Chapter 22
Tori closed the conference room door with a soft click. Damien Sullivan. Murdered. Probably because of them.
She turned back to the painting. A massive abstract composition mounted on the wall the way some people mount a taxidermy trophy. She stepped back to take in the entire piece.
The brushstrokes pulsed with violent energy. Broad sweeps that mimicked arterial spray. Aggressive slashes that echoed knife wounds. The massive canvas allowed the artist complete freedom to recreate the crime scene. Each mark documented process, not just product.
“He was reliving them,” she said.
Blade moved to stand beside her. “I’m sorry, Corbin, I can’t talk here. I’ll call you back in twenty.”
“Each fling of the brush is another strike of his victim.” She traced the violent arcs with her eyes.
The pattern matched what she’d seen at Florek’s house. The blood spatter on the walls, the trajectory of the attack. The pivot of a shoulder guided the sweep of the paint. The killer traced the memory of the resistance he’d felt when the knife hit bone.
“Come with me.” Blade’s hand found her elbow. He glanced at the security camera in the corner of the ceiling.
He guided her toward the door, and she had to pull her gaze away from the canvas. She forced herself to look at the floor. If she looked at the painting again, she’d start counting the slashes.
In the hallway, his stride remained measured.
“We need to be chill,” he said under his breath, nodding to a passing paralegal.
They stopped at Florek’s office, where Gino crouched beside the desk, photographing papers arranged on the carpet. Crime scene tape crossed the doorway.
“Gino.” Blade crooked a finger, and the tech walked over. “Take over in the conference room. We’ve got to go.”
Gino looked at Tori. “Everything okay, bro?”
“I’ll text you.”
Gino’s eyes flicked between them, reading the undercurrent in Blade’s tone. He’d worked enough crime scenes to recognize when something shifted.
“Got it.” He straightened, already reaching for his equipment bag. “I’ll handle it.”
Tori grabbed her work bag from the conference room and followed Blade to the lobby.
While they waited for the elevator, she returned to the painting behind the receptionist’s desk, looking at it with new eyes now.
The geometric staging hummed beneath the brushwork. Different style, same violent energy.
Was the killer here? Walking these halls, admiring his gallery? The thin skin under her eye began to twitch. She pressed a finger there, but it didn’t stop. How many people looked at these paintings, never knowing they were looking at death?
She pulled out her phone and typed quickly:
We need to find Madison.
The elevator arrived with a soft ding. She hit send as they stepped inside, watching the lobby through the closing gap. Too many eyes. Too many ears.
Blade’s phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen and read her message.
“Yes, we do,” he said.
The elevator doors sealed shut.
“Damien—” Blade started.
“The paintings—” Tori said at the same moment.
They stopped. Blade pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes.
She was feeling the same way. They had some great leads, but right now, those leads were tangled around them like fishing line in a hurricane.
She reached over and rubbed a circle on his shoulder. “We can do this. We just decide what to pursue first.”
He looked at her with a faint redness in one eye. “Coffee?”
She laughed, the sound surprising her. “Yes. Definitely pursue coffee first.”
Once they arrived at the car and got in, Blade shifted into drive and pulled out into the afternoon sunshine. Tori opened her laptop on her knees, using them as a makeshift desk, and flipped to a fresh page on her legal pad.
“Time to brain dump. Give it to me.”
“Damien first,” Blade said, merging into traffic. “I was right to be nervous about him. Corbin said he was killed walking to the showers. Somebody didn’t want him talking.”
She focused on the pen in her hand. “I feel awful about that, but let’s not deal with feelings until we’ve processed the facts.”
“Okay.” Blade exhaled. “So Damien talked about fractals, and we’ve confirmed our unsub has a fascination with fractals.”
She scribbled notes as he spoke. “The painter hid the faces of the victims in the paintings. Trophy keeping.”
Blade pulled into the drive-through line of a local café. “There were only two paintings we saw. Where are the rest?”
“Yeah, that’s the first question.” Tori drew a column header: Questions. She wrote: Where are the other paintings?
“Let’s start there.” Blade texted Gino:
Check for other paintings in the office like the one in conference room or lobby. Let me know if warrant needs expanding.
The response came as a thumbs-up emoji.
They inched forward in the line. Tori added another question: How many victims total?
The car ahead of them ordered three lattes and a breakfast sandwich. She watched the exhaust from their tailpipe curl into the humidity. The world was moving on. People were buying breakfast while she and Blade were chasing down a murderer who kept a gallery of death.
