Page 60 of Pink Ink

Pull yourself together, Reyna.

I need to stop reading into this. It’s probably out of respect for my mom—something that has nothing to do with me. That’s how it is most of the time.

My shit is in my bag and the computer turned off before Shaw gives the okay for us to pack up and leave. I don’t dare look his way as I dart for the nearest bathroom.

Splashing water onto my face and neck, I squeeze my eyes shut. I need to touch grass or reconnect with nature or something after all the thoughts I’ve been having about Maddox.

I spend the next hour in the library, attempting to make a judgment call on the latest kill Lawrence sent my way. But my traitorous mind keeps straying back to Maddox. The way he looked at me. The heat of his body. The words he whispered against my ear in my dream.

Be a good girl, and spread your legs for me.

Blowing out a breath, I readjust myself in my chair and glance around to make sure no one is looking. There’s a single student a couple of desks down from me, and another milling about, perusing the leatherbound books on the shelves. The dark wooden floorboards let out the barest groan as she walks. The sound of her footsteps is nearly as loud as the typing from the person closest to me.

The third floor is the most deserted section of the library, far away from any books relevant to course material. It’s also where they put their most uncomfortable seats. But it’s my preferred spot. Hidden away from people. Quiet. Zero distractions.

No one can see my screen when my back is to the wall, and I have the perfect view of everyone coming in and out of the area.

I squint at the crime-scene image, trying to ignore the way my stomach tightens as memories of Dream Maddox fucking me against a canvas burn behind my eyelids. The lust slowly eases enough for me to process the marks on the subject, then any thoughts about him evaporate.

My skin prickles as I trace the hexagonal shapes carved into the man’s back. It’s like the honeycomb insignia in the missing alumni books of the years the Shadow’s victims graduated.

They have to be linked. There’s no other way. Whatever this honeycomb is, it’ll have answers.

I’m not sure how it links with my dad, but I’m certain it does. Did he ever mention bees or anything of the sort? I think when I was a kid, the one time he stayed for a couple of days, he told me a bunch of things about the hierarchy of the insect; otherwise I don’t recall.

I think Mom mentioned he was part of a frat, maybe? What were they called? I don’t even remember where he worked while he was studying. He told me once, but that wasyearsago.

Could my killer have something to do with Dad? I think that’s too far-fetched. They had something in common, though. From what I could tell, a lot of the Shadow’s victims attended Cresswell. So did Dad. Maybe he even knew some of the people who died.

Rubbing the back of my neck, I switch between the pictures to get a better look at the markings.

Lawrence said the organized crime unit took over due to the executional style of the kill and the torture that occurred premortem. The symbols etched into his skin are the only reason Lawrence thought it could be “my guy.”

I’m certain it wasn’t him.

The jagged lines marking the subject’s chest are far from clean. I mean, he could have been struggling against his attacker. But the Shadow always has a level of finesse and artful intent with his work. There’s no way he would have made such uneven markings, let alone shot someone in the head, and not do it perfectly centered.

I wouldn’t say it’s a copycat but… I might have seen another victim who was chopped up like this. Or maybe it was branded into them? I remember there being something hexagonal in a murder months ago. It was one of the first ones Lawrence showed me, before he started feeding me files regularly.

There could be another serial killer going around, and this is their signature. But how does that link to Cresswell? Am I making something out of nothing?

A bang thunders through the space. I jolt, exiting out of the picture and snapping my attention to the sound. I look up in time to see a girl throw up her hand in silent apology as she picks up a fallen book.

I sag back into my chair. Maybe I am being dramatic.

But… I might as well check for similar murders, right?

My laptop fan works overtime as I open up the internet browser and search the local news for recent deaths in the hopes of finding the subject’s name.

When half an hour of checking this week’s death-notice and news articles for murder comes up blank, I change tactic and search for any murder victims brandished with a similar symbol, but I can’t find a single one. Not even in the law school’s database of criminal cases. There’s not even a hint of anything remotely close to the shape.

I scrub a hand down my face. Nothing is showing up even though IswearI saw a victim who had the symbol burned into his chest.

My foot bounces on the floor. There’s a connection somewhere. This university is linked to it—I’d bet money on it.

I shut my laptop, jump to my feet, and head toward the shelving, looking for the books dedicated to Cresswell’s history. The older copies are kept in the artifact room, but Cresswell loves preserving their history. So there should be a newer edition or an electronic version of them somewhere.

My fingers hover over the spines until I find one that might help.The History of Cresswell University. I grab it and a couple of others to bring back to my table.