YOU SAY YOU HATE ME

The Letter She Left Behind

Chapter Seven:

Dillon's POV

I waited until the house was asleep.

Two a.m. The witching hour. The time when secrets felt safe, and walls had ears that didn't listen.

My father had gone to bed hours ago, his footsteps heavy on the stairs, his whiskey glass left in the sink like a confession. I'd watched from my window as Lucien walked Lori to the door. I'd watched him stand in the dark, staring up at my light.

I'd watched until he left.

And then I'd waited.

Now I sat on the edge of my bed, holding the bobby pin between my fingers like a weapon.

Lori's room is off limits.

My father's voice echoed in my head.

Don't go in there. Don't touch her things.

I'd already broken that rule once.

But I hadn't gotten what I came for.

The journal. The locket. The answers hidden in the space behind the painting.

Tonight, I'll finish what I started.

The hallway was dark.

I moved without sound, barefoot on the cold wood, my nightgown whispering against my ankles. The house settled around me—old pipes groaning, wind rattling the windows, the distant hoot of an owl in the trees.

Lori's door was still locked.

My father hadn't changed the key.

I knelt in front of the knob and slid the bobby pin into the lock.

Click.

The door swung open.

I slipped inside and closed it behind me.

Lori's room smelled the same.

Roses. Expensive perfume. The faint, cloying sweetness of something artificial, something pretending to be natural.

The painting was still crooked.

I crossed the room, reached up, and lifted it off the hook.

The safe was still there.

Still closed.

Still waiting.

I typed in the code—the engagement date—and held my breath.

Click.

The door swung open.

Inside: the leather journal. The silver locket. And something new—a folded piece of paper I hadn't seen before.

I grabbed everything and retreated to the corner of the room, sitting on the floor with my back against the wall, my heart pounding so loud I was sure the whole house could hear.

The locket first.

I opened it with trembling fingers.

Inside were two photographs.

One of Lori as a child, maybe eight years old, missing a tooth, smiling like she didn't know how to hate yet.

And one of the Luna.

Not a formal portrait. A candid shot. The Luna laughing at something off-camera, her head thrown back, her eyes bright with joy.

My throat closed.

Why did Lori have a picture of the Luna in her locket?

She'd never been close to her. Not really. The Luna had always been kind to Lori—she was kind to everyone—but Lori had kept her distance. Preferred her mother's company. Preferred the council's favors.

So why this picture?

Why hide it in a safe behind a painting?

I set the locket aside and picked up the journal.

The leather was soft, worn at the edges, the pages yellowed with age. I opened it to the first entry.

Lori's handwriting.

Age fourteen.

"Today, Mother told me something important. She said the Luna is getting suspicious. Asking questions about the old rituals. About blood magic. About things that are none of her business."

Blood magic.

My stomach turned to ice.

"Mother says we have to be careful. If the Luna tells the council what she's seen, we could lose everything. Our status. Our power. Our place in the pack."

I flipped the page.

Age fifteen. Three months before, Luna died.

"Mother has a plan. She won't tell me all of it—says I'm too young, that I don't need to know the details. But she said the Luna won't be a problem much longer."

My hands were shaking.

"I'm scared. Not of the plan. Of getting caught. If anyone finds out what we're doing, we'll be executed. Treason against the Alpha family is punishable by death."

But Mother says it's worth the risk.

She says the Luna deserves what's coming.

She says the pack will be better off without her.

I flipped faster.

Pages and pages of entries. Obsessions with Lucien. Resentment toward me. Detailed accounts of conversations with her mother, with council members, with people who owed them favors.

And then—

The night of Luna's death.

"It happened."

"Mother did it. I watched. The Luna drank from the goblet and she fell and everyone screamed and I pointed at Dillion and no one asked questions."

"No one asked anything."

"They just believed me."

"Because why would I lie?"

"I'm the Beta's daughter. The perfect one. The one everyone loves."

"And Dillon is nothing."

"She's always been nothing."

"Now everyone knows it."

I couldn't breathe.

I read the entry again.

