Chapter 5
Jiya
The world shrinks to the rim of his cup. My lungs forget their job.
Drink it, drink it, drink it.
A blur of gray tweed slams into our table.
The impact sends coffee splashing across Calloway’s pristine white shirt, my jeans, the table, everywhere except where it needs to be. Down his throat.
A woman in a sharp business suit looms over us, her face a mask of horror.
“Oh my God, I am so, so sorry! I was on a call. My quarterly review is a disaster, and…”
My fingers curl into a fist under the table. I want to wrap my hands around her neck. Hours of planning, a perfect poison, all ruined because this corporate drone couldn’t watch where she was walking.
I paste on my best bartender smile. “It’s okay. Accidents happen.”
“I’m so, so sorry!” she continues, grabbing napkins from the dispenser and thrusting them at us. “Let me buy you fresh drinks, pay for cleaning, anything!”
“It’s fine, really.” Calloway dabs at his shirt with the inadequate paper napkins. The brown stain spreads across the expensive fabric.
She throws one last desperate “Sorry!” over her shoulder and bolts out the door, her heels clacking down the sidewalk.
I watch her go, jaw tight, then turn back to the mess she left behind—and the man I was supposed to kill, still very much alive.
“I’ll get you another,” I say, already on my feet. My mind races. One more chance. I just need one more chance. “It’s the least I can do. I owe you.”
He glances at his phone and shakes his head, already reaching for his camera bag from the floor. “Thanks, but I have to run before my friend loses her shit completely.”
“You sure?”
“Another time.” He offers a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “It was nice seeing you, Jiya.”
Calloway weaves through the crowded cafe, slipping out the door and into the Boston streets.
Seduction is an art form. Breaking and entering is a chore.
And yet, here I am, tucked behind a newspaper stand that smells faintly of stale hot dogs, watching his studio, all because Calloway Frost is the one man on earth immune to my everything.
Right on cue—five minutes late, as always—she appears. The cleaning lady is a small woman, fumbling with a heavy tote bag and humming some vapid pop song that’s been stuck in my head for a week thanks to this stakeout.
To think, a single drop of monkshood could have ended this. Instead, I’m reduced to this pathetic stakeout.
I intercept her at the door, arms full of grocery bags and my best frazzled smile in place. “Sorry, could you let me in? I left my phone charger in the lobby. My boss is a nightmare if I don’t answer emails.”
She barely glances at me, just punches in the code—4–1–9–7—before holding the door open with her hip. “Make it fast,” she mutters, and disappears inside with her mop and bucket.
I make a show of heading to the lobby, ducking behind a potted plant and pretending to rummage around for my lost charger. Waving it in the air, I call out a quick “Found it, thanks!” loud enough for her to hear.
Back outside, my focus narrows to the building's entrance as I circle the block. The minutes drag, each one measured by the steady rhythm of my pacing.
The cleaning lady finally emerges, humming her tune, locking up behind her. She disappears down the street, oblivious.
Now.
I cross back, heart thumping, and punch in the code she used—4–1–9–7. The lock clicks open.
I’m in.
I ease the door shut, the latch catching with a barely audible click, and let my eyes adjust.
The main space is minimalist perfection. Track lighting aimed at stark white walls displaying enormous black and white prints. The images are...stunning. Uncomfortable, but powerful.
A homeless man sleeping beneath a billboard displaying a luxury wristwatch advertisement. A ballet dancer with prosthetic legs executing a perfect arabesque. A young girl stares defiantly at the camera while standing beside the rubble of what might have been her home.
Each photograph captures a perfect moment of human dignity in broken circumstances. The technical execution is flawless. The lighting, composition, the emotional weight. Calloway’s not just good. He’s brilliant.
And a killer.
I move deeper into the studio, passing a sleek white desk with nothing but a leather notebook on the desktop.
The darkroom door calls to me from the back of the space. I slip on nitrile gloves before pushing it open.
Killing him is one thing. Exposing him—making sure the world knows what he is—would be so much sweeter.
Proof. I want something concrete, something I can leave behind for the cops, the press, anyone who ever doubted what I saw in him.
My primary target is the camera bag he hid at the bar, but it’s nowhere in sight.
Past the darkroom is another door. Locked with a simple deadbolt. The pick makes quick work of it. Inside is a small storage room lined with filing cabinets. I open each one but find only labeled client files, release forms, and invoices. All seems legitimate.
