Chapter 22 Reyna
REYNA
I’m sure I’d be put on a watchlist for feeling glad that a serial killer murdered someone. Except the usual excitement isn’t there this time around. I haven’t felt dread this strong since Mom was in the hospital and every day was a waiting game to see when the lights would go out.
The pit in my stomach has tripled in size, and I feel sick every time I think about the kill.
Sleeping has been impossible since Lawrence handed me the latest file two nights ago. I would have visited the crime scene immediately if it weren’t for the wedding I had to film yesterday.
My feet are rooted on the other side of the door, mind conjuring a million different reasons why I’m so nervous.
Sneaking into murder scenes is dangerous.
The killer could be watching me right now.
If I get arrested, I lose my scholarship.
I home in on each because I can’t shake the thought that he could be behind this.
A coincidence. That’s all it is.
Taking a shuddering breath, I steel my spine, and head into the spotless kitchen, camera in my trembling hand. There isn’t so much as a speck of dust around, every inch has been wiped clean. I can only assume it wasn’t the victim’s doing.
My heart stops when I spot the bag of Cheetos and a cup of tea sitting on the counter. I swallow. No. It has to be a fluke. Has to. Something like that wouldn’t happen to me.
It’s one of the most popular snacks in the country, and tea is a well-loved drink. It’s… I clear my throat. That’s not enough of a sign.
The KitKats and almonds at one of the other scenes isn’t enough either.
Once is by chance. Twice is a coincidence. Three times is a pattern.
It’s not him.
I glance up at the light bulb, and that dreaded sensation flushes through me again. It’s not a pattern yet.
The Shadow left every light in the house on. Lamps, chandeliers, candles. For that reason alone, I knew it was my killer before I ever saw pictures of the body.
It only gets worse when I make my way into the living room that’s been staged to perfection—the cushions are fluffed, coffee table cleared, and a blanket is neatly folded over the back of the couch. The knickknacks on the shelf are the only sign that anyone lives here.
My attention catches on the three picture frames on the side table.
One is a surrealist-style violin. The other, a skull in a different artistic style, and the last is an image of a pomegranate.
None match the decor of the house and they are haphazardly placed next to each other—at odds with the rest of the picture-perfect home.
Was it out of place because of the police, or because the Shadow intended it to be? Another puzzle piece.
I creep into the top floor, and my sights stall on the glass bottle sitting on the windowsill of one of the bedrooms. It’s small, as tall and wide as my thumb. I inch closer, keeping one ear out for any sound—the last thing I need is to be arrested for breaking and entering a crime scene.
I fish out my phone from my pocket to shine my screen light on the label, and my stomach drops. There, in cursive lettering, are two words that have that sinking feeling in my stomach worsening: Black Ink.
No. No. It’s a coincidence.
I mean, it’s not like the ink is pink.
Right, exactly. It’s fine.
Bar that one thing, all the other bedrooms are immaculate.
I can’t figure out the logic behind it. Is he trying to say that the victim was clean on the outside, but rotten on the inside?
Was the victim grabbing a drink while the Shadow crept in through the window, then dragged him kicking and screaming before drugging him? Or maybe he was in the shower, or the comfort of his bed. He could have been partially conscious as the bulb was jammed into his mouth.
The victim probably begged to be spared as the glass, presumably, tore through his throat. Did the subject witness the killer setting up the scene, laying out the petals, and cleaning the place?
Grabbing the coroner’s photos from my bag, I station myself in front of the spot in the hallway where the magic—brutal murder—happened.
I try to picture the victim tied up to the chair, and what the killer’s thought process was when he was setting every piece of the scene.
Theories flood in, but I can’t shake that nudging at the back of my head.
It’s a feeling that I can’t put into words.
A familiarity that I can’t quite pinpoint—refuse to.
Lowering my belongings to the ground, I try to get back in the zone and focus on the mise-en-scène. I place the stun gun on the stairs and my camera on top of my satchel and train it on the middle of the corridor.
Careful not to disturb the blush-colored petals on the floor, I tiptoe to the chair and pause at the very edge of it. With a deep breath, I close my eyes to realign myself, hoping that something will inspire me for my next project.
Right now, I’m not Reyna, or a film student; I’m the guy in the chair with a light bulb in my mouth.
