Chapter 21 Maddox
MADDOX
Romance isn’t dead.
Although, its definition becomes debatable when a serial killer is involved.
After fucking Reyna senseless to the point where she couldn’t walk, I’ve been overflowing with ideas. I’ve come up with several concepts to add to my exhibition and thought of something rather brilliant that will solve both of our creative blocks.
I carefully place the light bulb amongst the bottle of ink and tacky fake peonies before closing my bag. I had hoped to stop by the local florist and pick up real ones. To say I was disappointed to find out they’re not in bloom is the understatement of the century.
This is why I’m not a flower person. There’s no consistency.
At least the fake pink ones I managed to find are a similar shade to the peonies on one of Reyna’s tattoos. So the sentiment remains.
Locking my car, I shoulder my duffle bag and pull my cap lower to keep the rain out of my eyes.
It’s the ideal weather to create the ultimate crime.
Barely anyone is looking out their window this late at night.
If they did, they wouldn’t bat an eye over a man running through the rain.
I’ll be completely forgettable. And the drops of water battering the roof will drown out the sound of screams. All in all, it’s a fantastic night to make a romantic gesture.
The risks associated with carrying out this plan are endless. Honestly, from an average, sane person’s point of view, I’m about to take an uncalculated and potentially premature leap of faith.
So I sat on it.
I went to bed disregarding the idea and had every intention of taking our newfound relationship day by day—where I slowly go mad because she doesn’t know the truth.
Except the next day, I saw her tugging up her woolen jersey to hide the marks I left on her body. Later that night, when she thought she was safe in the confines of her bed, I crept in because I can’t stop myself, and saw the smattering of blue-and-pink splotches along her neck.
I was already holding on by a thread at that point.
Then, a couple of days later, I invited her back to my office, and she arrived wearing that same bloody leather harness of hers. It was absolutely fucking magnificent to grab on to while I fucked her over my desk and covered her body in more marks.
After that, all my good intentions flew right out the window.
I decided our fates were sealed.
We haven’t interacted since then, but my student doesn’t know I’ve seen her every single night since.
She fucked up.
Reyna Sinaga fucked. Up.
She should never have let me in, never let me touch her. She fucked up, and it’s too late for her to run from me now. Soon, everything is going to change.
This is a means to prove what destiny has always intended.
She knows me. Sees me. Gets me. No one else has understood me quite like her.
She calls me out on my bullshit, looks past my messes, and still deems me worthy.
If she pieces tonight together, there will be no mistaking that, whether it was by God’s will or pure fate, Reyna and I were meant to be together.
I slow to a stop when I reach Paddy Hutton’s house. Just as I suspected, lights are flashing from the gaps in the living room curtain.
He’s been on my list for the better part of a year. His life is like clockwork: wake up, go to work, hit the casinos during his lunch break, go back to his soul-crushing insurance job, come home, hit his wife before dinner, then waste away on the couch while placing bets from his phone.
Obviously, he changes it up on the weekend. For example, he might go to a gambling ring with Nolan instead of Barry, or stay at a casino from dawn until dusk and give his wife some reprieve. It keeps me on my toes.
Most importantly, he has zero ties with the Order. I triple-checked. It’s my new rule: only make art out of men Shepherd doesn’t know about. Since Reyna follows my work, it’s now quite literally in my job description to give her a safe learning environment.
Water sloshes up my legs as I jump the fence into their minuscule backyard. There’s only a faint glow spilling out from nearby houses. Combined with the stormy night, it’s difficult to see more than an outline of my surroundings.
With my gloves in place, I slink up the porch and kneel in front of the door. Picking locks is an art form—a boring one, yet art nonetheless. Steady hands and a dash of patience are required. It seems I only enjoy it when I’m watching Reyna do it.
But without Mrs. Hutton home, ol’ Paddy over here is probably too boozed up to remember to add the dead bolt. Like usual. Which means that once the lock slides out of its spot, thanks to the WD-40 I added to the hinges a few months ago, the door opens without a squeak.
