Chapter 8 Maddox #2
I want to grab my phone to capture a photo for reference later. Her films and the one image I have of her from the crime scene aren’t sating the creative beasts demanding to be fed.
One more step. “Are you lying to me, Miss Sinaga?”
Her lips open and close, and I’m fairly certain she’s stopped breathing. So she’ll argue with me fine. Disrespect my work without batting an eye. Yet lying is her kryptonite?
Fascinating. Everything about her is so goddamn fascinating.
I should have gone home.
“Are you going to places you shouldn’t?”
Her throat bobs. “No?”
“Is that a question?”
“No,” she says, a few decibels quieter, twisting the objects in her hands.
I have to bite back a smile. It’s refreshing to be around someone so unfiltered—even if she is lying straight to my face. The fact that she does it so badly makes me appreciate it the slightest bit more. “Where are you getting your inspiration from?”
“What?” she practically squeaks. “Nowhere. I mean, I—I told you about—”
“Are you visiting crime scenes?”
Her eyes double in size. “What would make you think that? Of course not. That’s illegal. And wrong. I’d never do that. No. God, no. That’s too far. And dangerous. And—”
“Miss Sinaga.”
Her mouth snaps shut.
I tip my head to the side. “How about we try that again?”
My gaze drops to the swell of her bright-red bottom lip. She gnaws on the pillowy flesh, distracting me for a moment.
“You’ve based your entire project around gruesome murders that you claimed were inspired by an artist going by Bocklin’s Shadow—someone with no presence in the media.
” I almost feel bad about how stricken she looks.
Unfortunately for her, I don’t plan on leaving until I hear the truth from her lips.
She clears her throat and shifts her weight, eyes never meeting mine. “Murders? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I am going to ask this one more time, and the next words out of your mouth better be the truth.” Watching her squirm would be enjoyable if my patience for her reckless disregard of her safety weren’t becoming paper-thin. “Are you visiting murder scenes?”
Reyna hesitates. “Am I going to get in trouble if I am?”
“Are all your films based on the same killer?”
Her throat bobs.
Come on, love. Tell me what I want to hear.
She nods once, and fuck if that doesn’t make me wild.
I already knew what she was doing, but her confirmation that she only cares for my murders is like finding the edge of a cliff and throwing myself off it thinking I might grow wings.
Not one person on the police force has linked the murders together. Yet a twenty-one-year-old film major figured it out. I’d laugh if my sanity didn’t loosen with every second I’m around this woman.
“Why do you call him Bocklin’s Shadow?” I could hazard a guess as to why, but I want to keep hearing her voice.
Reyna fidgets with the weapons in her hands.
“He, uh, has a fascination with mortality and how it intertwines with reality. Like the painting Self-Portrait with Death Playing the Fiddle. He isn’t murdering for recognition or attention.
He’s doing it because he’s an artist, and death is his medium of choice.
He’s a man working alongside death himself,” she says.
“Plus.” She forces a chuckle. “It was an inside joke with myself that the killer is playing with his victims like a fiddle.” Reyna clears her throat and straightens when I say nothing. “That’s not funny, sorry.”
I stare at her for a beat. Two. Then a third. Taking her in from head to toe and wishing I could delve into her mind and pick at it for hours. Not a single soul has ever understood my motives the way she does.
She’s fucking brilliant. Absolutely, completely, utterly astounding, and—
Reyna Sinaga is just my student.
There’s nothing interesting about her at all.
This is bad.
This is very, very bad.
Why couldn’t she say that she spent two minutes on the internet and chose the first name she saw? How am I meant to dispel her from my mind when she talks about me like I’m a god?
It has to stop. All of it.
“Never look into his murders again, and do not, under any circumstance, visit his crime scenes.”
Reyna jolts back. “What?”
It’s too dangerous—on so many levels. All it would take is for Reyna to stumble upon the wrong Hive-ordered kill, and she could be right in their crosshairs. As much as I appreciate her admiration of my work, it isn’t worth her getting hurt or murdered over.
