Page 47 of Pink Ink

“Going so soon?” Mother inquires, a silent threat to stay put.

“Not soon enough.” If I heed her warning, I’m going to turn Eric into Reyna’s next short film.

Just as I’m about to leave, Abi sinks her nails into my arm. Like a damn deer in headlights, she flushes white and releases me.

Right.

Most people bid their would-be spouses farewell. I look at her. Then my mother. Then back at Abi’s hopeful face. My gaze drops down to her lips, and it’s an effort not to curl mine into a scowl because another pair comes into mind.

Reyna’s.

Abi must see my inner turmoil, because she takes one for the team and leans over to brush a kiss on my cheek that I can barely feel.

I pull away and storm out of the room like hell is on my heels—I’m ignoring Roland’s calls for me. I don’t have the mental capacity or the energy to speak with him.

Reyna’s video is sitting on my laptop, waiting for me. No god—or evil—is about to keep me from it.

My shoes click against the marble floor as I make my exit and spill out into the chandelier-lit hallway. To avoid any further interaction, I use the underground passageway. Cold air slams into me. It’s a welcome distraction. I shut the entranceway behind me, turn my phone’s flash on, and navigate the underground system most acolytes refuse to use because, and I quote, “it’s cold as shit” and it gives them “the creeps.”

Why they’d feel such a thing surrounded by thousands of human remains is beyond me. They’re dead already. Well past the point of decay. It’s rather childish to cause such a fuss over it. I personally find the stacked femurs and skulls artful.

The cold seeps through my coat as I pass through the catacombs and to the storage area. Beyond it is a spiraling stone staircase.

Carefully, I inch the hidden door open to check no one is there before sliding the bookshelf back in place. The campus is mostly deserted at this time of night.

As I keep my pace up on my way to the art building, I can’t help but take hopeful glances around in case I spot one student in particular slinking through the darkness. Shaking my head, I all but run up the stairs to my studio.

Since the day I watched Reyna root around my crime scene, her videos have been playing on repeat. All the short films she’s posted online, her previous assignments, the student movies she’s featured in. I’m starved for new material.

I pour myself a glass of scotch, settle behind my desk, and boot up my laptop. It’s been too long since I’ve seen her, and I’m itching for my next hit.

The scene starts with a view of the sunrise from a footpath beside a river—

I swear to God, if I find out that Reyna makes a habit of hanging out underneathbridgesin the early hours of the morning, I’m chaining her to me.

Her husky voice vibrates through the speakers and down my spine, flushing away the irritation. As the film progresses, I forget all about her questionable safety practices. Her shots are immaculate. She’s taken every piece of advice I gave her. Like her other projects, I’m not quite sure yet which of my kills she’s reinterpreting.

It isn’t until the camera pans to her standing before an architectural landmark that it clicks.

Vincent Horven. An architect I killed over a year ago. I carved out his bones, washed them, then put him back together.

From what Shepherd told me, he was associated with the Order. Based on my own research, I discovered that his penchant for violence made him lose visitation rights to his children.

I’ve also dug up and read through everything I could possibly find on Reyna’s movements, medical background, and university records. Iknow for a fact she hadn’t moved to New York yet when I carried out the hit. Was she piecing my kills together over a matter of years, or once she moved here?

Another realization hits me, and my knuckles go white around the crystal tumbler. It’s something so obvious, yet it never clicked before.

Reyna studied every incision, each meticulous placement of limbs, and droplets of blood. She saw the death and destruction I caused, and she wasn’t terrified. Even more, she was inspired.

She didn’t run for the hills, or call the police about her discoveries. No, that girl knows how monstrous I could be, and she still investigates my crime scenes. She even took photos and made several short films that anyone could stumble across. I’m torn between being exhilarated by the realization and downright pissed off.

What if the serial killer she was following around wasn’t me? What if she stumbles across a kill carried out by someone else in the Order?

I’m half tempted to put a tracker on her so she can’t go anywhere without me knowing since her safety is nowhere on her list of concerns.

I pause the video when the scene cuts to Reyna, sitting at her desk, staring off into the distance as the golden light from a small lamp licks her bronze skin. It’s the only source of light in the frame, and if I hadn’t paused it, I would have missed the skull design on the candle beside the lamp.

A smile splits across my lips, and I let out an amused laugh. She’s re-creating the painting ofThe Repentant Magdalenby La Tour.