My pulse thrums—it’s the excitement of starting a new project. The type of tingles from being overcome with creative vision. It’s my favorite feeling in the world. Second to feeling Reyna’s pussy on my face.
I grab a cloth out of my bag and splash my home remedy onto the fabric, then help myself inside. Like every other time I’ve done it, the moment I cross the threshold, I become a different person. I’m no longer a man, simply an artist.
My senses sharpen, and my everything becomes more vibrant.
I can see the depth of color in every grain of the cedar furniture as if the lights were on high beam.
The floral-patterned wallpaper pops in the darkness, a cloudy mauve against ivory, and the single dot of vermilion.
The flashes of blue and white from the TV glinting against the glass of the China cabinets.
A neat stack of shoes lines the wall next to the front door, and I pick up notes of a fresh bouquet of flowers from the vase in the center of the hallway. They’ll wither away and die soon enough. It’s a pathetic man’s way of apologizing—throwing gifts and money with no intention of changing.
After all the pitiful kills I’ve carried out lately, this will be my redemption arc. My mind whirls with possibilities for staging the scene. It may be my greatest work yet, and it’s all Reyna’s idea. How the tables have turned.
Hopefully, the idiot cop drooling over Reyna can put his two brain cells to use and feed her tonight’s kill. The delusional fuckwit seriously thinks he has a chance with her. It’s rather sad. He’s not her type.
I am, though.
It wasn’t hard to figure out who was leaking the information to Reyna since I only had to watch her walk right into the police station, then come out looking uncomfortable as a man guided her outside to have lunch.
Lawrence McCabe. Twenty-five. Six feet tall. Looks like he reads with his finger. A paladin, and a man who still has his uses and can remain alive—for the time being, that is.
I’ve never been the type to get petty over competition. I’ve always known my place in the food chain, the Order leaves no room for doubt. The second he steps out of line, his death will look like an accident.
For now, he needs to give Patrick “Paddy” Hutton’s file to Reyna.
After that? Who knows. It’s been a few months since I’ve made someone’s death look like an accident. What type of man would I be if I didn’t brush up on my skills?
I stalk into the house, carefully closing the door behind me before a draft can alert Paddy to my presence. The place gives off olden-day suburbia vibes. You’d think a family with two and a half kids lives there, a barbecue firing up on the back deck every Sunday.
Only part of that is true. Paddy does have a barbecue. It’s decommissioned.
The only sounds are the blaring TV and the squeal of the couch every time Paddy shifts. My lips twist when the wooden floor creaks beneath my boot. I pause and wait for a reaction that doesn’t come.
Slowly, I slip into the kitchen, past the open, empty pizza box and beer bottles, then through the dining room and into the lounge, where Paddy’s too busy frowning at his phone to notice me.
The rest proceeds like clockwork. I get up behind him, place the cloth over his nose and mouth, and hold. He struggles for a bit; I struggle for a bit; then he passes out. It’s always the same song and dance.
I sigh, stretching my back out. I’m really not that into fighting. It’s cleaner this way. The raging migraine he’ll get from my concoction is an added bonus.
Twenty minutes later, the little fella is looking strapping in his Sunday best, tied to a chair in the middle of the hallway between the front and back doors—a poetic tragedy, one Reyna would appreciate if she’s familiar with feng shui.
With both doors perfectly aligned, the money comes in, and it flies right out.
And right in the center of it all is Paddy.
I lay out my supplies on the floor, and by the time I’ve set up the kitchen and lounge, plucked the petals from the fake peonies, and scattered them around the future corpse, my subject rises from his slumber, frowning and grumbling words impossible to make out.
I don’t blame him. It’s hard to speak when you have a light bulb in your mouth.
His eyes widen when awareness hits him, and the wheels in that smooth brain of his start ticking like maybe—just maybe—he might be in a bit of a bind.
A garbled, jumbled mess of sounds comes out of him as he thrashes against the synthetic ropes.
He tries dislodging the light bulb from his mouth, but his jaw is firmly clamped around it.