Against the back wall stands a single large cabinet. Inside are dozens of stored portfolios. Fashion shoots, architectural studies, portraits. Professional work, nothing suspicious.
I check under the workbench, behind furniture, searching for hidden compartments or false bottoms.
Frustration builds as I run my fingers along the edges of the last one.
Nothing.
A narrow hallway leads to one more room I haven’t checked. An indoor photo studio. I slip inside.
The space is meticulously organized.
The books stand by height, spines flush like soldiers at attention.
On the desk, a row of pens sits in a holder, all of them aligned with their logos facing forward.
A white cyclorama curves where the wall meets the floor, creating that seamless background look.
Professional lighting equipment on stands surrounds a central shooting area.
The small refrigerator catches my eye. A neat row of Greek yogurts, with a handful of berries scattered beside them for effect.
I crouch down to examine the berries closer. They glisten in the dim light. Next to the arrangement sits a spray bottle, slightly opaque with some kind of liquid inside. A handwritten label reads “Glaze.”
Food photography tricks. Nothing sinister here. Just the mundane reality that even renowned photographers like Calloway Frost need to pay the bills with commercial work.
I straighten and scan the room one last time.
No evidence of murder. No trophies. No incriminating photos.
Doesn’t matter. I know what he is. I’ve watched him for a while, seen too many connections between his gallery appearances and the deaths that followed.
I don’t need physical proof to justify what I’ll do to him.
My stomach growls, reminding me I skipped dinner for this breaking and entering adventure.
I pluck a strawberry—so shiny it practically winks at me—and pop it into my mouth. Sweet, juicy, perfect. I grab a few blueberries, chewing as I scan the room for hidden murder trophies.
I stop mid-chew. There’s something…off. Not bad, just…weird. I roll the berry around on my tongue, frowning. Is that…brine? A little creamy? And—wait, is that a metallic tang?
I grab another berry, this time paying more attention. The flavor is layered. Sweet, then savory, then something that reminds me of oysters if oysters were, I don’t know, whipped into a dessert by a madman.
“Huh. It’s sweet, but it’s also quite...savory?”
I examine the spray bottle, tilting it to catch what little light filters into the room. The solution inside has a pearlescent quality when I shake it gently. I sniff.
Nothing.
“It doesn’t smell of anything... Maybe a tiny bit...salty? Like sea air? Perhaps it’s not edible?”
My bartending brain kicks into analytical mode, breaking down flavor components like I would with a complex cocktail. The metallic note reminds me of something specific but elusive. Something I’ve tasted before.
“No wonder his food photos look so vibrant,” I say aloud to the empty studio. “He’s practically a molecular gastronomist. Though I’m not sure this ‘glaze’ would win any taste awards on its own. Definitely an acquired taste... Or maybe it’s only for the visual pop.”
I pop another berry, to be sure. “Well,” I mutter, “if I die tonight, at least I’ll die well-fed.”
The unmistakable sound of metal sliding into metal freezes me mid-thought.
Footsteps approach the door.
A key turns in the lock.
Fuck.
He shouldn’t be here this late. He’s never in so late.
Every muscle in my body seizes. My gaze flies around the room, searching for an escape. The windows are too small. The darkroom is a dead end. There’s nowhere to—
My eyes land on a tall wardrobe against the far wall.
I dart across the studio. The wardrobe door creaks as I pull it open. Inside hang various costume pieces and props for photoshoots. Silk scarves, vintage hats, a sequined evening gown, several blazers.
I squeeze between the hanging garments, the fabrics brushing against my face with the scent of cedar and dry-cleaning chemicals.
I pull the door almost closed, leaving the smallest gap to peer through. My breath comes in shallow sips as I try to silence my racing heart.
The vial of catalyzing agent presses against my hip in my pocket. Shit. I didn’t mix it with his darkroom chemicals yet.
The studio door swings open.
Calloway steps inside, silhouetted against the hallway light. He flips a switch, and the studio floods with bright white light that stings my eyes after the dimness. He carries a takeout coffee cup in one hand and his phone in the other, talking into what must be a Bluetooth earpiece.
“No, that’s not acceptable. I need those prints by tomorrow.” His voice carries that perfect blend of authority and boredom. “I don’t care that your assistant quit. That’s a you problem, not a me problem.”
