Page 113 of Pink Ink

Prickles skate over my skin. Lewis is dead?

Cold sweat trickles down my spine. I check the date of the decision against the article. They line up. The court document was published at a later date, but it doesn’t mention anywhere that Lewis died or that there was no more need for a sentencing date.

The prosecution’s case was weak at best, and it was clear he was mentally unwell. He probably wasn’t even fit for trial. There… couldn’t have been foul play.

Except Lewis claimed he was being framed for murders he didn’t commit. He was found to be fit for trial, and the jury convicted him despite testimony from the forensic specialists and evidence of his slew of health issues. A week later, he died… And for there to be no news coverage of this beyond this one article?

If a serial killer who allegedly chopped up seven people and scattered their remains around the city was found guilty for it, then died in what was likely police custody, I’d expect the local newspaper to have covered it.

My hunch says he was killed. It’d make sense.

Blame it on the person who can’t properly defend themselves, then get rid of them once they’ve gone down for it because they’ve been opening their mouth and spilling secrets they shouldn’t.

And Lawrence, he… heknewwhat the hexagon ceiling meant. He must have known that a society or an organization of some sort was involved. Hence why he told me to stay the hell away from it.

Everything points to two things: Cresswell and fuckingbees.

I’m going to sound like a conspiracy theorist, but I believe Lewis. I think I’m looking into a secret society, and if my theory is correct and I’m not careful, I’m going to be in a world of danger.

And maybe that danger found my father.

MADDOX

ME:

Please send evidence that you finished your meal, Miss Sinaga.

I tap my pen against the desk impatiently and watch the three dots appear on the screen.

Perhaps I am somewhat type A. In my defense, the more she eats, the faster she’ll recover, and the sooner we can get over this nonsense so she can be back in my bed.

REYNA:

You have no right to be controlling, Mr. Shaw.

Controlling? No.

Obsessive? Maybe.

In dire need of her attention? Possibly.

Scratch that.

Yes. A solid, one hundred percent yes.

Who would have guessed it only took her getting attacked for us to move to the next tedious stage of our relationship: texting.

I’d much prefer face-to-face interaction, but I suppose it makes sense that she needs space. However, in my opinion, there’s nothing for her to consider.

I want her. She wants me. Case closed.

Admittedly, the wholeSurprise, I’m engaged to another womanwould have thrown a spanner in the works. So I’ll let the distance slide. If the roles were reversed, Reyna’s fiancé would be a permanent fixture on the missing persons list.

ME:

Proof of life is also required.

The next message is a photo of her legs perched up on the couch with a movie and a table full of snacks in the background. Before I can demand more, a knock booms through my studio. It’s too loud and authoritative to be Spencer’s. Scowling, I set my phone on the table and rise from the stool.