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CHAPTER

SEVEN

I stared at the photograph as it sat on the workbench, illuminated under the single lamp.

The lighting was perfect—which was no surprise.

Morgan had always understood lighting.

The image of the tree against the Alaskan sky deserved reverence, demanded completion.

Her work had always spoken to something deeper, something primal. Something true.

My gloved fingers traced the outline of the tree in the photograph as I marveled at the image. The little heart-shaped nub on the tree only made it more fascinating.

The clock on the nearby desk read 9:42 p.m. Perfect timing.

Everything happened according to schedule. Always had.

I smiled. I’d led Gibson’s friends to my masterpiece, knowing they would call Gibson. Knowing things would begin to unfurl like a roll of film in a darkroom.

Precision mattered in art as much as in justice.

The police scanner crackled in the corner of the room, but it wasn’t Gibson’s voice that filled the room.

Disappointing. I rather enjoyed following the state trooper’s adventures through that scanner.

Poor Gibson. The man always followed protocol . . . until it didn’t serve him.

He always hid behind his badge . . . until he needed to break the rules.

The officers had found the body.

His lips curled. Good. It was all working out just as he’d planned.

“The cops won’t help you find her, Gibson.” The words tasted satisfying. “Morgan is exactly where she’s meant to be.”

My burner phone screen glowed with a new alert.

More motion had been detected at Morgan’s cabin. I’d left a small camera right above the outside door. It had fit perfectly into an inconspicuous crack in the wood. Because of the shadows over the space, it would take a while for someone to find it.

I grinned.

Duke and Andi had arrived, just as I’d anticipated.

This whole setup was so predictable. Gibson and his friends were so easy to manipulate.

Their loyalty to Gibson made them pawns on the board, moving exactly where I guided them.

Speaking of Morgan . . . it was time to check on her again.

The monitor flickered on, showing my basement. Concrete floors, reinforced walls—all painted black. Though it was a darkroom, it also contained one cot, one chair, and one bucket.

Morgan sat on the edge of the cot, head in her hands. The black overhead light illuminated her face in an almost ghostly manner.

Even in despair, Morgan composed herself beautifully. She was a natural subject.

She hadn’t tried to escape today—unlike she had her first few days.

She was finally learning that cooperation extended survival.

I made a note that the bandage on her left temple needed changing.

Unless I drugged her again, there was no way Morgan would let me touch her.

She was feistier than I’d expected. Of course, she was bold enough to venture out for her photo sessions alone, so I shouldn’t be surprised. I knew she had a strong personality.

Her independence made me like her more.

Now I needed to continue with my plan.

The subject for the next masterpiece was already secured and currently sedated in the workshop behind my house. I smiled at the thought of what was about to happen.

A burst of joy exploded inside me.

The next photo came off the wall.

I studied it. Memorized it.

Soon, I would become it.

My smile widened. “See you soon, Gibson.”

There were others who would come first. But Logan Gibson would be number six.

His finale would be the most glorious. I would title that final photograph “Loss.”

Loss . . . something I felt deeply.

And art should reflect that.