As I watch him squawk, I mentally take notes for future kills. I don’t know why I didn’t start gagging my subjects earlier. There’s no incessant begging or whining. No high-pitched screams, nor any lies about how innocent they are.
I’m not looking for Paddy’s confession. I only need him to sit there and look pretty so I can do my work.
It’s odd, actually. Usually I can see Roland in the men, and I imagine how he’d react in the situation. I find myself caring very little about what that bastard would do right now. I’m a man with his muse, with no bone to pick and a lady to court.
Lacks intimacy.
We’ll see if Reyna still says that once I’ve finished with this piece.
“Paddy, let’s cut to the chase, shall we?” I start. “You’re a terrible human being, but I’m worse—for different reasons, obviously. For example, I wasn’t accused of raping my wife.”
He can try thrashing around as much as he wants; I’ve stabilized the chair by tying it to the railing of the stairwell and the antique shelf. It’s never going to topple over.
Crossing my arms, I lean against the wall and stare him down. I suppose this is a bit of a “villain spiel,” but I try to involve my subjects in the process where I can. It gives the project a more profound impact.
“Anyway, I digress.” I hold up the extension cord.
“This leads to this light bulb.” Much to my surprise, he goes completely still.
“I’m going to turn it on now, and it would be highly preferable that you bite down sooner rather than later—I want to go home and catch up on sleep.
” His eyes bulge, wide and panicked as they flick between me and the cord.
“I feel it’s necessary to remind you that it will get rather hot. ”
Tears stream down his face, mixing in with the sweat trickling down his temple. He frantically shakes his head and says something that sounds a lot like please. I flip the switch on, and his face lights up like… well, like a light bulb.
He pulls at the ropes around his arms and legs, and whips his head from side to side, screaming at the top of his lungs.
I tsk. “Don’t you start getting any bright ideas about escaping—no pun intended.”
Paddy ignores me.
Sighing, I lean against the wall and check my watch. When he hasn’t clamped down by the three-minute mark, I begin arranging the petals and the bouquet of peonies so that the flow and placement is perfect.
A ragged cry follows the sound of shattering glass.
Oh good, we’re speeding things along.
Stepping away from the lamp I just turned on, I carefully navigate my way back in front of him to avoid stepping on any petals.
I wince once I catch sight of him. “As painful as it looks, I want you to know that you’re doing a wonderful job. I think my student will really appreciate this piece.”
Crimson falls down his chin onto his pristine white shirt in a steady stream, dripping onto the shards littering the floor. Bloody hell. For the sake of art, I would have left the fallen glass alone. I’ll have to clean it now because I’ll be pissed if Reyna cuts herself on it.
Paddy cries out a truly pathetic sound when he attempts to talk.
Go figure. I grab the duct tape off the floor, grip his head, then apply strips over his nose and mouth to block his airways.
The moisture on his skin makes it peel off immediately.
Huffing, I slap his face to keep the edges down despite the blood, sweat, and tears on his skin, but the useless thing keeps lifting around his nose.
I pinch his nose together with one hand while his thrashing becomes more extreme.
It’s not exactly what I wanted to do, but improvise, adapt, overcome.
Right about now—if his choking is any indication—some glass is lodging in his throat.
It’s a relatively simple death. Sometimes less is more.
His attempt at fighting me off grows more desperate the redder his skin gets. It quickly dissipates as the purple tinge to his face grows more prominent.
I check my watch before glancing around at my stage, waiting for him to die.
I’ve always found it rather irritating how long it takes to kill someone by suffocation.
Sure, his esophagus is all cut up, and there’s probably a bit of brain damage going on, but I’m going to need his heart to stop beating before I can wrap this up.
Reyna was looking for that light bulb moment that takes the words right out of her mouth. I can’t say for certain that she’ll be rendered speechless by what I’ve done, but ol’ Paddy over here definitely is.
Soon, she’s going to see what I did for her, and she will know how perfect we are for each other.
Until then, I have to wait approximately four more minutes until Paddy is dead for good.
The things I do to impress my girl.