He sets his coffee down on the desk and shrugs off his leather jacket, revealing a fitted black t-shirt underneath. The fabric stretches across his shoulders as he moves. Despite everything, I can’t help noticing how his body cuts a perfect line in the light.
“Look, we signed a contract.” He paces toward the darkroom, then stops. “You promised delivery; I promised payment. One of us is keeping their end of the bargain.”
Through my narrow viewing slot, I watch him pause at the darkroom door. His head tilts.
“Let me call you back.”
He ends the call, and the easy posture bleeds away. His spine straightens, his shoulders squaring. He sets the phone down without looking at it, his gaze already sweeping the room.
He knows.
Has he noticed the displaced berries? The cabinet drawers that might not be closed exactly as he left them? Or is it something else, some sixth sense that tells him someone has invaded his space?
I press deeper into the hanging clothes, my back against the wardrobe’s wooden panel. The scent of cologne clings to the blazers, and I fight the urge to sneeze.
Calloway moves toward the desk, examining its surface. His fingers trace the edge where I might have disturbed the dust.
My hand tightens around the vial in my pocket. If he discovers me, I’ll have no choice. Close quarters would make it difficult, but not impossible. He outweighs me, but surprise would be on my side.
He straightens and turns, his gaze sweeping across the room. For a terrifying moment, his eyes seem to lock with mine through the sliver of space. I hold my breath.
Calloway’s gaze seems to pierce straight through the wardrobe door, through the hanging clothes, and into my eyes.
He turns and sighs. “I’m too on edge, imagining things. Need to relax a little.”
My muscles remain tense as he moves across the studio, dropping into a chair positioned near the photography setup. The chair faces almost directly toward my hiding spot, but his eyes are unfocused, looking at nothing in particular.
He runs a hand through his hair and leans back. With casual deliberation, he unzips his pants.
Wait. No. He wouldn’t—
Oh. Oh.
Through the slats of the wardrobe door, I watch his hand slip under his waistband. The leather of the chair groans as he shifts, settling in.
My breath catches, trapped in my throat. Calloway Frost, the Gallery Killer, is about to masturbate. With me three feet away.
The sound is unmistakable. A wet, rhythmic slap of skin on skin. His head tips back against the chair, exposing the long, clean line of his throat.
A low groan rumbles from his chest. The sound isn’t for anyone else. It’s pure, private, and it crawls up my spine like a current of live electricity.
His breathing quickens. Another moan, deeper this time. “Fuck…”
I press my thighs together, trying to ignore the building tension between them. This is insane. He’s my target. A killer. I’m here to end his life, not...
But my body isn’t listening to reason. My hand slides down, pressing against the seam of my jeans. My nipples tighten against my bra, and I have to bite my lip to stay silent.
Broken sounds tear from his throat. Half-gasps and harsh groans that speak more of anguish than release.
He squeezes his eyes shut, his face twisting into a grimace of concentration as if he’s trying to outrun something in his own mind.
His hand drives in a punishing, relentless rhythm, the friction filling the quiet room.
“Jiya...”
The world stops. My fingers freeze. My free hand flies to my mouth, muffling the gasp that threatens to betray me. He’s not just getting off. He’s thinking about me. Saying my name.
“Jiya,” he groans again, louder this time, drawing the sound out. My name. On his lips. While his hand moves between his legs.
I’m so turned on it’s almost painful.
“Fuck, I want to see you on your knees,” he pants, his voice a raw rasp. “Begging for it.”
The wrongness, the danger, the fact that he’s painting this picture—it’s the most potent aphrodisiac I’ve ever known. My fingers dive beneath the waistband of my jeans, finding myself already slick and ready.
“Take it all for me, Jiya,” he groans, his pace quickening. “All of it.”
I match his rhythm, my breath coming in ragged, silent pants. He’s close. I can hear it in the raw edge of his voice. “Fuck…yes…come for me…”
I’m right there with him, about to fall over the edge, when he reaches for something on the nearby table. A small spray bottle. Labeled Glaze, like the one in the fridge.
He comes with a shuddering, guttural groan, his whole body going rigid. He aims the spray bottle, capturing the release inside.
Fuck me.
The berries. The shine. The taste.
It was...him. I tasted him.