Chapter 6 Reyna #3
The Maddox Shaw—the very Maddox Shaw I insulted—thinks I did something well. Hell must be freezing over.
My cheeks burn at his praise, and there’s a mini-me doing a happy dance inside my head.
He moves on before I can pepper him with questions or get him to say it again. From the downturn of his lips, I think he might be regretting his decision to voice his opinion, but all I can think about is that not everything I’ve done is unworthy.
Shaw pauses on a frame where the subject is backlit. “You mirrored this motif at the beginning, even at the risk of appearing repetitive.”
That’s precisely what I thought. “Was that the wrong choice?” I was on the fence about it.
“No. This was earned repetition with structure and rhythm. You’re echoing the thematic element of isolation to perpetuate that they’re the killer’s sole focus.”
I try not to smile to myself, but I do.
“It’s different this time. She’s more of a silhouette, and there’s less clutter in the frame.” He noticed that? “The character is losing their identity as they become the killer’s single-minded focus.”
If Mom were still here, I would run home giddy with excitement to tell her someone finally understands my art. After nearly two semesters of Bradford’s negativity, I was starting to think that any talent I might have had was imagined. But he’s seeing it.
Sure, it’s not perfect, but it’s fixable. He wants me to succeed. It’s been a long time since anyone was rooting for me.
Maddox continues, then taps the space bar when we get to the scene filmed in Chad’s kitchen. The grand finale.
Nerves rack my stomach as I stare at Maddox’s profile. Out of everything I’ve ever filmed, this portion is what I’m most proud of. Even my acting wasn’t too shabby.
“The mise-en-scène is too clean and rigid for the characters you’re trying to portray.”
What?
“The coffee mug is filled to the top when the supposedly exhausted coffee-addict protagonist hasn’t been home all day,” Shaw explains. “Plus, there’s a plate with a half-eaten sandwich. Do you know what the problem with that is?”
My lips part. No one’s ever called me out on set design before.
“Your broke, so-called clean-freak protagonist up and left a club sandwich that would have been from the day before. It would have worked if you laid out the set better. There’s no other meaningful clutter on the table that provides any insight into her personality.
You could have put an ashtray, a two-week-old newspaper, an empty single-use drink bottle, and maybe a gum wrapper. Your set is too clinical.”
“Maybe that was intentional because the killer wanted some level of cleanliness.” There’s no point arguing, because he’s right. I’m making excuses.
Maddox snorts, and I damn well almost gape at him.
“Throat slicing is a messy kill. Do it fast enough and there’ll be far-reaching blood splatter.
Slow, and it’s a blood bath because they’ll be thrashing around.
The best way would’ve been to—” He stops himself, slightly shocked, then schools his features.
No, I want him to finish what he was going to say.
“If your goal was to make him fastidious and clean, then show me the tarpaulin he’s set down and the synthetic rope that won’t dirty the second blood gets on it.”
The Shadow had a kill like that.
I shake my head. “The killer is obviously well researched based on how he’s lured her in”—and how I’ve written him—“but he lacks practicality. Look.” I point at the clock in the background showing it’s eight at night.
Obviously, I was taking liberties with the exact details of the Shadow’s kill.
“Anyone could have heard the commotion and come barreling in. But she stayed completely silent and struggled far less than she could have, indicating an element of trust.”
I’m honestly surprised he hasn’t raised any issue with my choice of pink blood. For the sake of my ego, I’m going to say that he agrees with my creative vision.
“You’ve portrayed intimacy between the characters, and then you threw it all away by killing her behind her back,” he states.
I open my mouth to say that I doubt the Shadow killed that lawyer front on, but think better of it.
Maybe it isn’t a good idea to admit to following a murderer around.
“Up until this moment, it was about watching her through his eyes. Romanticizing everything she does, and how he yearns for her.” Shaw pauses the footage at the moment where the blade touches my throat, right before I’m meant to die.
“Here, at the most pinnacle moment where they’re finally united, you made it about his kill, not her death. ”
Shit.
He’s right about that too.
The romanticism dies the second Chad stands behind me. If we were gazing at each other as it happened, it would be a moment shared.
