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CHAPTER

FIFTY-TWO

I descended the basement stairs with a lightness in my step that hadn’t been there in days. Everything was proceeding exactly as I’d envisioned, perhaps even better than I’d dared hope.

The look on Dr. Winters’ face when he’d realized what was happening—that moment of pure understanding—had been exquisite. Worth every risk I’d taken to accelerate my timeline.

At the bottom of the stairs, I paused to appreciate my workspace. The photographs lining the walls told a story of artistic evolution, each one more refined than the last. Mercer had been adequate practice. Walsh showed improvement.

But Winters . . . Winters had been a masterpiece of composition and timing.

“You’re pleased with yourself,” Morgan observed from her chair.

I turned to find her watching me with those intelligent eyes. The sedatives had worn off enough to restore her clarity, though not enough to give her strength. Perfect balance, as always.

“I have reason to be.” I moved to the development station where Winters’ photographs hung drying.

“Your former therapist provided excellent source material. The way the morning light hit his face at just the right angle—it was as if the universe was conspiring to help me create something beautiful.”

Morgan’s expression didn’t change, but I caught the slight tightening around her eyes. She was learning not to give me the satisfaction of visible reactions.

“They expected me at Chena Lake tonight.” I adjusted one of the prints to catch the light better. “Instead, I gave them a surprise a day early.”

I’d watched from the tree line as the police arrived at the pier. I’d seen their confusion and growing desperation. The anonymous tip about Chatanika had worked perfectly—sending them on a wild chase while I completed my real work.

“The false lead was inspired, don’t you think?” I asked Morgan.

Morgan’s fingers gripped the armrests of her chair. “You’re playing games with people’s lives.”

“I’m creating art,” I corrected. “The same art you’ve been trying to capture for years, but I’m completing the vision. Making it permanent.”

I moved closer to her, studying the way the basement’s dim lighting fell across her features. I’d brought her some clean clothes last night and left her some moist towelettes to use on her skin.

Even after days of captivity, she remained striking. The exhaustion had only added depth to her beauty, created new shadows and angles that would translate beautifully on film.

“Only one more composition in the current series.” I settled into the chair I’d positioned across from hers. “Then we move to the finale.”

“Logan,” she whispered.

The name hung between us, heavy with meaning and possibility.

I’d been saving Gibson for the end, the culmination of everything I’d been building toward. He was the key to the final photograph, the one that would tie everything together.

“He’s been so desperate to find you,” I told her. “Running in circles, following every lead, making mistakes because his emotions cloud his judgment. It’s almost touching, really.”

Morgan’s eyes flashed with something—anger, fear, defiance. All emotions that would serve the final composition well.

“But first, we have one more portrait to complete.” I reached over and touched her face lightly, ignoring her instinctive flinch.

“After that, we begin preparing for the grand finale. Something worthy of what Logan means to you. Something that will make him understand, finally, what we’ve been creating together. ”

Morgan pulled away from my touch. “He’ll stop you.”

I smiled, genuinely pleased by her faith in him. “Oh, my dear Morgan. That’s exactly what I’m counting on.”

The timer on my watch chimed softly—time to prepare for tomorrow’s work. But tonight, I allowed myself a moment of satisfaction. Everything was falling into place with the precision of a perfectly exposed photograph.

Soon, very soon, my masterpiece would be complete.