Page 8 of Pink Ink

He’s someone’s type. Just not mine.

“I got you something.” Rainwater sprays from his bleached-blond hair as he shrugs off his backpack.

Excitement thrums through me as he pulls out a folder, and I resist the urge to snatch it from him. I’ve been waiting for him to bring me another one of Böcklin’s Shadow’s kills for weeks. If Dad were still alive, he’d lose his shit if he knew I was in cahoots with a cop so I could be a “copycat” killer who doesn’t properly kill anyone. Even Mom would be mortified that I was probably the one and only person in the Shadow’s fan club.

It’s not like his kills… didn’t have it coming, as bad as it is to say. Every subject I’ve managed to identify has had reasons to have enemies, and a past worth dying painfully for—not that anyone deserves to die. But I can see why the killer thought they did.

I grab the folder from Lawrence before his arm has fully extended, and flip open to the first page. Yes.Finally, I can get some inspiration for—

“I, uh, got you something else too.”

Oh no.

I slowly turn my attention away from the photo of the dead guy up to Lawrence, who’s wearing a bashful expression that I might have called cute in another life, down to his outstretched hand. A part of me dies to keep my expression neutral.

Chocolate-coated almonds.

Again.

The one thing in this world that I’m allergic to. How romantic.

Lawrence and I met last year when I called the police after someone broke into Kimi’s and my apartment. We left it at that until I ran into him a couple of nights later at a fantasy-themed bar that Kimi dragged me to. He gave me his number, and for some unknown reason, I accepted.

I blame it on the three “lunar mating” cocktails I had, and the first positive interaction with a stranger since Mom died. One year later, I am solidly team platonic while he edges the line of “Why not more?”

It’s been a solid no from me since day one.

If I hadn’t based my entire project on his help, I would have cut ties the second he started giving me puppy eyes a couple of months ago. But it was nice having someone who could understand what I was going through. He had lost his mom recently too.

And he knew the one thing that would help: a distraction.

He gave me crime-scene photos and tried to look into my dad, and I dropped him so many lunches as a thank-you that he started to believe we’re on the path to be more.

I give him the warmest smile I can muster. “Lawrence, you shouldn’t have.”

“I wanted to.”If you also wanted me to die, you should have said so. “You were there when I needed someone last week, and it’s the least I can do.”

Guilt leaves a sour taste in my mouth as I offer him a supportive smile.

He’s given me the same thing how many times now? And how many times have I told him that I’m allergic?

I have no intention of taking our relationship beyond the realm of friends, which I’ve made clear to him numerous times. In fact, I’ve said it, word for word.

Lawrence, I think we should just be friends.

Lawrence, I’m not looking for a relationship.

Lawrence, thank you for the gift that I am incapable of eating, but we’re still not happening.

Maybe I’m a bad person for not doing the right thing and cutting ties to save him the heartbreak, and maybe it’s my fault he’s getting mixed signals. We hung out a bit after we realized that we were both sad and traumatized and could bond over our shared misery. But that’s where our compatibility ends—other than the fact that we have a shared interest in, well, dead people.

“Thank you.” I awkwardly hide the packet in my satchel before refocusing on the pictures. “Why do you think this is my guy?”

Lawrence clears his throat and shrugs. “It gives off the vibe.”

The vibe. He doesn’t believe me at all. This man really is just happy to entertain me.

I flip through the crime-scene photos. It’s a gruesome sight, no doubt about it. But it doesn’t look staged. Eight stab wounds, bruises, and several broken bones. It’s a crime of passion more than anything.