Aleksander let the silence stretch, then leaned forward slightly. "Everyone believed she was blind, but that was not the truth. The Hysterical blindness was a lie. She acted like she couldn't see, couldn't see the world… but she could see you as the problem. You were the 'darkness' she blamed for everything."
"Every time Simone looked at you," Aleksander said, "she wasn't seeing a child. She was seeing her own trauma. You were the living reminder of what was done to her. The proof that she hadn't escaped it. So she called you 'darkness' and locked you away. She didn't just blame you—she resented you. Because every time she saw your face, it dragged her back to that moment she couldn't forget."
George's fingers tightened around the edge of the table, knuckles whitening. He didn't answer, but his eyes flicked away for a fraction of a second—toward the corner of the ceiling, like he was looking at the attic again.
Aleksander kept going, smooth, almost conversational. "You tried to help her. You carved those little marks on the stairs so she'd know how many steps she had left. You thought you were being good. But she twisted it. Told you you were the reason she couldn't see. That you were darkness."
George swallowed, throat working. A faint sheen of sweat appeared at his temples.
Aleksander's voice softened, not with sympathy, but with certainty. "She locked you in the attic. Walls covered in trees. It wasn't just a room, was it? It was the woods. Your whole world was that attic. No friends. No one except Evan and his flashlight signals. You were a ghost in your own house."
George's breathing changed—shorter, shallower. His gaze dropped to the table, as if he were seeing something there that wasn't real.
Aleksander pressed, still calm. "You played that song. 'Sunshine on My Shoulders.' Something bright, something that didn't belong in that house. Simone hated it. Hated the sun, hated the cheer, hated anything that reminded her she wasn't really blind. So when you cut the eyes out of those dolls, she snapped. Called DHS. Sent you away."
George's lips parted, then pressed shut. A flicker of something raw crossed his face—shame, anger, grief, all tangled together.
Aleksander shifted slightly, his tone shifting from observer to something closer to prosecutor. "You ran back. Lee and Jacob came back too. Jacob didn't care about the house. He cared about Simone. And when Lee stopped him, Simone called you 'darkness' again. Said the darkness always comes back. Lee dropped the gun and ran."
He let that hang, then added, "Simone went up to the attic with the gun. You asked her why she sent you away. She told you again—you were darkness. You blinded her."
George's hands clenched into fists now, fingers digging into his own palms. His breathing was audible.Aleksander's voice dropped lower, almost intimate. "Then Jacob came back. You hid in the closet. You saw Simone raise the gun. You saw Jacob slap it out of her hand. You heard her beg—'not in the woods, not in the woods.' You heard her whisper that you were in the closet. Heard her tell Jacob to do it to you instead."
George's eyes squeezed shut for a heartbeat. When they opened, they were glassy, unfocused.
Aleksander didn't look away. "He dragged you out. Doors locked. No way out. He raped you in that attic that already felt like the woods. And after he finished, you picked up the gun. You pointed it at Simone. You asked how she could have known about the woods. That's when you realized—she wasn't blind. She'd been lying. She'd known the whole time. And she still chose to give you to him."
George's chest rose and fell sharply. His lips parted, but no sound came out.Aleksander leaned back a little, letting the weight of what he'd just laid out fill the room. "You shot her. One shot to the chest. Jacob ran. You were alone in that attic with the bodies and the trees on the walls and the smell of blood and fear."
He let the silence sit for a long moment, then said, "That's where it started, isn't it? The woods.The darkness."
George's eyes narrowed, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle jumped along his cheek. His fingers curled into fists on the table, knuckles white. He didn't look away. He leaned forward, a predator scenting a threat.Aleksander didn't flinch. "You read those reports because they were full of women who fought back. Janet, Tina, Latrice, DeeDee—women who scratched, kicked, bit, ran. They didn't wait to die. They fought. And that's exactly what you wanted. Because you didn't just hate the men who hurt you. You hated Simone more."George's breathing changed—shorter, sharper, like he was forcing himself to stay calm. His voice came out low, almost a growl. "You don't know anything about her."
Aleksander's tone didn't waver. "You killed those women because they were fighters. Because in their struggle, in their running, in their begging and screaming, you got to relive the moment you shot Simone. You got to be the one holding the gun. The one deciding who lived and who died. The one finally in control of the woods instead of trapped in them."