The smell of coffee hit before the cup did. Blade handed her a cup. The heat through the cardboard sleeve stung her palms. She welcomed the bite of it.
“I think our next stop is the art gallery,” she said as Blade pulled away from the window. The coffee was hot and strong, just how she liked it. “We figure out who the artist is. The drive gives us an hour to work.”
Blade nodded, merging back into traffic. “Agreed. But first, we need to bring the FBI in. See if they’ll approve you as our consulting behavioral analyst.”
“If they agree, I’ll clear it with my supervisor.”
“When we catch this guy, it’ll be the best research sabbatical in the history of sabbaticals.” He pulled out his phone, putting it on speaker as he dialed.
One visit to the prison. That’s all the field research for her book was supposed to be. She hadn’t expected the prison visit with Damien to be anything other than a mind game. Boy, was it.
She looked at her reflection in the window. Her hair was frizzy from the humidity, and her eyes looked sunken. She looked like a woman who spent too much time drinking coffee just to buy more hours in the day.
The call connected after two rings. “Agent Wells.”
“Sebastian, it’s Blade St. James. Mind if I put this on speaker? Dr. Tori Crew is with me. She’s been consulting on this case.”
“Not at all. What’s up?”
“While running down a lead that spun out of the Florek homicide, we may have stumbled into a serial. Still too early to tell.”
“Outstanding work, Blade.” Sebastian’s voice carried genuine warmth, the sound of someone pleased to hear from a colleague. “How can I help?”
Tori sipped her coffee, studying Blade’s careful phrasing. He was holding his cards close.
“At the moment, we’re holding steady. We’ll loop you in once she’s verified a serial pattern.”
“Brilliant idea. I’ve heard of Dr. Crew. She’s a fantastic consultant. Wish we had her on our team.”
Tori rolled her eyes. They were always saying that, but spotting a unicorn on I-95 had better odds than landing a Behavioral Analysis Unit position. Besides, she’d never leave Florida. This was home. Blade, the beaches, her chosen family.
“Okay, Blade, keep me in the loop. If you need federal resources, you call me first. I’m there for you. We’ll keep the circle small.”
Blade agreed and disconnected.
Tori smiled. “Well, that went well.”
An hour later, they parked across the street from the Gallery Showcase, the late afternoon sun glinting off its glass facade.
Tori stepped into the Gallery Showcase and felt the temperature drop ten degrees. The space stretched before them like an aircraft hangar painted white, every surface gleaming under track lighting that could illuminate surgery.
The current exhibit dominated the walls—black and white portraits blown up to massive scale. A grandmother’s weathered hands filled one frame, each line and callus rendered in sharp detail. A teenager’s pierced face took up another entire wall.
“Interesting,” she murmured, studying a portrait of a construction worker whose smile revealed a gold tooth. The photographer had captured something raw and honest in each face. Real.
Nothing like the violence hidden in those law firm paintings.
A woman approached from the back of the gallery, her heels clicking against polished concrete. Sleeveless hot pink dress, perfectly styled dark hair, the kind of composed elegance that Tori expected in an art gallery.
“Welcome to Gallery Showcase. I’m Laelanie Ferreira.”
Blade stepped forward with an easy smile. “I’m Blade, and this is my girlfriend, Tori.”
Tori blinked. Girlfriend? She recovered quickly, sliding her hand into the crook of his arm and leaning against his shoulder. The gesture felt surprisingly natural.
“We’re interested in meeting an artist,” Blade continued. “Tori’s really into abstract work.”
“Of course.” Laelanie’s smile widened. “What kind of pieces speak to you?”
She pulled out her phone, swiped to the photos, and handed Laelanie the phone. “Something like these. They’re so powerful.”
She watched Laelanie’s face as the woman studied the screen. No shock. No horror. Just a flicker of professional recognition.
“I recognize these,” Laelanie said, handing back the phone. “But I’m sorry, I have no idea who the artist is.”
Tori let her shoulders dip, stretching the sigh into her bones, leaning into the letdown harder than she needed to. “Really? They’re incredible. We heard they came from this gallery.”
“The paintings are shipped here for treatment and mounting,” Laelanie explained. “We handle the preservation work, frame them properly, then ship to whatever address we’re given. Very anonymous process.”
Tori looked at Blade. “I really wanted to meet them. Maybe even commission something.”
Laelanie’s expression brightened. “Oh, I might be able to help with that. Let me show you something.”