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CHAPTER

THIRTY-FOUR

I walked down the stairs, excitement racing through me at the thought of seeing Morgan again. Today had been a long day, and tonight’s activities were the one thing that had kept me going.

At the bottom of the steps, I took a moment to inhale deeply.

The room carried a scent that clung to everything—sharp acetic acid, like vinegar left too long in the air, mingled with the bitter, metallic tang of developer and the faintly sulfurous trace of fixer.

Damp paper and plastic trays added a musty undercurrent, the kind of wetness that never quite dried. It was a chemical haze, thick and unmistakable. The smell settled into clothes and memory alike — the scent of solitude, of slow magic unfolding in crimson light.

I loved no other scent more.

Mercer and Kohler had been adequate compositions. My next victim should be suitable as well. I couldn’t wait to watch my creation unfold.

I stopped by Morgan, whom I’d tied in a wooden chair while I was gone. I was trying to ease up on the sedatives. I wanted to see more of the light return to her gaze.

But it was risky. I hoped it was worth it.

“Hello, my muse. In case you haven’t realized it yet, no one appreciates your work like I do. They say imitation is the highest form of flattery. My work represents my soul.”

Morgan’s fingers gripped the armrests, her knuckles white. “And what does your soul look like?”

I smiled, pleased by her engagement. Our conversations had been progressing—evidence she was beginning to understand our partnership.

“My soul looks like potential. The moment before transformation.” I moved to my workbench, where my photos from the Kohler session were arranged in sequence. “You capture the instant between what was and what will be. I . . . complete the sequence.”

Morgan had shifted in the chair as if testing the restraints. She wasn’t trying to escape—she was too intelligent for futile gestures. No, she was assessing her circumstances.

Her face was beginning to look gaunt, however. She hadn’t wanted to eat. She hadn’t seen the sun in nearly a week. Her clothes were dirty from being unwashed.

Maybe this weekend, I’d sedate her again. Wash her clothes and hair. Add some lavender. Make her beauty shine.

“They’re looking for me.” Her voice sounded quiet but certain.

“I’m counting on it.” I began arranging my chemical trays with practiced precision. “Especially him.”

Morgan went still. “Logan?”

The name hung in the air between us.

I didn’t respond immediately. Instead, the silence stretched, heavy with implication.

“He doesn’t understand you either,” I finally said. “Not completely.”

“And you do?” A hint of bitter challenge had entered her voice.

Progress, I noted. The initial shock was wearing off, revealing Morgan’s true strength.

“I’ve studied every photograph you’ve ever exhibited. Visited every location. Traced the evolution of your vision.” I turned to stare at her. “When I found your early work, I recognized myself in it.”

Morgan’s eyes darted to the far wall, where the timeline of her career hung in meticulous chronological order. I’d recreated her entire exhibition history, supplemented with my own interpretations.

My phone buzzed on the workbench—a custom alert I’d programmed.

I checked the screen and smiled. “Speaking of our next composition. Reuben Walsh just responded to your text.”

I showed her the next notification.

Morgan’s face paled. “That’s not from my phone.”

My grin widened. “Of course not. I was able to clone your number. It’s a very handy tool.”

Realization swept over her features. “So you’re using my phone number to?—”

“To curate our next subject, yes.” I set the phone down and crossed my arms. “Walsh has admired you for almost a year now. He wants to be mentored by you. He wants to be you. That’s why he sends flowers after every exhibition.

Calls the gallery repeatedly to ask when you’ll be there.

” My voice hardened slightly. “He waited for you in the parking lot three times.”

“I never encouraged him.” Morgan’s voice quivered. “I just can’t mentor everyone who asks. I don’t have time. And not everyone has what it takes.”

“Of course not. You have standards.” I snorted. “Which he disrespected by persisting. That’s why he’s perfect for the ice fissure composition.”

Understanding flickered across her face. “Borealis Lake.”

“You remember.” I smiled, genuinely pleased. “The aurora reflecting in the lake and the single crack in the ice that disrupts the perfect mirroring. It’s one of your finest works.”

She said nothing.

“Walsh believes he’s meeting you there tomorrow.” I moved toward Morgan. “He thinks you’ve finally recognized his talent. It’s the perfect narrative progression for our series.”

I crouched before Morgan’s chair, studying her face with the same intensity I applied to my compositions.

She was so beautiful, far surpassing the beauty she captured in photographs. Exhaustion had hollowed her cheeks slightly, emphasizing the elegant lines of her face and the striking contrast between her dark hair and pale skin.

There was something timeless about her features—the strong cheekbones that hinted at her heritage, the way shadows fell across her face in the dim light. Even bound to that chair, disheveled and afraid, she composed herself like a work of art.

It was as if she understood, on some level, that she was meant to be observed.

“Who else?” Her voice sounded hoarse.

“Just that Knox guy who was on your crew.” I showed her the image.

She pressed her eyes closed, a pained expression on her face. “Why him? He never sent me flowers or anything.”

“You don’t know?” I could hardly keep the laughter from my voice. “He was obsessed with you also, just in a different way. He talked about being reformed. About making amends. But it was what I did that truly transformed him.”

“You don’t have to do this . . .” she whispered, a pleading look in her gaze.

“Of course I do. Tomorrow, after we finish with Walsh, we’ll begin preparation for the rest of our compositions.

” I adjusted the camera settings with practiced precision.

“I think you’ll appreciate the concept. It brings together everything you’ve been trying to express in your work—beauty and grief, intimacy and isolation, the observer and the observed. ”

She said nothing.

Creative fervor rushed through me like adrenaline. “I’ve titled it ‘If You’re Reading This.’ A reference to your journal, of course. The entries were quite illuminating.”

Morgan’s expression shifted, realization mingling with horror as she understood how thoroughly I had delved into her life, her thoughts, her private fears.

“You’ve been in my home.” She swallowed hard. “I wasn’t imagining things. How long have you been watching me?”

“Long enough to understand what your work has been trying to say all along. What we’re creating together is the truest expression of your artistic vision. The perfect synthesis of beauty and grief.”

“I capture moments,” she said. “I don’t create them.”

I pretended not to hear and prepared another syringe. I couldn’t risk her getting away tonight while I was gone. “Now, I must get going. I have a busy evening ahead. I need to meet Walsh so I can get him ready for tomorrow night’s exhibit.”

In the dim light of the basement, the images of Mercer and Kohler seemed to watch from the walls as I approached Morgan, my movements gentle but inexorable.

“Beauty is only more noticeable after loss. Wouldn’t you say?”

Morgan’s eyes met mine, and the look there pleased me immensely. It wasn’t just fear but recognition.

She was beginning to see the pattern. Beginning to understand her role in my masterpiece.

“You don’t have to do this.” Panic crept into her voice.

I smiled as I administered the sedative, watching her consciousness recede just enough to make her compliant while I was away.

“Don’t worry,” I murmured as her eyelids grew heavy. “Logan will understand everything in the end. He’ll understand that art demands sacrifice. Unfortunately for him, he’s the sacrifice.”