Chapter 7 The Artist
SEVEN
THE ARTIST
LYLA
Nausea crashes through me as the walls close in.
Paintings cover every inch—women bound and broken, frozen midscream. Crimson streaks glisten in the dim light, thick and raw, smeared with surgical cruelty. The air hangs heavy with iron, the stench of dried blood soaked into the canvas.
Faces twisted in agony. Eyes stretched wide in silent, unanswered pleas. Every brushstroke, a crime scene. Every smear, a confession. Bodies contorted and tied in positions no human should endure—rendered in sick, meticulous detail.
Not art.
A shrine. A temple of suffering.
My pulse pounds, visions slamming into my skull, unrelenting.
Case files. Names. Faces.
I know these women. Studied them. Searched for them. Looked into the hollow-eyed stares of their parents, their friends, their lovers—all of them grasping at hope only to be destroyed with another found body.
And here they are.
Reduced to brushstrokes and blood.
My hands ball into fists, nails digging into my palms so hard I half expect to bleed. The bastard didn’t just take their lives. He made them his legacy.
Rage coils in my chest. Thick. Suffocating. Bile burns my throat.
Not here. Not now. Not in front of him.
“Admiring my exhibit?” His voice slices through the suffocating silence, smooth as silk yet oozing with malice. It’s a voice that revels in the power it holds.
He sits behind the desk, dressed in black. The fabric hugs his lean frame, tailored to perfection. Fingers tap the armrest—steady, patient. A countdown in motion.
His face is a contradiction—sharp, almost elegant, high cheekbones carved like a sculpture, a jawline that could cut glass. The kind of beauty that deceives. The kind that makes you lean in—right before the teeth sink in. No wonder they followed him.
But the eyes ruin it. Empty. Measured. Storm colored and inhuman.
“I’ve been wondering . . .” His voice lilts, light, amused. Like he’s talking about a wine vintage. Not murder. Not mutilation. Fingers flick toward the paintings. “What your face would look like when you saw my masterpieces.”
His teeth flash as he tilts his head, watching me as if my every breath, my every flicker of emotion, is a note in a song only he can hear.
“What do you think?”
The grotesque portraits leer from the walls—twisted faces frozen in agony, every detail carved into memory. I scan them once more, then shrug.
“Amateur at best.”
His smile falters, just for a heartbeat, a tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth. But I see it. Satisfaction blooms in my chest, even as I brace for the counterstrike.
He leans forward, fingers laced, chin resting on the cage of his hands. Soft. Calculated. “Would you feel the same if you were looking at your partner’s painting?”
Breath locks in my chest. The room shrinks.
He tilts his head. That scalpel stare slices straight through me. Precise. Premeditated. A surgeon dissecting fear.
“Too bad I didn’t have time to gather my materials,” he adds, tossing a wink like a match into gasoline.
Rage ignites—fast, blistering. My fingers clamp the knife. Muscles wind tight. The name detonates behind my eyes.
Mark.
His blood. His broken body. The unblinking stillness of his eyes.
I swallow the fury, let it settle like burning coal—hot, contained, feeding something colder. The mask holds, edges honed to razors.
“I don’t see your latest victim here.” I don’t see a portrait of the last woman he killed, the one that brought me to this state in the first place. The one who led me to Virginia.
He hesitates, calculating. “She was a surprise.”
“That’s it?” I scoff. Maybe I can goad him into a confession just to make sure she was really one of his. “You love the sound of your own voice. Surprised you’re not begging to describe every sick detail.”
He grins. “Now that I have your full attention, I guess I’m speechless.”
Sick son of a bitch.
“I only wanted your attention, Agent Matthews,” he says, voice dipping into something soft, worshipful. His gaze slides over me—slow, dragging. “You’re my muse.”
“You’re sick.” The words snap loose, trembling with rage that coils tighter, begging to be unleashed. I hold my ground, spine straight, breath sharp. He feeds off reaction—I won’t give him that.
Not yet.
I tilt my chin, voice cool as steel. “You and your little art club—Monet, van Gogh, Pollock, Dalí—you stole their names to mask what you are. Frauds. They thought they were untouchable too. But they all bled.” The knife bites into my palm, grip locked tight. “Just like you will.”
He hums, smooth on the surface, but there’s a hitch beneath it. “So. What happens now, Agent Matthews?”
His head tilts, studying me like a puzzle he hasn’t quite solved.
“You’ve already torn apart my little kingdom here.
” He waves at the door, as if the carnage outside is nothing more than a minor inconvenience.
“Is this where you kill me? If so, I must say . . .” His brow lifts, faux casual.
He reclines, steepling his fingers in mock calm—but his knuckles blanch, fingertips white. “I won’t make it easy.”
I let the silence stretch, watch the way his pupils contract just slightly, and enjoy the moment before I shatter his world.
I step forward until my legs press against the desk. My voice drops, low and lethal. “I was counting on it . . . Franklin.”
The name lands like a gunshot, clean and sharp.
His eyes flare—just for a second—before the mask slams back into place.
I smile. Sharp. Knowing. Cruel. “Didn’t see that coming, did you, Frankie?”
His composure cracks. Rage bleeds into his features as he struggles to keep it together.
“You didn’t think I’d dig up your real name?
” My voice slices through the space between us.
His jaw locks. Fingers twitch, hungry for a weapon.
“Lucky me that two years of chasing and researching gave me the answer I was waiting for—right before the world fell to hell. I admit, you hid your tracks well.”
His shoulders coil, tension winding tighter with every word.
“When I learned your actual name was Franklin Schmidt. I’ll admit . . . I felt a little disappointed.”
I stalk around the desk, a wolf closing in. He stays seated, but I see it in his eyes—he’s the one cornered now.