Shaw stares at me as if expecting me to argue. I swear he short-circuits when I say, “I agree.”
He says nothing, eyes lingering on me before watching the scene play out again, until I’m on the floor, pointing at the camera.
“Big Brother is watching you? The take was interesting enough with the stalker aspect, but this concept is on the nose and overdone.”
I blink. “Have you read the written portion?”
“Miss Sinaga, you submitted your assignment six days ago. And if you’re suggesting that I need to read an essay in order to understand your so-called brilliance, then I suggest you quit while you’re ahead.”
Professor Douchebag is back.
I’m too stunned to be upset at the dig. Worse. I can feel my lips threatening to curve up into a smile because I couldn’t agree with his statement more.
“I’m wearing a nude camisole, a blue hairclip, and green nails,” I cautiously say.
He looks at me blankly. “That makes little sense from a cinematic point of view, and I don’t imagine Vogue will be covering your stylistic choice anytime soon.”
“Being in the nude, sky blue, green earth, pointing at an omniscient being…” I trail off, beginning to doubt every single choice I’ve made for this project. Maybe I got my hopes up too soon.
My project actually sucked. He can’t even see it.
Shaw raises his brows, a silent request to get to the point.
“It’s The Creation of Adam.” The words come out more timidly than I intended.
He says nothing for a beat and glances at the screen for what has to be the longest ten seconds of my life. Then the room seems to plummet twenty degrees, and I’m bristling in alarm. Shaw swings his attention back on me, and I think I might pass away under his stare.
I can’t decipher the meaning behind the parting of his lips and the widening of his eyes. It seems more like bewilderment than rage. Within a heartbeat, it’s gone, and I’m left reeling, wondering if I imagined it.
A mask falls into place as he gives me his undivided attention. “What inspired you to kill someone in such a way?”
What a messed-up question. A good one nonetheless.
I scramble to find a diplomatic answer that doesn’t reveal that I’m re-creating a real murder. “I…” Come on, Reyna. “I recently saw an installation about reimagining The Creation of Adam.”
He leans forward an inch, but he may as well be invading every one of my senses. There’s a predatory glint in his eye that has me ensnared to the spot. The greens of his eyes darken with interest like I’ve caught the attention of a wolf.
“Really? Who’s the artist?”
I pale. Now would be a really good time for someone to come in or, better yet, for me to evaporate into thin air. I shift uncomfortably in my seat, and Shaw’s gaze drops, watching every minuscule movement I make, scrutinizing every inch of me as if I’m an art installation.
“He… uh… Bocklin’s Shadow.” I don’t mean to sound uncertain, but it comes out like that anyway.
“Where, pray tell, did you discover this… artist? I don’t believe I’ve heard of him.”
Shit. Shit. Shit.
“You wouldn’t have. He’s super niche. Up and coming. He, uh… he’s pretty low-key. I—I stumbled across him. You—You wouldn’t like him. It’s not your type of thing. You—”
Shut the fuck up, Reyna.
There’s no way he knows I’m basically stealing a serial killer’s art. I clear my throat and notice his attention flit down to my twisting hands. I quickly tuck them under my thighs and force a smile that I can only hope doesn’t make me look insane.
“Interesting,” he muses. “Maybe I’ll look him up.”
“No—” Not interesting at all. Be a lot less interested.
I swallow. “I mean, yes, of course. Go ahead. But he doesn’t have a social-media presence or anything.
So it’ll be hard. But I’m sure you’re good at research.
So I’ll leave that to you to figure out.
There isn’t much on him online. If anything. But his stuff is cool. So, I—yeah.”
Somebody sedate me. Please. I am begging.
There’s no way he’s not suspicious of me now.
Maddox tips his head to the side. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen hyenas do the same thing before they eat someone. “Are you all right, Miss Sinaga?”
No. Not at all.
“Great.” I clear my throat, reach for my satchel, and scramble out of my seat.
“I—I really need to go. But thank you for your time, Mr. Shaw. I appreciate it. Totally agree with what you said. I’ll keep that in mind for the next assignment.
That was some really great feedback. I can’t thank you enough. ”
I’m so screwed.
A slow smirk spreads across his lips. “I look forward to seeing more of your serial killer.”