Page 77 of Pink Ink

Dad died in a freak car crash a year before cancer took Mom, and she wasn’t sick for long before she died. It was still the hardest six months of my life. I did nothing but beg a god I didn’t believe in and wish for a hundred different things that never came true. Art and creation was lost to me.

If I think about it, I owe Lawrence. If it weren’t for the crime scenes he showed me, I would never have fallen back in love with creating.

And this time, there’s someone who believes in me. It feels too good to be true.

I’m not sure what hurts more: the warmth unfurling in my heart or the knowledge that there’s an expiration date on it.

Motion beside me stops me in my tracks. I flick my attention Maddox’s way as he pockets his phone. “Did you just take a photo of me?” I gasp.

“Perhaps.”

The smug look he’s wearing tells me he most definitely did. He refused to look my way in class a week ago, and now he’s not-so-discreetly taking pictures of me. I like what we have going. If it were up to me, I’d see it through to the end.

Crossing my arms, I jut my chin. “I didn’t say that you could.”

“I never asked.”

“Delete it,” I demand.

“The student doesn’t tell her professor what to do.”

My jaw drops. “Are you seriously playing that card right now?”

“Absolutely.” He nods. “Whenever it suits me.”

I roll my eyes and keep staring at the painting. Or rather I try to. The heat burning a hole in the side of my face makes it impossible to notice anything other than the man beside me. I give it five seconds. Then ten. The sensation doesn’t go away. All it does is ratchet up the level ofweird.

“What are you doing?”

“Looking at you.” Maddox says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

I blink. That does funny things to my insides I most definitely should not be feeling about my professor. Especially in public where anyone could see us and call us out on all the lines being crossed. “We’re at an art museum, Mr. Shaw. I believe you’re looking at the wrong thing.”

“I’m perfectly content looking at you, Miss Sinaga. You’re the only thing here that holds my interest.”

All I can do is stare at him. How does he say things like that and still be so composed? Meanwhile I’m seconds away from melting into the floor. Unless we change the subject soon, I’m going to say something I wish I hadn’t.

“Tell me what you’re thinking.”

Nope. That’s the last thing I’m going to do.

We need to talk about literally anything that will make the flirting stop.

“I don’t know what my next film project will be about, and I hate it.”

“Has the serial killer not killed enough people for you?” Maddox muses.

“There’s no shortage of people that need to go,” I mumble under my breath, then pause. I probably shouldn’t be openly condoning murder to one of the people who knows I’m essentially a copycat killer. Minus the killing. Clearing my throat, I explain, “Nothing is speaking to me.”

He turns his body, giving me his full, undivided attention. “What is it that you’re looking for? Go through his prior kills that you’re aware of and look through a different lens—pun intended.”

“That was terrible.” I snort. “There’s this one concept I have—that ideas can be deadly. I’ve always wanted to come up with a short film based on it, but everything I’ve thought of has been lackluster and unoriginal—”

“I disagree.”

Nope. Not acknowledging that comment. “I’m waiting for that light bulb moment that’ll take the words out of my mouth.”

He eyes me with interest. “Explain.”