A large glass with a few holes separates me from him as I sit facing the man I once called Daddy. The man who held me and raised me on his own. The man who taught me everything and nursed my colds. The man who took me to festivals and on hunts and hikes.

The man who was my superhero but other people’s monster.

Seeing him in that interview doesn’t lessen the impact of meeting him face-to-face. Or, more accurately, through the glass.

He’s wearing elegant trousers and a matching striped shirt. His blond beard is trimmed short but not gone. His eyes have some lines underneath them, but he doesn’t appear much older than the last time I saw him — in court, eleven years ago.

He’s gained some muscles, and considering he’s tall, he’s always appeared as a bodybuilder champion of some sort.

Maxim Griffin is still the same man from my memories. Once a father, now a devil’s spawn. Or maybe he was a devil’s spawn before he was even a father?

A small smile paints his lips, making him appear normal, approachable even. The guy next door, who’ll eventually kidnap you, strap duct tape on your face, and watch you slowly die as he cuts you.

I push those images away because if I get lost in the memories of those vacant eyes, I won’t be able to keep my cool and address the reason I’m here.

“Clarissa. Long time no see.” His voice is still the same — suave, posh, welcoming. He rarely spoke with the heavy Yorkshire accent. His mum, my grandmother, was a Londoner, and he somehow kept that accent. However, he switches to a northern accent whenever he feels it can get him closer to people. His ability to blend in with others and attract them with the sheer power of his charisma is the scariest thing about the Duct Tape Killer.

“I’m not here for a reunion.” I’m surprised my voice is calm, considering the jittery emotions sinking at the bottom of my stomach.

“Then what are you here for?”

“You know. You sent me that recording on purpose.”

“It was the final attempt to bring you to me. And here you are.”

“Why haven’t you sent it before? Why now?”

“Because you’re stubborn. You take after me, in that respect. We share DNA, Claire — I know how to push your buttons. I thought the interview and the media attention would be enough to make you crumble, but you’re not that sixteen-year-old kid anymore, you’re stronger.” I don’t miss the pride in his voice as he says the last word.

“No thanks to you.”

He laughs, the sound long and a bit deranged. “It’s all thanks to me, Claire. I made you, and you were only able to grow because you rebelled against your maker.”

“I reported the truth. I saved people.”

“And how did that feel, my little muse?” His humour disappears as he leans closer on the table, his fingers intertwined while he watches me closely with unhinged eyes that match mine in colour. “Did they worship at your altar, or did they bite the hand that fed them? They attacked you, cursed your existence, and are currently plotting your demise. Didn’t I tell you that humans only exist to be used?”

“I’m not you.” The words clog my throat before they come out.

“You are in many ways. That’s why you turned me in, Claire. You did it because you were afraid you’d become like me, and that type of freedom scared you. It still does. Admit it, we’re one, my little muse. We always were.”

My fingers shake and I grip them together on my lap. “I did nothing wrong. You did. So don’t you dare put me in the same category as you.”

“But we are. That’s why you’re here. You were always meant to come see me and apologise for the misjudgement you made by turning me in.”

“The only reason I came here is because of the recording of Alicia’s last moments. You said someone was trying to make her believe she was crazy. Who was it?”

“Oh, that. It’s the same person who sent us the recordings of Alicia’s messages. They also knew about my fixation on Bridget and Alicia. See, the first time I met your mother, I was…experimenting, but no matter what I did, it always fell short. Bridget came to Yorkshire for a festival and was sitting alone in a pub. The moment I saw her, it was as if I’d found purpose, inspiration, beauty, and madness. She was the muse that I’d spent so long searching for.

“I planned to suffocate her after I fucked her that night, but I couldn’t. The light in her eyes kept me going and going and…going. We spent the weekend together, then she went back to her husband. I followed her from afar, and she was different in London — boring almost. She was nothing like the woman who threw away all her inhibitions and showed her true colours at that festival. However, she did inspire me, and for that, I kept her alive.

“My obsession with her bled into women who resembled her, and let’s say, she suspected it. When she gave birth to you, she dropped you at my doorstep and disappeared into the night. I was so busy with you, I didn’t pay her many visits. Then Alicia came for you of her own volition. She was a carbon copy of Bridget, so when your mum killed herself, I latched onto Alicia for inspiration. She became my new muse, and I assume the one who poisoned her knew that fact.”

My lips tremble and I set them in a line as I absorb what he’s said and hear the confirmation that he’s a monster with his own words. “Who is it?”

“I have my theories.”

“Who?”

“Why do you want to know, my little muse? Do you suspect they’re after you now?”

“I want justice for Alicia.” My heart dips in its cavity as I murmur, “Is it Jonathan?”

A part of me has already started mourning the fact that it could be Jonathan. After all, Alicia named him, and he made me feel as if I were insane when I mentioned the flash drives. He could’ve easily bribed Paul, the concierge, so that he’d lie and say he didn’t receive any packages.

If he hurt Alicia in any way, I won’t be able to forgive him. I don’t care that she did. I’m not her, and deep down, I’ll always hate him.

It’ll destroy me in the process, but I won’t be able to trust him ever again.

“Jonathan.” Dad raises a brow. “What is it about him that got you both tangled up? I didn’t raise you to take other people’s leftovers, Claire.”

“Is it him?” I insist.

“Apologise first and I might consider forgiving you and telling you.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Say, I’m sorry I turned you in, Dad. I’m sorry I fucking betrayed you.”

“I didn’t betray you, Dad. You betrayed me. You painted the world for me, then you turned it all black. You became my hero just to pull the carpet from beneath my feet. The world shattered in front of my eyes the moment I saw you dragging a corpse with complete nonchalance. I was sixteen, Dad! Fucking sixteen. I hadn’t even lived yet and you killed me. I hadn’t breathed yet and you smothered me. I spent the past eleven years gasping for air and finding smoke. The moment I start to pull my pieces together, the memory of you scatters them apart all over again. So don’t you dare sit there and say I betrayed you. You betrayed me. You were my world, but you metaphorically buried me alive in that eighth grave. I’m finally digging my way out, and I will not allow you to push me in that hole again.”