She realized with a sickening jolt that her entire childhood wasn't a series of memories; it was a series of alibis. She wasn't his daughter; she was his camouflage.
The house didn’t feel like a crime scene until the cameras arrived. To Elara, it was just the place where her father, Professor Julian Vane, taught her how to press wildflowers and solve differential equations. It was a place of leather-bound books and the scent of Earl Grey. Then came the red tape. Then came the "Ribbon Boxes."
The police found them in the crawlspace beneath the greenhouse. Twelve wooden boxes, each containing a single lock of hair tied with a silk ribbon, and a handwritten note detailing a "perfect day" spent with the victim before their disappearance.
"He’s a monster, Elara," the lead detective had said, his voice dropping to a sympathetic hum that made her skin crawl. "He didn’t just kill them. He curated them."
She realized with a sickening jolt that her entire childhood wasn't a series of memories; it was a series of alibis. She wasn't his daughter; she was his camouflage.
The house didn’t feel like a crime scene until the cameras arrived. To Elara, it was just the place where her father, Professor Julian Vane, taught her how to press wildflowers and solve differential equations. It was a place of leather-bound books and the scent of Earl Grey. Then came the red tape. Then came the "Ribbon Boxes."
The police found them in the crawlspace beneath the greenhouse. Twelve wooden boxes, each containing a single lock of hair tied with a silk ribbon, and a handwritten note detailing a "perfect day" spent with the victim before their disappearance.
"He’s a monster, Elara," the lead detective had said, his voice dropping to a sympathetic hum that made her skin crawl. "He didn’t just kill them. He curated them."