Chapter 7 Maddox #2
By the time Reyna steps out of the house and into a cab, my body is numb to the cold.
I snap a photo of the departing vehicle, then tuck my phone into my back pocket.
If, for some reason, Reyna’s whereabouts are unknown tomorrow, I have the driver’s license plate and a new murderous idea I’d love to carry out.
Once the car is out of sight, I slink onto the street and into the apartment to catalog what remains of my work. Nathan Barton was an ambitious family man who was just as interested in other people’s families. He loved kids a little too much.
When I first got here, there were kids’ toys all around the house, scattered along the floor, and hidden down the side of the couch. The number of group photos he had of his children during school trips and summer camps made my stomach churn.
I didn’t necessarily walk in here with a plan this time around.
I figured inspiration would strike when I needed it to.
And it did. All it took was to see six photos of his daughter and her friends at ballet, and my decision was made: bound hands, broken feet, and a lasting plié that would make Edgar Degas turn in his grave.
I took the liberty of putting all the children’s toys away, out of Nathan’s reach and thoughts.
Then turned the photos around so he couldn’t see them.
It’s all relatively the same as I left it, although it’s hard to tell which part has changed because of the forensics team and which is owed to Reyna. There’s one new addition to my scene.
A cobalt-blue metal pen, left on the table my student bumped into.
It wasn’t there before, and it wasn’t left by any professional.
North View High, it reads.
My stalker’s high school.
She’s a walking liability.
I haven’t decided whether it’s a good or bad thing that Miss Sinaga is still alive.
Good because the cab driver lives to see another day. Bad because I’m going to go insane. She’s everywhere I look, even when she’s not there.
In the three days since I’ve seen her, my mind hasn’t stopped replaying the sight of her staring in awe of my Fallen Angel painting, and the way she looked helping herself to my crime scene.
I can still picture the slight wrinkle in her forehead and the curve of her brow.
Even the way she intently listens to me speak in class—as if I’m not a talentless hack—is all-consuming.
Not to mention her fucking legs.
I scrub my face and chuck my scarf and gloves on the couch before dropping into my office chair. My ears are still ringing from all the yelling at Spencer’s football game. I hadn’t the time, patience, nor the energy for such dramatics, but he asked me to be there, and I couldn’t say no.
A faint throb begins at the back of my head as I log in to the university portal.
It’s another thing I don’t want to do, grade the assignments for a class I never wanted to inherit.
The cursor hovers over the name at the very top of the alphabetized list. Reyna is near the bottom, and I likely won’t get to it for another week.
That’s seven agonizing days of wondering if she made a video of the kill I laid out for her, or if she did someone else’s.
Screw it.
I click her name. A second time. Double-clicking the third time. Fingers tapping the table, glaring at the circle spinning in the center of the screen. Has my computer always been this bloody slow?
Reyna’s re-creations aren’t replicas of my kills, rather she incorporates overarching themes to bridge the gap until they’re entirely hers.
The criteria for this assignment is that there mustn’t be any dialogue or music, a project I have no doubt she will excel at. In all of my classes, she’s the student who holds the most promise.
The film opens with three loud booms in total darkness.
Then the door opens to reveal a young man silently listening to something on the phone.
The hero is welcomed into a messy, yellow-hued living room.
I watch with skepticism as the camera follows the host into the kitchen and switches focus between his hands and his face as he prepares a cup of coffee for them.
An anatomical heart tattoo pokes out from beneath the protagonist’s long-sleeve shirt when he drops powder into one of the mugs.
Within a matter of seconds of sipping the offered drink, the hero slowly tips sideways, eyes drooped open.
Maybe it was a coincidence after all. It’s entirely possible that she’s investigating and re-creating any murder she deems inspiring. I’ve never drugged anyone like that, let alone been in a position where my subjects trust me enough to drink what I made.
The lack of connection to my kills is all the more evident when the protagonist throws the victim into the trunk of a car and drives through the city, passing loud streets, littered sidewalks, and well-kept brownstones, to a basement cast in a red hue.
All sound dies but the reverberation of footsteps through the concrete room.
The only time I’ve taken a subject to a second location is upon Shepherd’s specific instructions. Nor has a basement been involved.
None of this aligns with my work.
Sipping water does nothing to remove the bitter taste in my mouth that Reyna might have taken inspiration from another killer. She’s the first person to recognize a pattern in my murders, but I was wrong to think that she finds my work special or unique.
It doesn’t matter. I still have to grade her.
The kidnapper places the semiunconscious man on a chair without bothering to tie him down. The directorial decision seems deliberate. I’ve yet to understand why.
Reyna opts for another close-up of the kidnapper’s hands hovering in indecision between the hammer, chef’s knife, and pliers. Again, the heart tattoo peaks out as he reaches for the knife before cutting to a close-up of his face.
An idea that I can’t quite grasp forms in the back of my mind. I’ve seen her previous work. Her choice of focal point is too intentional for it to be a matter of chance.
The scene shifts to an over-the-shoulder shot of the kidnapper, where all that’s seen of the victim is his silhouette. Toying with the pen on my table, I watch as the blade glows amber from the flames of a blowtorch. A shock of yellow against the red room.
The protagonist stalks forward, head cut out of the frame. There’s not a single sound to be heard when he presses the scorching blade against the lower half of the victim’s face. All that can be seen is the killer’s arm and the steam rolling into the air as the skin melts away.
My jaw tenses. I’ve never done that either.
It’s not my kill. Reyna isn’t following my work.
It’s frustrating that I can’t see or hear what’s happening to the victim. Finally the camera pans, following the killer out of the basement that’s now cast in blue lighting, and my lips part at the sight.
Three different bodies sit limply on separate chairs. One with the skin of his mouth melted. Another with dried pink blood running down his ears. The last, a woman with a cherry-pink rag tied over her eyes.
The killer shuts the door behind him, plunging the room into darkness. The screen goes black, followed by three knocks.
I stop breathing.
Speak no evil.
Hear no evil.
See no evil.
Head. Hand. Heart.
Yellow. Red. Blue. Primary colors.
Littered streets. Pristine brownstones. A murder den. Perfect balance in the midst of carnage.
The cursor darts across the screen to pull up her supporting essay, and time suspends. At the very top of the document is the film title.
The Rule of Three.
Reyna knew it was me. My failed kill. The one that was End of an Era.
She understands me, and that might be the worst thing of all.