Not to mention I need to be less involved with her. Speaking to her out in the open is risky enough, but if she keeps talking to me with that husky voice and showing me how phenomenal her mind is, I worry whether my fleeting control will be enough to pull me from the brink.
Reyna will need to stay away for both our sakes. If our only crossover is the classroom, then there will be no reason for her to be anywhere near my periphery, so I can focus on rebuilding my career.
“It ends now. It’s too dangerous for you.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
She grips her weapons like she may well use them on me. “I made it this far by myself just fine. I’m aware of the risks and everything that could go wrong. But this is my decision to make.”
For fuck’s sake, I don’t have the time to watch her to make sure she’s keeping in line. The Order will come for her, if they haven’t begun watching her already. Unless I find more hours in the day, the only thing I can do is dissuade her from continuing down this path.
The Order has remained in power for so long because they’ve never hesitated to take someone down. People like my father and the other high saints don’t just play god, they are gods.
Tech billionaires, real estate moguls, governors—the vice fucking president, they’re all in the Order, and are only where they are because of the Order.
Any one of them could go to the grand magistrate for permission to kill Reyna, and not a single person would bat an eye.
She has no idea what she’s dealing with.
I grab her arm. Her lips part at the contact, and I hate how the sight of it disarms me. Again, my first thought is how badly I wish she weren’t wearing all these layers. The second is a proverbial slap because she’s my fucking student.
“And what if someone kills you?” I snap. Any hope of sounding composed goes out the window.
I drop my hand and take a wide step away. I can’t think clearly when I’m touching her.
Everything about her is messing with me. I was trained better than this—to never let my emotions best me, because showing anything other than rage is a weakness. Yet here I am, showing her all my cards.
She glares at me. Shrugs. “We all die eventually.”
That’s the worst possible thing she could have responded with. It would have been better if she didn’t speak at all.
“Death could be a bloody fucking blessing compared to what could happen.” I’ve passed the point of irritation, transcended the realm of anger. Her willingness to die for a film project sends white-hot rage up my spine. “You aren’t going.”
This hobby of hers is stupid beyond belief.
Fire blazes in her as she crosses her arms over her chest. “Like I said, that’s not your decision to make. You’re not my dad. You’re not my husband. You’re just my professor.”
Hearing the words you’re, my, and husband makes my brain short-circuit in a possessive way that I don’t like. Not one bit.
“Yes, that’s right. I am your professor. And as your professor, I am telling you to stop going to those crime scenes and sticking your nose in places that it doesn’t belong.”
“As if you haven’t done anything reckless for your art.”
Touché.
“There’s a difference between us: I haven’t gotten caught.”
“Yet.”
This little shit.
“You have no idea what you’re dealing with.” My fingers itch to grab her high school’s pen from my coat pocket to prove that it’s a matter of time before someone else notices her slipups.
“We all have our vices. I’m sticking with mine while I can,” she says, tone even and calm. “So let me make this clear: I’m still going.”
“Do not fight me on this, Miss Sinaga,” I warn.
“You can yell at me, scream at me, berate me, and I’ll still be going where my passions lead me.
” Each word comes out poised, with a faint air of hostility.
“Other people might bend to your every whim, but I’m not going to give up something I enjoy just because you told me to.
If you want a pet to sit and stay put, then I suggest you get a dog.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an assignment to write. Good night, Mr. Shaw.”
She dips her head, turns on her heel, and storms away, breezing off into the night with regal grace very few could pull off.
“Reyna,” I call, and the brat has the audacity to ignore me even when I call for her a second and third time.
I scowl at her back, watching her slink out of view.
It’s not a difficult decision to follow behind her.
It seems someone needs to ensure she gets home safe.
I have half a mind to catch up with her to finish our conversation.
Except I know better than anyone that a verbal scolding will do nothing to curb a creator’s obsession.
Common sense and reason go out the window for the sake of art.
Ask for forgiveness, not permission.
In all truthfulness, stopping her from doing what she is clearly talented at feels like a crime worse than murder. She’s an artist with a vision, and once that spark is gone, it rarely ever returns.
Still, I will not be the reason she dies.