Page 98 of Pink Ink

My attention catches on the three picture frames on the side table. One is a surrealist-style violin. The other, a skull in a different artistic style, and the last is an image of a pomegranate. None match the decor of the house and they are haphazardly placed next to each other—at odds with the rest of the picture-perfect home.

Was it out of place because of the police, or because the Shadow intended it to be? Another puzzle piece.

I creep into the top floor, and my sights stall on the glass bottle sitting on the windowsill of one of the bedrooms. It’s small, as tall and wide as my thumb. I inch closer, keeping one ear out for any sound—the last thing I need is to be arrested for breaking and entering a crime scene.

I fish out my phone from my pocket to shine my screen light on the label, and my stomach drops. There, in cursive lettering, are two words that have that sinking feeling in my stomach worsening:Black Ink.

No.No. It’s a coincidence.

I mean, it’s not like the ink is pink.

Right, exactly. It’s fine.

Bar that one thing, all the other bedrooms are immaculate.

I can’t figure out the logic behind it. Is he trying to say that the victim was clean on the outside, but rotten on the inside?

Was the victim grabbing a drink while the Shadow crept in through the window, then dragged him kicking and screaming before drugging him? Or maybe he was in the shower, or the comfort of his bed. He could have been partially conscious as the bulb was jammed into his mouth.

The victim probably begged to be spared as the glass, presumably, tore through his throat. Did the subject witness the killer setting up the scene, laying out the petals, and cleaning the place?

Grabbing the coroner’s photos from my bag, I station myself in front of the spot in the hallway where the magic—brutal murder—happened.

I try to picture the victim tied up to the chair, and what the killer’s thought process was when he was setting every piece of the scene. Theories flood in, but I can’t shake that nudging at the back of my head. It’s a feeling that I can’t put into words. A familiarity that I can’t quite pinpoint—refuse to.

Lowering my belongings to the ground, I try to get back in the zone and focus on the mise-en-scène. I place the stun gun on the stairs and my camera on top of my satchel and train it on the middle of the corridor.

Careful not to disturb the blush-colored petals on the floor, I tiptoe to the chair and pause at the very edge of it. With a deep breath, I close my eyes to realign myself, hoping that something will inspire me for my next project.

Right now, I’m not Reyna, or a film student; I’m the guy in the chair with a light bulb in my mouth.

Reopening my eyes, I take stock of the situation from a different lens.

I’m sitting between the front and back entrances, surrounded by pink petals of some sort. The positioning of the chair seems intentional. I don’t know why yet.

My hands are tied with synthetic ropes, and the only things in my line of sight are a painting of peonies next to the front door and an antique shelf I can’t see inside.

All the lights are on, the house is clean, fairy lights are wrapped around my head, and strange pictures are in my living room.

Why am I here? Do I know the killer? What did I do to make him torture me like this? If he’s a stranger, why did he choose me? What kind of a symbolism could these objects hold that’s related to me?

The crushed bulb in the subject’s mouth. The cords wrapped around his head. House lights. Clean rooms. Snacks on the counter. Tea. Pink petals. Black ink.

I repeat the facts in my mind, flipping it over, and turning it around to get a different perspective until I figure out his message.

All it takes is one bright idea, and everything else goes away.

Air slams into my lungs in a startled gasp.

In the darkest pits of my soul, the most wretched part of me rears its ugly head with a smile from the onslaught of emotions. Betrayal, shock, mortification, and worst of all: exhilaration, and stone-cold satisfaction. I was right.

It’s him.

He’sBöcklin’s Shadow.

It’s a fucking pattern.

In the middle of the museum with him by my side, I gazed up at his green eyes with my heart racing, and my body tingling with need. And I told him,I’m waiting for that light bulb moment that’ll take the words out of my mouth.