens—possibly hundreds—that she had deleted, unread. What she had seen had scared her too badly to read the rest.
Perhaps this one would be the worst yet.
Adonica2.jpeg loaded and she gasped.
It wasn’t a letter.
It was one of her publicity stills fromDeadly Beautiful, from the photoshoot that had almost made her famous. She was wearing the dress she had worn on her date out with Rafe, but it was a closer fit, and she hadn’t needed to have it let out back then.
But both of her eyes had been burnt out so the white background of the screen glared through like static, and the entire photograph had been smeared in what looked like more blood.
She felt as if she had been gearing up for battle, only to have her skin pulled away along with her armor.
(The note that you got was written in blood)
The notes. The blood. The poisonous rage.
