Page 28 of Pink Ink

There’s no way he’s not suspicious of me now.

Maddox tips his head to the side. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen hyenas do the same thing before they eat someone. “Are you all right, Miss Sinaga?”

No. Not at all.

“Great.” I clear my throat, reach for my satchel, and scramble out of my seat. “I—I really need to go. But thank you for your time, Mr. Shaw. I appreciate it. Totally agree with what you said. I’ll keep that in mind for the next assignment. That was some really great feedback. I can’t thank you enough.”

I’m so screwed.

A slow smirk spreads across his lips. “I look forward to seeing more of your serial killer.”

MADDOX

I have a stalker.

My student is stalking me.

In my thirty-two years of life, I never thought those words would go through my head.

I’ve had plenty of overeager groupies during my time in the limelight. A couple of paparazzi here and there when a few overly sexualized videos of me were making the rounds on social media a couple of years ago. There was also Tracey from eighth grade who followed me around school for about a week.

But this?

My own student?

The moment she explained the ending of her film, Iknew. It was an indisputable fact I felt deep within my soul. I couldn’t convince myself that her assignments were a coincidence when it was clear as day that her inspiration was taken from the very flesh I molded to my vision.

Still, I felt compelled to know for certain. Test the theory so there’s no arguing it. I needed to watch her look at my creation once more to prove to her thatintimacyisn’t what I’m missing—what my art is lacking.

The cold air assaults the exposed skin of my face, and I adjust my hood to preserve warmth. The long coat I’m wearing isn’t doing enough to combat the evening wind. My clothing is the only layer of invisibility I have, out in the open for anyone walking past this alleyway to see.

The kitchen window of this particular apartment I chose faces the fire escape, giving me sufficient view through the window to watch Reynainvestigate my crime scene now that enough days have passed for the police not to return.

Matthew’s death was a complete failure, so I decided to play God and kill a man once more to know without a flicker of a doubt that my student is getting inspiration from my kills.

Nathan Barton has been on my personal list for a long time. For this, and for her, I decided it was time for him to go.

The most bemusing aspect of it is that she has no idea it’smeshe’s fawning over. Maybe she hasn’t crossed the threshold of “fanatic” yet, but I would say this is skirting that line. People often steal and rip off my art. Usually I’d be upset, but when it comes to my kills?

It’s rather flattering, actually.

And I have to hand it to her, I’m impressed. From my limited line of sight, it looks like she doesn’t leave a single stone unturned, taking pictures of every item I’ve moved or placed to set the scene—or the mise-en-scène, if you will. Although I can’t tell if she’s paid any mind to the broken cathedral ornament sitting in a container of water on the windowsill.

Three weeks ago, Reyna called me Böcklin’s Shadow. If she knows her paintings, she might register the reference toThe Chapelby Arnold Böcklin.

Call it curiosity or plain stupidity, I want to see if she’ll connect the dots back to me.

Either through the well-known artwork or the hot-pink gel pen I left for her on the dining table.

If she works it out and runs to the police, I have no issue with attending an interrogation. There is nothing she can say or do that will stick. My father’s rank as a high saint and mine as the designated rodent exterminator affords me a level of immunity. The Order has the police in its back pocket and politicians in its front. The governor only has her position because the grand magistrate allowed it. Nothing goes on in this city without the Order’s involvement.

Reyna stops suddenly, body going rigid. Her attention snaps toward the front door. I reach into my pocket for my knife. Nathan had no ties tothe Order, but that means nothing if she’s been digging her nose where it doesn’t belong.

Shepherd ordered Benjamin Hogarth’s death, the man who played subject for my re-creation of Michelangelo’s painting that Reyna investigated. She could have gone looking into countless other Shepherd-sanctioned murders.

The Order has never hesitated to take out a civilian they deemed a nuisance. They aren’t about to start now. If Reyna has seen too much, they might decide it’ll be better for her to be put down.

She becomes a blur of movement, dropping behind the dining table, attention still set on the door. My pulse hammers against my throat as I step out from the shadows, gripping the blade’s handle. I lean forward to get a better view of where she’s looking, but can’t see more than the living room.