Page 104 of Pink Ink

“Ask away. I’m an open book.” He looks like he most definitely doesnotwant me to ask away. I get the feeling that none of this is going according to his plan.

I blow out a breath. My brain goes hazy, and I say the first thing that comes to mind. “Why must you be a stereotypical, attractive serial killer? Couldn’t Böcklin’s Shadow be ugly?”

My comment takes the both of us by such surprise that a laugh rumbles right out of him. It bulldozes through the tense atmosphere, and the smile that spreads across his face catches me so off guard that I find my lips tipping upward too, stopped by the ache in my cheek.

“Forgive me for disappointing.” He grins softly. “I had a monobrow when I was ten if that helps. However, I’m open to feedback on how to improve to fit your vision.”

“Grow back the monobrow,” I croak, fighting the need to lie down.

“I fear my sex appeal would skyrocket if I did. You’d be hopeless to deny me then.”

I huff a chuckle, bringing the cup back to my lips. Trust a Brit to brew a good cup of tea. A bloodstained Brit no less.

I should be denying him, or at the very least interrogating him, but when our messed-up conversation flows so easily, it’s hard not to just give in. Still, this is too important. My life could depend on it.

Chewing on the inside of my cheek, I sift through the mush in my brain, searching for what could be most important to ask.

How many people have you killed?

How have you evaded authorities for so long?

Do you have a favorite crime scene?

When was your first kill?

Do you keep souvenirs?

Why are you the way you are?

“Did you know he’d be there?” I blurt instead.

Maddox shakes his head, hardening in anger. “Paddy had a gambling problem. I wasn’t aware he owed criminals money. He must have been waiting inside the house, because I didn’t see him come in.”

Oh. It really is my fault in every sense of the word.

“Thank you.” When he shoots me a questioning look, I explain. “For coming in—saving me. If you had gotten there a minute later, he could’ve…”

“That’s not fucking good enough. I should have known better. He hurt you, and if he were still alive, I would turn his spleen into an art display.”

A warm, fuzzy feeling settles over me. I blame it on the possible concussion.

To an extent, I get it. It makes sense that someone so put together could cause so much carnage. He needs a release. An escape. From what I know, those men deserved it.

“Why?”

“You’ll have to be more specific, love.”

“Why do you do what you do?” I wince when I try to massage the back of my head.

Maybe, if I can know why, then… what? I can relate? Sympathize? Understand him better? Deep down, I know why that’s the question I chose to ask. I want him to let me in and trust me.

Maddox doesn’t say anything for a while. The passing seconds have my hope dwindling. He stares at me with the empty, withdrawn mask he wears in front of everyone else.

The last thing I want is to be treated like I’m justanyoneto him. Another person he keeps at arm’s length so no one can see the real him—not the artist, nor the killer—him. I don’t get why he let me find out if he never intended to give me an explanation.

“It wasn’t a conscious choice I made. I was cursed to be this way.” Tormented, his eyes drop to an empty spot on the counter. I want to reachout to take away his pain. Pull him apart so I can see every broken part of him. His stare snaps back up to mine. “Do you realize how broken I had to be to become this violent?” He asks it like a question but it hangs in the air like a confession.

“Your father.” It’s a guess—one I’d bet good money on given what little he’s shared about his parents.