Reopening my eyes, I take stock of the situation from a different lens.
I’m sitting between the front and back entrances, surrounded by pink petals of some sort. The positioning of the chair seems intentional. I don’t know why yet.
My hands are tied with synthetic ropes, and the only things in my line of sight are a painting of peonies next to the front door and an antique shelf I can’t see inside.
All the lights are on, the house is clean, fairy lights are wrapped around my head, and strange pictures are in my living room.
Why am I here? Do I know the killer? What did I do to make him torture me like this? If he’s a stranger, why did he choose me? What kind of a symbolism could these objects hold that’s related to me?
The crushed bulb in the subject’s mouth. The cords wrapped around his head. House lights. Clean rooms. Snacks on the counter. Tea. Pink petals. Black ink.
I repeat the facts in my mind, flipping it over, and turning it around to get a different perspective until I figure out his message.
All it takes is one bright idea, and everything else goes away.
Air slams into my lungs in a startled gasp.
In the darkest pits of my soul, the most wretched part of me rears its ugly head with a smile from the onslaught of emotions. Betrayal, shock, mortification, and worst of all: exhilaration, and stone-cold satisfaction. I was right.
It’s him.
He’s Bocklin’s Shadow.
It’s a fucking pattern.
In the middle of the museum with him by my side, I gazed up at his green eyes with my heart racing, and my body tingling with need. And I told him, I’m waiting for that light bulb moment that’ll take the words out of my mouth.
The twisted feelings intensify when my wide-eyed stare lands on the peony painting by the front entrance. A welcoming door. Maddox did this for me. He knew I’d see all this, and he wants me to know that he sees me too.
He saw the peony tattoos on my shoulder and shin.
Pink flowers paired with black ink. Pink ink.
My favorite snacks appearing on murder scenes. The almonds. Synthetic rope. The penny.
Maddox knows I’ve been idolizing a serial killer for my film project—knows that I’ve been idolizing him. I’ve beautified his art, put it on a screen for his critique, and consumption. I’ve turned murder into our dirty little secret. We visited his crime scene together.
Oh God.
I fucked a serial killer.
I bark out a deranged laugh. I fucked a serial killer several times, and I loved it.
It’s been a little over a week since I first slept with Maddox, and we’ve both kept our distance as if we’ve already been caught, and we’re pretending to be strangers to lessen the damage.
But he’s spent that week planning to kill someone for me.
Maddox being my professor is the very least of my problems.
Laughter tumbles out of my chest. I can’t believe it. Maddox Shaw is a serial killer. Paranoia has me hearing sounds in the house that aren’t there, but I can’t stop laughing.
All the signs were there; the way he spoke about the murders, the method of execution, and how he promised to pass on a message to the killer.
Maddox warned me to stop going to the crime scenes.
He promised to go to them with me, and he did.
I thought it was because he cared about my safety, but maybe it was fear of getting caught and a dash of curiosity.
How could I be so blind? This whole project is about uncovering hidden messages, and I didn’t see the big fucking neon sign.
I don’t know what to do with any of this information.
I upended my entire life in pursuit of my father’s memory and ended up falling for a serial killer who left breadcrumbs for me to follow.
What’s his plan? To make me play his games?
See how I’d react? We could have spent the rest of our lives with me being none the wiser, and yet he left hints for me to find.
A startled scream rips from my throat when I’m yanked to the side. Pain ruptures along my jaw and cheek when my face hits the banister, turning everything upside down, muting the voice in my head that’s yelling at me to escape.
White orbs float into my swimming vision as I scramble to my feet, attempting to orient myself. My equilibrium tilts from the grip on my hair. My stomach lurches with the threat of emptying its contents onto the floor.
The fuzzy outline of a man appears in my vision, and another ragged cry tears out of me when my back collides with a wall.
Maddox knows that I know, and he’s come back to… kill me? That makes no sense.
My vision clears to find a man I don’t recognize. Fingers wrap around my throat, cutting off the oxygen and my scream with it.
Panic shoots through me, wild and hot, ready to explode.
My legs dangle in the air as I kick and thrash, desperate to find my footing.
My nails catch on the seams of his denim jacket and scrape the stubble along his jaw as I claw at his head.
The harder I fight, the tighter his hold gets, until I can barely hear him above the ringing in my ears.