My fingers trail the wood. Nails tap a slow rhythm, taunting as I round the corner. “To share a name with a man who dressed up in women’s clothes to commit murder?”
His nostrils flare.
I drop my voice to a whisper, piercing and intimate. “What. A. Shame.”
Rage curdles in his eyes—humiliation twisted into something feral.
I step into his space, forcing him to tilt his head to meet mine.
“Tell me, Franklin,” I murmur, voice soaked in mock concern. “Do you have mommy issues too?”
His jaw tics. Shoulders lock. Fists curl.
I straighten, letting the derision drip from my voice as I drive the final nail in. “What a cliché you turned out to be.”
His face contorts into something feral as he lunges, a letter opener flashing in his grip. I sidestep the opener, but his other arm swings up and catches me in my jaw, sending me backward. The desk slams into my ribs like a battering ram, driving the air from my lungs in a violent gasp.
He vaults the desk. Canvases crash, smeared faces raining around us.
My knife arcs up. Metal kisses his arm—crimson blooms. He grunts but keeps coming. His hand clamps around my wrist. The twist is brutal—white-hot pain flares through my arm. My grip shatters.
The blade falls.
My other hand snatches it middrop. I twist. Drive the steel into his thigh.
It sinks deep.
His roar shreds the air—raw, guttural. His knee slams into my gut, a wrecking ball to my ribs.
I hit the floor hard. Vision blurs. Black creeps in.
He crashes down, pinning me between his legs. My spine slams against the concrete. Breath gone.
Pain detonates in my skull—his fist crushes my eye, then my jaw. Stars explode. Ears ring. Another blow, then hands clamp around my throat.
He squeezes.
My nails dig into his wrists, clawing, scraping, trying to tear him off. Spots bloom in my vision, the edges darkening, creeping inward.
His eyes gleam—wild, certain. He thinks it’s over.
My fingers scramble wildly against the floor, searching, desperate. Cold. Metal. My fingers close around it and I drive it upward, feeling it tear through fabric, skin, and muscle.
He jerks, a strangled sound ripping from his throat. His grip breaks. I roll, coughing, gasping. Air crashes back into my lungs.
He writhes, clutching his side—letter opener embedded, blood soaking his shirt.
Then I see it.
My knife, still in his leg.
I lunge and rip it free.
I push to unsteady feet, blood-slicked fingers tightening around the hilt of my knife. My ribs ache with each inhale, but I don’t take my eyes off him.
He stumbles up, hand pressed to his side. Blood seeps through his fingers, dripping in thick, sluggish trails down his shirt.
I move.
Fast. Precise.
The blade slashes his chest. He grunts, slamming back into the desk before his knees buckle, sending him crashing to the floor. Blood spreads beneath him, a dark, glistening pool against the faded linoleum.
A glint of silver—a flash of motion.
Pain erupts through my side.
I suck in a sharp breath, a cry ripping from my throat as the blade bites deep into my abdomen. Fire explodes through my nerves, the wound burning hot and merciless.
The world tilts.
No.
I stay up. I won’t fall.
He lunges again, but I’m faster.
Not today, fucker.
I pivot and drive the knife into his chest. The sound—wet, final.
His body jerks. Breath catches. A silent gasp freezes on his lips. Fingers twitch, reaching—then fall limp. His arm drops.
I twist the knife.
He crumples. A puppet with cut strings. Blood spills fast, mixing with mine, soaking through fabric, seeping into skin. Heat presses down, thick and suffocating. Smoke slithers through the air, its acrid scent stinging my nose.
Where did the fire come from?
The knife slips from my grasp, clattering uselessly onto the blood-slick floor.
The room spins. My breath stutters. A sharp, shallow inhale.
A wheezing exhale. I blink down at the blade still embedded in my flesh, the handle jutting from my side.
My fingers twitch at my side, useless. My knees hit the ground first, the impact rattling through my bones before I collapse fully, landing just inches from Franklin’s corpse.
My vision wobbles, the edges swimming, curling inward like burnt paper. My pulse slows, every beat sluggish, my body sinking into the growing void. I take a small piece of paper out of my back pocket, softened by my hands and time, and drop it on his chest.
It’s over.
He’s dead.
But something’s off.
A gut-deep unease coils in my stomach, a glimmer of doubt scraping against my exhaustion.
I force my head to turn, muscles sluggish, my body heavy with blood loss. My gaze lands on Franklin’s still form, his lifeless eyes staring up at the ceiling. His chest unmoving. Or is it—
Instinct gnashes at the edges of consciousness. Something’s not right.
I strain, try to rise—nothing. Limbs deadweight. Blood soaks into the floor beneath me.
The room tilts. Darkness creeps closer.
I sink into the growing pool of my own blood.
I’ll just take a little nap right here. Yeah. On this nice, sticky, blood-soaked floor. Perfect spot. Real cozy. Then I’ll get up. Make sure he’s dead. Crawl out. Save the day. Great plan. Solid.
That’s the lie I cling to—until I hear footsteps.
Fast.
Urgent.
A shadow appears in the doorway, blurred and indistinct, rushing toward me. A voice slices through the haze.
“Lyla! Hang on!”
Barbara?
Hands grip my arms, lifting, dragging me through the slick mess. I slump against her shoulder, my body limp, every nerve screaming but too tired to fire. My cheek presses against the warmth of her collarbone—steady, alive—but my mouth won’t move. The words burn in my throat, trapped.
No. No, wait. He’s—
The world sways. Colors smear like paint in water. Darkness curls at the edges, creeping in with greedy fingers.
Then—
A sound.
A breath.
Faint. Almost imperceptible.
A sharp, rasping inhale.
The world goes dark.