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In the last few steps, my subconscious flipped through the obvious clues he’d left me.
The initial slaying of Elisabeth Cayden.
The yellow scarves.
The broken windows.
The call into the Stone Acer Morning Show.
The conveniently rescheduled plane ticket.
The card from Grandpa in the NICU.
The leaked pictures of Iris to The Bystander.
The smell of Aqua Velva and brogan shoes in the Galleria parking lot.
The worn childhood teddy bears.
My memory refused to believe my father had any goal other than to finish his vendetta.
I thought he hated me and wanted me dead. I thought he’d come for me.
Never in the deepest recesses of my mind did I think he’d inflict a pain so much worse than death. Never did I realize he’d know the perfect way to end me.
The last few steps would be all I’d remember of being in her room. Except looking down into an empty crib. Empty except for a hunting knife, sticking blade down into the tiny mattress.
She’s gone.
I screamed until I blacked out.
