Page 96 of Pink Ink

I’ve never been the type to get petty over competition. I’ve always known my place in the food chain, the Order leaves no room for doubt. The second he steps out of line, his death will look like an accident.

For now, he needs to give Patrick “Paddy” Hutton’s file to Reyna.

After that? Who knows. It’s been a few months since I’ve made someone’s death look like an accident. What type of man would I be if I didn’t brush up on my skills?

I stalk into the house, carefully closing the door behind me before a draft can alert Paddy to my presence. The place gives off olden-day suburbia vibes. You’d think a family with two and a half kids lives there, a barbecue firing up on the back deck every Sunday.

Only part of that is true. Paddy does have a barbecue. It’s decommissioned.

The only sounds are the blaring TV and the squeal of the couch every time Paddy shifts. My lips twist when the wooden floor creaks beneath my boot. I pause and wait for a reaction that doesn’t come.

Slowly, I slip into the kitchen, past the open, empty pizza box and beer bottles, then through the dining room and into the lounge, where Paddy’s too busy frowning at his phone to notice me.

The rest proceeds like clockwork. I get up behind him, place the cloth over his nose and mouth, and hold. He struggles for a bit; I struggle for a bit; then he passes out. It’s always the same song and dance.

I sigh, stretching my back out. I’m really not that into fighting. It’s cleaner this way. The raging migraine he’ll get from my concoction is an added bonus.

Twenty minutes later, the little fella is looking strapping in his Sunday best, tied to a chair in the middle of the hallway between the front and back doors—a poetic tragedy, one Reyna would appreciate if she’s familiar with feng shui. With both doors perfectly aligned, the money comes in, and it flies right out. And right in the center of it all is Paddy.

I lay out my supplies on the floor, and by the time I’ve set up the kitchen and lounge, plucked the petals from the fake peonies, and scattered them around the future corpse, my subject rises from his slumber, frowning and grumbling words impossible to make out.

I don’t blame him. It’s hard to speak when you have a light bulb in your mouth.

His eyes widen when awareness hits him, and the wheels in that smooth brain of his start ticking like maybe—justmaybe—he might be in a bit of a bind. A garbled, jumbled mess of sounds comes out of him as he thrashes against the synthetic ropes. He tries dislodging the light bulb from his mouth, but his jaw is firmly clamped around it.

As I watch him squawk, I mentally take notes for future kills. I don’t know why I didn’t start gagging my subjects earlier. There’s no incessant begging or whining. No high-pitched screams, nor any lies about how innocent they are.

I’m not looking for Paddy’s confession. I only need him to sit there and look pretty so I can do my work.

It’s odd, actually. Usually I can see Roland in the men, and I imagine how he’d react in the situation. I find myself caring very little about what that bastard would do right now. I’m a man with his muse, with no bone to pick and a lady to court.

Lacks intimacy.

We’ll see if Reyna still says that once I’ve finished with this piece.

“Paddy, let’s cut to the chase, shall we?” I start. “You’re a terrible human being, but I’m worse—for different reasons, obviously. For example, I wasn’t accused of raping my wife.”

He can try thrashing around as much as he wants; I’ve stabilized the chair by tying it to the railing of the stairwell and the antique shelf. It’s never going to topple over.

Crossing my arms, I lean against the wall and stare him down. I suppose this is a bit of a “villain spiel,” but I try to involve my subjects in the process where I can. It gives the project a more profound impact.

“Anyway, I digress.” I hold up the extension cord. “This leads to this light bulb.” Much to my surprise, he goes completely still. “I’m going to turn it on now, and it would be highly preferable that you bite down sooner rather than later—I want to go home and catch up on sleep.” His eyes bulge, wide and panicked as they flick between me and the cord. “I feel it’s necessary to remind you that it will get rather hot.”

Tears stream down his face, mixing in with the sweat trickling down his temple. He frantically shakes his head and says something that sounds a lot likeplease. I flip the switch on, and his face lights up like… well, like a light bulb.

He pulls at the ropes around his arms and legs, and whips his head from side to side, screaming at the top of his lungs.

I tsk. “Don’t you start getting any bright ideas about escaping—no pun intended.”

Paddy ignores me.

Sighing, I lean against the wall and check my watch. When he hasn’t clamped down by the three-minute mark, I begin arranging the petals and the bouquet of peonies so that the flow and placement is perfect.

A ragged cry follows the sound of shattering glass.

Oh good, we’re speeding things along.

Stepping away from the lamp I just turned on, I carefully navigate my way back in front of him to avoid stepping on any petals.