Page 62

CHAPTER

SIXTY-ONE

PRESENT DAY

Logan woke to the sound of his own heartbeat thundering in his ears.

His head felt like someone had split it with an axe, and his mouth tasted like cotton and copper. He tried to move and realized his hands were zip-tied behind his back, secured to a metal chair.

The room was dimly lit by a single overhead bulb, casting harsh shadows on concrete walls that had been painted black.

“Logan?”

He turned toward the voice, and his heart stopped.

Morgan sat in another chair about ten feet away, her dark hair hanging in tangled waves around her face. She seemed thinner than before, gaunt.

But she was alive!

“Morgan.” Her name came out as a croak. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m okay,” she said, though her voice sounded weak. “Scared, but okay. He’s been . . . he doesn’t hurt me. Says I’m too important to damage.”

Logan tested his restraints—industrial-strength zip ties that cut into his wrists when he pulled against them. “How long have I been here?”

“About an hour. It’s almost dawn.” Morgan’s eyes searched his face. “Logan, I’m so sorry. This is all my fault.”

“Don’t say that.” His words slurred slightly as the effects of the sedative held on. “None of this is your fault.”

“But it is.” Tears began sliding down her cheeks. “He’s been watching me for months, studying my work, my life. Everything he’s done has been because of me.”

Logan leaned forward as much as his restraints allowed. “Morgan, listen to me. You are not responsible for what this maniac has done. You didn’t ask for this.”

“He knows everything about us,” she whispered. “Our relationship, our fights, our private moments. He’s been in my house, read my journal, knows things I never told anyone.”

A chill ran down Logan’s spine. “What kind of things?”

“He knows about Bobby. About every picture I’ve taken. It’s . . . strange. Unnerving.”

Logan looked around the basement, taking in the setup—the photographs, the chemicals, the careful staging area against one wall. “Where are we?”

“I don’t know exactly. Somewhere outside of town.” Morgan’s voice grew stronger, more focused. “Logan, he’s planning something for tonight. The final photograph. He’s been talking about it constantly.”

Logan met her eyes. “You mean the picture you took of my silhouette?”

“That’s the one. He’s obsessed with authenticity. Says the only way to complete the series is to recreate that exact moment, with you in the exact same position.” Morgan’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Logan, he’s going to kill you.”

His throat tightened.

Before Logan could respond, footsteps echoed on the stairs above them.

Andi stared at the evidence board in the outpost conference room, trying to make sense of the killer’s escalating timeline.

Duke sat across from her, sorting through crime scene photos.

Her phone rang, cutting through their analysis. Yazzie’s name appeared on the screen.

“How’s Reeves doing?” Andi answered.

“She’s in surgery.” Yazzie’s voice carried an edge of worry that made Andi straighten in her chair. “Have you guys heard from Gibson? I keep trying to reach him, but he’s not answering.”

Andi exchanged glances with Duke. “No, not since he dropped us off a couple of hours ago. Do you . . . you think something happened? I thought he was on his way to the hospital.”

“He was but I asked him to stop by Reeves’ place to pick up some clothes for her first.”

“Now you can’t get in touch with him?” Duke narrowed his gaze and shook his head. “Something is off.”

“There’s more. When Gibson didn’t show up at the hospital, I thought maybe he’d gotten a lead on the case or something and gotten sidetracked. So I swung by Reeves’ place to pick up a few things for her myself. Gibson’s SUV was there. But no Gibson.”

“What?” Andi murmured.

“And his gun was on the living room floor.”

The knot in Andi’s stomach tightened. Logan would never willingly surrender his weapon.

“Somehow the killer knew he’d go to Reeves’ place, didn’t he?” she murmured. “It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

But the only one who’d known he would go there was the person who’d asked him to swing by.

Yazzie.

Could he somehow be involved? She had trouble seeing that. He seemed so genuinely concerned. Plus, he’d been at the hospital with Reeves . . . right?

But she needed to keep that thought in the back of her mind.

“That’s what I’m thinking.” Yazzie’s breathing was audible over the phone. “This guy has him. I’m sure of it.”

Andi’s mind raced ahead to the terrible implications. “But, Yazzie, we need to do everything we can to find him quickly. Otherwise . . .” She couldn’t bring herself to finish the sentence.

Otherwise Logan’s going to be the next victim. The final photograph.

