Page 31 of Pink Ink

The kidnapper places the semiunconscious man on a chair without bothering to tie him down. The directorial decision seems deliberate. I’ve yet to understand why.

Reyna opts for another close-up of the kidnapper’s hands hovering in indecision between the hammer, chef’s knife, and pliers. Again, the heart tattoo peaks out as he reaches for the knife before cutting to a close-up of his face.

An idea that I can’t quite grasp forms in the back of my mind. I’ve seen her previous work. Her choice of focal point is too intentional for it to be a matter of chance.

The scene shifts to an over-the-shoulder shot of the kidnapper, where all that’s seen of the victim is his silhouette. Toying with the pen on my table, I watch as the blade glows amber from the flames of a blowtorch. A shock of yellow against the red room.

The protagonist stalks forward, head cut out of the frame. There’s not a single sound to be heard when he presses the scorching blade against the lower half of the victim’s face. All that can be seen is the killer’s arm and the steam rolling into the air as the skin melts away.

My jaw tenses. I’ve never done that either.

It’s not my kill. Reyna isn’t following my work.

It’s frustrating that I can’t see or hear what’s happening to the victim.Finallythe camera pans, following the killer out of the basement that’s now cast in blue lighting, and my lips part at the sight.

Three different bodies sit limply on separate chairs. One with the skin of his mouth melted. Another with dried pink blood running down his ears. The last, a woman with a cherry-pink rag tied over her eyes.

The killer shuts the door behind him, plunging the room into darkness. The screen goes black, followed by three knocks.

I stop breathing.

Speak no evil.

Hear no evil.

See no evil.

Head. Hand. Heart.

Yellow. Red. Blue.Primary colors.

Littered streets. Pristine brownstones. A murder den. Perfect balance in the midst of carnage.

The cursor darts across the screen to pull up her supporting essay, and time suspends. At the very top of the document is the film title.

The Rule of Three.

Reynaknewit was me. My failed kill. The one that wasEnd of an Era.

She understands me, and that might be the worst thing of all.

MADDOX

I’m hallucinating. It’s nearly the witching hour, I’m sleep-deprived, and this is the first time I’ve left my studio in two days.

My exhibition is in two and a half months. It’s meant to be my last attempt at making a comeback into the art world, and I don’t have a single piece ready. The last thing I need is a distraction. Yet my hindbrain is conjuring up the woman who’s the sole reason for my hellish state.

Because there she is. A ghost gliding across the courtyard bracketed by towers that have stood the test of the ages.

She’s haunting me.

I can’t stop myself. I slink toward her, sticking close to the wall. Reyna crosses the courtyard, glancing at her surroundings every few seconds—conveniently missing me in the shadows.

Fate, you dirty bastard. I’m meant to be keeping my distance, but the universe is insistent on tormenting me by putting her in my path when my grasp on control is as strong as a fraying thread.

It’s well past midnight, and my student has decided it’s the right time to be walking alone on a deserted campus. What type of person does that? Right, the type who visits murder scenes when they have the survival skills of a newborn puppy.

Reyna is going to send me into a heart attack. It’s a good thing our interactions will drop to zero come the end of the semester. After that, I’ll be free from the chains she’s put me in, and I’ll never have to lose sleep over her. No more plotting murders that are specifically designed for her to see. No more picturing her as I paint. None of that. It’ll be like she never existed.