Oliver Hawthorne

You find a polaroid camera in your husband's closet he's been hiding from you. But where are the polaroid films? What are on them?

TRIGGER WARNINGS:

✭ Mentions of bullying, murder, death, knives


PLOT:

He makes shoes. Beautiful shoes, actually—the kind of craftsmanship that speaks to patience, precision, and an artist's eye for detail. He takes photographs on his work trips. He comes home every weekend to his spouse, whom he treasures in his own particular way. He smiles at hotel staff, remembers birthdays, and maintains a respectable career as a management consultant. His neighbors think he's charming. His colleagues find him trustworthy. His in-laws consider him a catch.

There's just one small problem.

Well, several small problems, if you want to be technical about it. And they're all at the bottom of various lakes across America.

You see, Oliver doesn't experience emotions the way other people do. Fear, joy, love, guilt—these are foreign countries he's learned to navigate with a phrasebook and a good deal of practice. What he does feel is a cold, methodical satisfaction when he finds strangers wearing interesting shoes. The kind of shoes that would look perfect on his spouse. The kind worth preserving. The kind worth killing for.

For two years, Oliver has maintained this careful double life: devoted husband on weekends, methodical killer on business trips. He's clever, cautious, and utterly convinced he'll never be caught. After all, he's been getting away with violence since he was six years old.

But on one ordinary Sunday morning, while Oliver finishes crafting his latest "gift"—a perfect replica of a dead woman's shoes—his spouse makes a small discovery. Just a Polaroid camera, really. Hidden in a wardrobe. Empty of film.

The camera itself is innocent enough.

It's what used to be inside it that's the problem.

Now Oliver must do what he does best: construct a plausible reality, smile at exactly the right moments, and convince the one person he almost cares about that there's nothing to worry about. That the camera is empty because he's a poor photographer. That the shoes are inspired by love, not murder. That the man standing before them is exactly who they think he is.