Page 9 of Pink Ink

Damn it. “It’s not him.”

“Are you sure?”

“It’s too messy. See here?” I point to the picture of the victim’s face, which is black and blue with a boatload of red. “He would never do something like that unless he’s trying to make a statement that involves the face. Maybe gouging out the eyes or pulling teeth would be more his style. He’d make it symbolic somehow. This is a simple beating.”

Lawrence frowns at me. “There’s nothing simple about it. This man was brutally murdered, Reyna.”

My lips part. Right. I forgot that I’d desensitized myself to death. I’mmeantto be mortified by this. “Sorry, yes. It’s awful. But… usually, people are killed like this for a reason, right?”

“Uh, yeah. Sure,” he agrees, though his lips curl in disapproval.

I clear my throat. Time to change the topic. I pull up a photo on my phone. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something since you’ve lived here your whole life.”I think. “Does this building look familiar to you?”

I have a total of five photos of my father, all taken at different times during my life, except this one. He must be in his early twenties here—I’m guessing. It’s hard to tell because it’s of his profile. I wouldn’t have realized it was him if Mom hadn’t kept it.

I found it underneath Mom’s bed after she’d died. It’s the only lead I have.

Lawrence squints at the screen as I zoom in on the high ceiling. All I’ve been able to figure out is that it’s a vaulted room of some sort. The marble ceiling has a honeycomb-like pattern with different symbols painted in each hexagonal shape. The picture’s quality isn’t clear enough for me to figure out what the designs are. The door behind him also has a filigree design that I can’t make out.

My stomach sinks as Lawrence pales. Taking a big step back, he clears his throat and shakes his head. “Nope. Never seen it before.”

I frown, moving forward. “Lawrence—”

“But if Ididknow where that was, I’d stay the hell away from it.”

Unease ripples down my spine.He knows where it is. I’ve been searching for this place formonths. I’ve asked so many people and spent even more time searching the internet. Nothing.

Both of my parents were taken from me before I had the chance to say goodbye. Learning about my dad is my chance to get a part of him back. If I get to know him, maybe I’ll be able to love him the same way Mom did, and understand all the times she cried over him.

He might have been my father, but he wasn’t present enough to be my dad. He loved his work more than anything else, and I deserve to at least know what he did—not the shitty lie he told me about being a businessman. As a kid, I imagined him working for the CIA, and that’s why he never stayed for more than a day or two per year. Who knows, those childlike suspicions could be true.

That there’s something more to it. I feel it in my bones. Mom and Dad hid something from me. They begged me never to go to Cresswell, and threw me aJust trust uswhen I’d ask why.

When I lost the only family I had, I started searching for the one I was meant to have.

I move closer. “Lawrence, please, if you know something—anything—tell me. You can trust me. You know you can.”

“No, Reyna. I mean it,” he presses. “Chasing a serial killer is bad enough. You leave that to rest, and don’t ever ask me about it again. I’ll help you with your guy, but that’s it.”

I’ve never seen Lawrence this serious before. He’s been bending the law for me for months, andthisis where he draws the line? A picture? What could possibly be so bad about a damn building?

I’m not about to lie through my teeth and make him promises I won’t keep. Still, I nod to keep the peace. This isn’t over.

My parents are gone, along with the secrets they kept from me. I’ll keep digging until I hit bone. I don’t always believe that the dead should stay buried.

REYNA

Pink Ink?God, why did I think the premise of this project was a good idea? Re-creating murder scenes with pink blood? That shit is a nightmare to edit to get the tonejustright. Don’t even get me started on what a pain in the ass it is when the vibrancy of the corn-syrup mixture differs from batch to batch. I’ve stared at my laptop for so long I’m starting to see double.

The idea came to me when I was eight and I just got caught watchingCarrie. I told Mom it would be less scary if the blood was pink. She shook her head, told me I could do that when I’m older, then instilled the fear of God in me for sneaking out of bed.

Bradford laughed at my concept. If he does it another time, Nicole will need to hold me back from supergluing his desk drawers shut.

My alarm goes off, and I tap my screen a little too aggressively. Grumbling under my breath, I pack up my things and shuffle out of the library. I don’t want to say that the assignment I’m submitting tonight is a pile of trash.ButI’m not saying my mom wouldn’t compare it to my classmate’s work and passive aggressively point out everything they did better than me.

Some of the framing is definitely off.

Is it worth a C? Absolutely not. Is Professor Bradford going to give me a C? One hundred percent.