And again.

And again.

Mother did it.

Not Lori. Her mother.

My stepmother.

The woman who'd lived in this house for twelve years, who'd smiled at me across the dinner table, who'd wished me happy birthday and helped me pick out dresses for ceremonies.

She'd killed the Luna.

And Lori had watched.

And then she'd pointed at me.

And my father knew.

He'd always known.

I thought of the letter I'd found in his study years ago—the one that said "She told me not to drink it. She said the goblet wasn't meant for the Luna."

Lori had written that letter before the murder.

She'd known what was going to happen.

And she'd warned someone.

Who?

Who had she warned?

I flipped back through the journal, searching for the entry that matched the letter.

Found it.

Age fifteen. One week before the Luna died.

"I told her. I don't know why. Maybe because I couldn't keep it inside anymore. Maybe because I wanted someone to know the truth, even if they couldn't stop it."

"She said she'd handle it."

"She said not to worry."

"She said the Luna would be fine."

"But I don't believe her."

"I don't believe anyone anymore."

She.

She said she'd handle it.

Who was she?

Not Lori's mother—the letter was addressed to someone else. I could tell from the phrasing, the familiarity, the way Lori wrote like she was confessing to a friend.

But Lori didn't have friends.

She had followers. Allies. People who owed her favors.

Who would she trust with something this dangerous?

I set the journal down and picked up the folded piece of paper—the new one, the one I hadn't seen before.

It was a letter.

Addressed to Lori.

From someone I didn't recognize.

"Lori—"

"The girl is back. I saw her on the bus. She looks different, but she's asking questions. Talking to people. Digging into things that should stay buried."

"I don't know what she knows. But if she finds the journal, if she finds the locket, we're all finished."

"Handle it. Before she handles us."

"—D."

D.

Someone whose name started with D.

Derek? The name on Theron's list?

Or someone else?

Someone closer?

Someone standing right outside my door?

The floor creaked.

I froze.

The handle turned.

I shoved the journal and locket into my nightgown pocket and scrambled to my feet—

The door swung open.

My father stood in the doorway.

His eyes were dark. His face was stone. And in his hand, he held a glass of whiskey so full it sloshed over the rim.

"What are you doing in here?" he asked.

His voice was calm.

Too calm.

"I couldn't sleep," I said. "I was looking for a book."

"In Lori's room?"

"I thought she might have one I wanted."

He stared at me for a long moment.

Then his eyes dropped to my pocket.

The bulge where the journal and locket pressed against my thigh.

"Give them to me," he said.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Dillon." His voice cracked. "Please."

Please.

He'd never said please to me. Not once. Not when I was crying. Not when I was begging him to believe me. Not when I was packing my bags to leave.

And now he said please.

Now, when I was holding the proof that would destroy his wife and his stepdaughter and the carefully constructed lie he'd been living for three years.

"No," I said.

His power flared.

I didn't flinch.

"You can hurt me," I said quietly. "You can punish me. You can lock me in my room and throw away the key. But I'm not giving these back. The Luna deserves the truth. And I'm going to make sure she gets it."

My father's hand tightened around his glass.

"You don't know what you're doing."

"I know exactly what I'm doing." I stepped toward him. "I'm doing what you should have done three years ago. I'm fighting for her. Because no one else would."

For a moment—just a moment—something broke in his expression.

Grief. Shame. Regret.

Then it was gone.

He stepped aside.

"Get out of my sight," he said.

I walked past him.

Down the hall.

Into my room.

I locked the door behind me and pressed my back against the wood, clutching the journal to my chest, my heart pounding so hard I thought it might crack my ribs.

I had the proof.

Not all of it. Not enough to go to the council. Not yet.

But I had a name.

D.

And I had a confession.

Mother did it.

My stepmother killed the Luna.

And my father helped cover it up.

I sat down on my bed and opened the journal again.

There was more to find.

More names. More dates. More clues.

And I had until Lori came home to find them all.

Because when she got back, this room would be locked.

And the evidence would disappear.

Just like everything else.