George's hands slammed down on the table, the sound sharp and sudden. "Don't you dare—"
Aleksander cut in, relentless. "You hated her that much. Not just for locking you in the attic. Not just for calling you darkness. For giving you to Jacob. For choosing herself over you. For letting you be taken into the woods while she stayed behind. So you turned those November hunts into your own twisted ritual. You found women who fought like you never could, then made them run until they weren't fighters anymore. Until they were just prey. Just like you were."
George's face contorted, the smug mask cracking into something raw and ugly. His voice rose, sharp and jagged. "I'm not like her! I'm not weak!"
Aleksander's eyes didn't leave his. "You're exactly like her. You just learned how to wear a badge and a smile. You took her fear and turned it into power. You made yourself 'God in the woods' because you couldn't stand being the little boy in the attic. But you're still that boy. The one whose mother didn't love him enough to protect him."
George's breath came in ragged gasps, his chest heaving. His eyes burned with a mixture of fury and something else—something desperate, almost pleading. "You don't understand. You don't know what it was like. She was supposed to protect me!"
Aleksander's voice dropped, almost gentle, but no less devastating. "And she didn't. So you decided you'd be the one who controlled the woods. You'd be the one who decided who ran, who fell, who lived, who died. You'd make sure no one ever felt as powerless as you did in that attic. And every time you pulled that trigger, every time you watched them fall, you were killing Simone all over again."
George's control snapped.He shot to his feet, chair scraping back with a screech. His face was a mask of rage and pain, eyes wild, voice cracking as he screamed. "I'm not a little boy! I'm not weak! I'm not her! I'm not—"
He slammed his hands down on the table again, the force making it shake. His breathing was ragged, his body trembling with the effort of holding himself together. The smug, taunting predator was gone, replaced by a shattered, screaming lunatic, his god complex crumbling under the weight of the truth Aleksander had laid bare.
As George shouted, Aleksander let his focus dip again, slipping into the man's memories. This time, the images came clearer, less fragmented. He saw George, years earlier, standing in a quiet suburban backyard under a pale November sky. The air was crisp, the trees bare. George knelt in the dirt, digging with a small shovel, his movements methodical, almost reverent.
Nine skulls, each one carefully placed in the earth. Black marbles pressed into the empty eye sockets, gleaming dully in the dim light. The skulls were arranged in a loose circle, like some grotesque ritual, the marbles catching the faint glow of the setting sun. George's hands trembled as he covered them with soil, patting it down with a strange tenderness.
The backyard of his childhood home, the place where the attic had once loomed above him like a tomb. He'd recently purchased the house under a fake name—Benton Smith—ensuring no one would connect him to the property. The skulls were his trophies, his secret shrine, buried where no one would ever think to look.
Aleksander pulled back from the memory, his expression unreadable. He gestured toward the boots on the table, the ones Kerdac and Oz had brought in earlier.
"George," Aleksander said, his voice calm, almost conversational. "If this was in the past, your method of cleaning the boots might have yielded some results. But these days, forensics has come a long way. Luminol, for example. It reacts with the iron in hemoglobin to produce a blue chemiluminescent glow, detectable in darkness. It can reveal blood diluted up to one in a million, even after cleaning with soap, bleach, or water. Studies show it remains effective on fabrics, shoes, and interior surfaces despite washing."George's eyes flicked to the boots, his jaw tightening.
Aleksander continued, his tone steady. "Fluorescein is another one. A highly sensitive presumptive test that fluoresces under blue light when reacting with blood. It can detect latent blood on laundered clothing and porous materials, with sensitivity up to one in a hundred thousand dilution. Then there's the Kastle-Meyer test. It uses phenolphthalein to produce a pink color in the presence of hemoglobin. Highly sensitive—detects one in ten thousand dilution—though it can give false positives from rust or plant enzymes. And don't forget alternative light sources. UV or blue light with barrier filters can reveal fluorescent properties of blood components, especially when enhanced with reagents."
George's face paled, his breathing coming in short, sharp gasps. He tried to hold onto his anger, but it was slipping through his fingers like sand.Aleksander leaned forward, his gaze locking onto George's. "And then there's your childhood home. The one you purchased under the name Benton Smith. The backyard. Ten skulls, black marbles in the eye sockets, buried deep in the soil. Your little shrine. Your secret. Your proof."
George's eyes widened, his body going rigid. For a moment, he looked like he might explode again, but the fight drained out of him in a sudden, shuddering exhale. His shoulders slumped, his head dropping forward, his hands falling to his sides. The smug, taunting predator was gone, replaced by a broken, hollow shell of a man whose carefully constructed world had just collapsed.