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CHAPTER

THIRTY-THREE

Logan, Duke, and Andi all stepped back to stare at the photos.

Logan had spent countless evenings listening to Morgan explain compositional techniques, watching her hands gesture animatedly as she described finding balance in asymmetry.

He loved listening to her talk about photography. He’d done so for hours.

Now that knowledge felt like a weight in his stomach.

As they worked, Logan found himself drawn back to one particular photograph—one of Morgan’s newer works.

It showed her cabin from the outside, shot during blue hour when the light was fading but not yet gone.

A single lamp glowed in the window, throwing the silhouette of a person against the glass.

The composition emphasized the smallness of human presence against the looming darkness of the Alaskan wilderness.

Logan picked up the print. Studied it.

Then cold realization washed over him.

“Andi, Duke.” His voice sounded hoarse. “Look at this.”

They glanced up, their eyes widening as they took in the photograph.

“That’s Morgan’s cabin,” Andi murmured. “This picture was taken from outside.”

Logan lowered his voice. “The perspective is wrong. This isn’t a self-portrait with a timer.”

Andi narrowed her eyes as she studied the photo. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying someone else took this photo.”

Duke moved to look over his shoulder.

Logan flipped the print over. “It’s not her work. Morgan’s other photographs have her signature and date on the back. This one is blank. It’s his. This guy took this photo and then planted it in Morgan’s portfolio.”

The implication settled over the room like a physical presence.

The killer hadn’t just been watching Morgan or studying her work.

He’d been close enough to access her home, to handle her personal belongings, and to insert his own creation among her art.

The more Logan learned, the more he realized just how twisted this man was.

Now he had Morgan in his grip, at his mercy.

Logan’s jaw tightened. That wasn’t okay.

Nothing about this was okay.

“He’s been inside this cabin.” Logan had known after seeing that footprint that someone else had been inside. But this made that realization feel even worse. “And he wants us to know it.”

Andi’s eyes met his. “Logan, if he’s following her artistic pattern of beauty juxtaposed with grief . . .”

“Then it’s just as we thought—Morgan herself is his ultimate subject.” Logan’s words felt like shards of glass scraping his throat. “He doesn’t just admire her work. He believes he understands it on a level no one else does. That he’s completing it somehow.”

Logan examined the third series of photos Morgan had released.

The ones of Borealis Lake, which was located about an hour north.

What if this guy was going through Morgan’s most recent series in chronological order?

Logan examined the photos of the lake.

The striking images showed the aurora borealis reflecting on the frozen water, the mirrored symmetry broken by a single crack in the ice.

The location was isolated. Difficult to access. Visually stunning.

The perfect place to stage another murder.

This guy’s pattern had been a new dead body every other day. Would that continue? If so, his plan was ambitious, especially considering all the details that would need to be covered to replicate Morgan’s photos.

If this location was where the man planned on striking next, they needed to be there when he arrived. They needed to catch this guy in the act.

Maybe in the process, they’d also find Morgan.

Logan rose to his feet, knowing he needed to start planning now. “I think I know where he’ll strike next.”