Page 34 of Pink Ink
Another step and her shoulders are curling upward, ready to bolt. “Is that so?” My voice drops several notes, shrinking the space between us until she’s a measly five feet away, and I canjustfeel her harsh breaths.
Reyna is even more beautiful up close. Her thick lashes aren’t long enough to brush her cheek, but they line her eyes in a way that makes the flecks of bronze in her irises stand out. The shadows play with every part of her face, dipping and curving in certain areas, exaggerating her features.
She nods frantically. “Yes. You know. Walking, in the subway, going out. All very reasonable, normal stuff.”
The dim lights of the streetlamps give her the sort of morbid elegance that would suit a woman standing at the end of a balcony, holding a dying tealight. My studio is practically tugging at me as the image takes form in my mind. It’s coming to me clearer than anything else has in months—years even.
I want to grab my phone to capture a photo for reference later. Her films and the one image I have of her from the crime scene aren’t sating the creative beasts demanding to be fed.
One more step. “Are you lying to me, Miss Sinaga?”
Her lips open and close, and I’m fairly certain she’s stopped breathing. So she’ll argue with me fine. Disrespect my work without batting an eye. Yet lying is her kryptonite?
Fascinating. Everything about her is so goddamn fascinating.
I should have gone home.
“Are you going to places you shouldn’t?”
Her throat bobs. “No?”
“Is that a question?”
“No,” she says, a few decibels quieter, twisting the objects in her hands.
I have to bite back a smile. It’s refreshing to be around someone so unfiltered—even if she is lying straight to my face. The fact that she doesit so badly makes me appreciate it the slightest bit more. “Where are you getting your inspiration from?”
“What?” she practically squeaks. “Nowhere. I mean, I—I told you about—”
“Are you visiting crime scenes?”
Her eyes double in size. “What would make you think that? Of course not. That’s illegal. And wrong. I’d never do that. No. God, no. That’s too far. And dangerous. And—”
“Miss Sinaga.”
Her mouth snaps shut.
I tip my head to the side. “How about we try that again?”
My gaze drops to the swell of her bright-red bottom lip. She gnaws on the pillowy flesh, distracting me for a moment.
“You’ve based your entire project around gruesome murders that you claimed were inspired by an artist going by Böcklin’s Shadow—someone with no presence in the media.” I almost feel bad about how stricken she looks. Unfortunately for her, I don’t plan on leaving until I hear the truth from her lips.
She clears her throat and shifts her weight, eyes never meeting mine. “Murders? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I am going to ask this one more time, and the next words out of your mouth better be the truth.” Watching her squirm would be enjoyable if my patience for her reckless disregard of her safety weren’t becoming paper-thin. “Are you visiting murder scenes?”
Reyna hesitates. “Am I going to get in trouble if I am?”
“Are all your films based on the same killer?”
Her throat bobs.
Come on, love. Tell me what I want to hear.
She nods once, and fuck if that doesn’t make me wild.
I already knew what she was doing, but her confirmation that she only cares for my murders is like finding the edge of a cliff and throwing myself off it thinking I might grow wings.