“I know,” Yazzie said. “Believe me, I know. Someone is coming to relieve me here, and I’m heading back to the outpost. I should be there within thirty minutes. Reeves would want me to find the person who took Gibson. I know she would.”

As the call ended, Duke glanced at her, his jaw set. “How long do you think Logan has?”

“I don’t know.” Her mind calculated the killer’s previous timeline between abduction and murder. “But based on the pattern, probably not long. Maybe twenty-four hours at the most.”

Andi tried to push down her growing panic. Logan was smart, resourceful, and trained.

He would find a way to survive long enough for them to find him.

He had to.

Because the alternative—that they were already too late, that the killer had succeeded in luring Logan into his final, twisted composition—was something Andi refused to accept.

Somewhere out there, Logan was in the hands of a killer who had already proven he could stay one step ahead of them at every turn.

But this time was different. This time, the killer had made it personal.

And Andi would make sure he regretted that decision.

Logan tested his restraints again, the zip ties cutting into his wrists with each movement. The basement felt smaller now, more oppressive with three people in the confined space.

The killer had descended the stairs wearing an abstract Picasso mask—geometric shapes and distorted features that made him look like something from a nightmare. A beret had been pulled over his head.

“Admiring my gallery?” The Gallery Killer motioned toward the photographs covering the walls. His voice was muffled by the mask, but something about the cadence nagged at Logan’s memory.

He’d heard this man speak before. But when? Where?

Who?

“You’re going to keep me alive until the final shot.” Logan didn’t frame his words as a question. “You want that moment of realization in my eyes, just like the others.”

“Very good.” The man moved closer, openly studying Logan. “The expression has to be authentic. Fear, understanding, acceptance—it all has to be genuine for the composition to work.”

Logan glanced at Morgan and saw the exhaustion mixed with terror in her face. “What happens to her when you’re done with your sick art project?”

“Morgan?” The killer glanced at her, his voice turning fond. “She’s my muse, my inspiration.”

The casual way he said it—like Morgan was a willing collaborator rather than a captive—made Logan’s skin crawl.

“She’ll never help you,” Logan said.

“She already has. Every photograph in her portfolio gave me ideas, showed me possibilities I’d never considered.” The killer moved to one of the developed prints hanging on a line. “Take Ryan Mercer, for instance. A pathetic chemistry teacher who thought he had a chance with Morgan.”

“And Knox?”

The killer’s posture shifted, became more rigid. “Ah, Knox. Now there was someone who truly deserved what he got.”

“Why do you say that?” Logan asked.

The killer moved closer to Logan, close enough that Logan could see his eyes through the mask’s openings.

“Knox claimed to be reformed. He begged for his life when I found him. He said he used to be the kind of monster who destroyed innocent things.” The killer’s voice turned cold. “He said he’d changed and so could I.”

Had Knox really come here to make amends with Morgan? That was a thought for another time.

“What did you tell him?” Logan asked.

“I told him he’d had his chance. That some sins can’t be forgiven, some damage can’t be undone.”

“And the others?”

“Walsh at least kept his distance, but his obsession was becoming obvious. Following her to different locations, timing his visits to coincide with hers. Pathetic.”

Logan thought about Dr. Winters, about the inappropriate notes he’d found in the man’s office. “You were cleaning house. Getting rid of anyone who objectified her.”

“I was protecting what’s mine.” The killer raised his head as if proud. “These men saw Morgan as something to possess. They didn’t understand that true appreciation requires distance, respect, and reverence.”

The irony of a kidnapper and murderer talking about respect wasn’t lost on Logan, but he bit back his response. He needed to keep this guy talking. Logan needed to understand the man’s psychology. Needed to find a weakness to exploit.

Logan studied the man’s eyes, tried to place the voice beneath the mask’s distortion. “Who are you?”

The killer tilted his head, considering. “Does it matter? Names are just labels. What matters is the work, the vision, the permanence of what we create.”

“It matters to me.”

“I’m sure it does.” The killer straightened, moving back toward his equipment. “But revelation comes in its own time, Trooper Gibson. And yours is still hours away.”

Logan watched him adjust camera settings with detailed accuracy. The voice, the mannerisms, the way he moved—it was all maddeningly familiar. Someone from his past, someone he’d encountered before. But the mask and the distorted voice made it impossible to be certain.

“Soon enough,” the killer said, returning to his equipment. “All will be revealed in the final composition. Until then, I suggest you both rest. Tonight promises to be . . . illuminating.”