Page 114 of Fatal Pattern

The muzzle branded her temple, a circle of cold metal that wasn’t just steel. It was a gravestone marker. Every wrong turn, every second she froze, every gut signal she’d shoved aside pressed into her skull with that barrel. She’d given Barclay the opening. She was the weak point. The moment she’d turned toward that canvas, she’d handed Barclay everything.

Barclay leaned close and breathed in, savoring her stillness the way a hunter measured the twitch before the strike.

Blade’s eyes shattered her. Across the studio he had his palms up, face locked into tactical stone, but his eyes screamed his fury. Stripped of all options, all forward momentum. A man built for action rendered helpless.

They would both die here, and then Barclay would finish Stryker.

Her lips shaped the word across the gap—sorry.

Blade cut her off with a single head shake, short and hard.

Barclay lifted his chin. “Your phone. Kick it to the wall. Now.”

Tori watched Blade’s hands move, but his eyes never stopped calculating. Even now, he searched for angles, for that sliver of hope that would crack this situation open. His phone hit concrete with a hollow clatter.

“You too,” Barclay said, squeezing her tighter. His breath was hot against her neck. Like the stalker’s had been.

She clenched her jaw and let her Glock tumble from her hand, then her phone. The clatter cracked through the room. Her only equalizers, gone.

Barclay’s arm yanked her head back until her vision tilted. She heard him kick her items away, but she couldn’t track where. Couldn’t see anything except the stained ceiling tiles illuminated from the harsh work lamps burning in the corner.

“Well, well, well,” Barclay said against her ear. “Stryker King’s mighty proteges are still just children playing with adult consequences. The two of you thought you were so smart. Digging into the past. But you never understood the bigger picture, did you?”

“You murdered my parents,” she said, straining against his forearm. “Damien. All those other people. It’s just one big game to you, isn’t it?”

Air scraped thin through her throat. Black spots freckled the edges of her sight. The ceiling tilted above her, water-stained and indifferent. The paintings she’d seen on her way in might as well have been a thousand miles away.

Barclay’s grip loosened just enough for her to breathe, but not enough to move. He wanted her conscious for this.

“You kids were weeds I never pulled. Grew up wild in the cracks I left behind.” Barclay laughed. “And look at you now—one badge, one doctorate. Life turned out pretty fine for you both. What’s there to whine about?”

Tori’s stomach twisted. He talked about their lives like they were proof of his benevolence.

“Then Damien had to ruin it. He told me he wanted to purge his guilt, even if it meant exposing the corruption and bringing us both down.” Barclay’s laugh held no warmth. “I thought framing him for those officer murders at the precinct was the perfect solution. A life sentence was better than the grave he’d earned. Should’ve gone with my gut. Made it a mass shooting and suicide. But after all those years he spent looking the other way and helping me bury messes, I suppose I felt I owed him a life.”

Damien’s notebook was right. He’d been framed for the shooting. Whatever corruption had stained his badge, he hadn’t killed those officers. Barclay had.

“But that’s over. I took care of him for good now.”

“And my brother? What about him? Did you take care of him too?”

“Never mind about him.” The gun barrel pressed deeper into Tori’s temple, metal warming against her skin. Barclay leaned closer and whispered, “You’ll never find him.”

Across the studio, Blade shifted. Not his normal restless energy, but a predator measuring distance. She caught the micro-movement of his right foot, sliding closer to where his Glock had fallen. Blade could kill Barclay with a paintbrush if he had an opening.

She had to give him one.

“The paintings,” she managed, forcing admiration into her voice. “They’re brilliant. The way you staged the crime scenes with the geometric patterns.” She turned her head slightly, trying to meet his eyes. “You’re the Mandelbrot Killer.”

Barclay’s laugh cracked through the studio.

“Interesting moniker. A bit dramatic, though.” He dismissed the artistry with a wave. “It’s all necessary, if theatrical, housekeeping. But, I guess you can say that Stryker has his proteges, and I have mine. I just find ways to use them a bit more creatively.”

Tori barely registered Barclay’s nonsensical chatter. Blade’s eyes locked onto hers, and she read the message there.

Opening. Be ready.

Barclay dragged her back a foot, repositioning for better control.