Chapter 14 Reyna #3
The jagged lines marking the subject’s chest are far from clean.
I mean, he could have been struggling against his attacker.
But the Shadow always has a level of finesse and artful intent with his work.
There’s no way he would have made such uneven markings, let alone shot someone in the head, and not do it perfectly centered.
I wouldn’t say it’s a copycat but… I might have seen another victim who was chopped up like this. Or maybe it was branded into them? I remember there being something hexagonal in a murder months ago. It was one of the first ones Lawrence showed me, before he started feeding me files regularly.
There could be another serial killer going around, and this is their signature. But how does that link to Cresswell? Am I making something out of nothing?
A bang thunders through the space. I jolt, exiting out of the picture and snapping my attention to the sound. I look up in time to see a girl throw up her hand in silent apology as she picks up a fallen book.
I sag back into my chair. Maybe I am being dramatic.
But… I might as well check for similar murders, right?
My laptop fan works overtime as I open up the internet browser and search the local news for recent deaths in the hopes of finding the subject’s name.
When half an hour of checking this week’s death-notice and news articles for murder comes up blank, I change tactic and search for any murder victims brandished with a similar symbol, but I can’t find a single one.
Not even in the law school’s database of criminal cases.
There’s not even a hint of anything remotely close to the shape.
I scrub a hand down my face. Nothing is showing up even though I swear I saw a victim who had the symbol burned into his chest.
My foot bounces on the floor. There’s a connection somewhere. This university is linked to it—I’d bet money on it.
I shut my laptop, jump to my feet, and head toward the shelving, looking for the books dedicated to Cresswell’s history. The older copies are kept in the artifact room, but Cresswell loves preserving their history. So there should be a newer edition or an electronic version of them somewhere.
My fingers hover over the spines until I find one that might help. The History of Cresswell University. I grab it and a couple of others to bring back to my table.
I scan the index in search of any keywords that might work, going through book after book until I reach the bottom of the pile. The Birth of Knowledge and Power. If there weren’t a picture of the school’s crest on the front, I’d think this is a random philosophy book.
Within seconds of going through the index, I find a word that raises a red flag in my head: beekeeping.
I flick to the page and find the segment I’m looking for. My eyes dart over the words, mind racing and making connections worthy of a hardcore conspiracy theorist.
There’s an image of a group of men in suits gathered around a single beehive in front of the fountain in the courtyard.
According to this, when Cresswell first began three centuries ago, a group of students, academics, and local officials came together to establish a beekeeping group and donated the honey to locals in the area.
They would meet every week, and as the years progressed and more students enrolled, the men who began the club would go out to recruit new students to join.
It was considered a great honor to be welcomed into the group.
Supposedly, even the mayors, governors, and random business owners joined the beekeeping society—by invite only.
The men who were granted access were given honeycomb-shaped pins. I pull up the image of the victim, flip the page for the embossing in the alumni book, and peer at the pin fastened to the lapel of the man in the photo.
They’re a match. It’s the same layout, the same four hexagons. The placement of a bee.
I don’t think I could ever imagine Dad getting into beekeeping.
I think I’m losing it, because there’s no way I am thinking there might be a deadly group of beekeepers out there in New York of all places.
I’m more confused than I was an hour ago.
Christ, I think I’m getting a migraine. My eyes drift to the grandfather clock against one of the shelves. It’s a quarter to five. Fifteen minutes until my alleged meeting with Maddox.
Heaven help me.
I throw caution to the wind and buy another cup of coffee on the way to his office. My cup is empty by the time I get to his building, and my nerves are going completely haywire.
What could he possibly want to talk about? The incident with his brother? How he wants me to get into beekeeping? He hasn’t released the grades for the latest assignment. What if he’s going to tell me how horrifically I’ve done? What if this is the day I find out that I’m losing my scholarship?
I can’t afford the tuition, so I’ll be kissing my life goodbye, and I’ll never figure out what my dad was up to.
Maybe he’s decided to fail me after all. I’ll do extra assignments, clean his studio, grade papers, do his laundry, literally anything he wants, and I’ll do it. Just as long as I don’t lose my scholarship.
Hell, I’m even willing to get on my hands and knees to beg for a resubmission.
No, bad Reyna.
I check my watch. Five o’clock on the dot.
It’s now or never.