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Logan’s jaw tightened. That wasn’t okay.
Nothing about this was okay.
“He’s been inside this cabin.” Logan had known after seeing that footprint that someone else had been inside. But this made that realization feel even worse. “And he wants us to know it.”
Andi’s eyes met his. “Logan, if he’s following her artistic pattern of beauty juxtaposed with grief . . .”
“Then it’s just as we thought—Morgan herself is his ultimate subject.” Logan’s words felt like shards of glass scraping his throat. “He doesn’t just admire her work. He believes he understands it on a level no one else does. That he’s completing it somehow.”
Logan examined the third series of photos Morgan had released.
The ones of Borealis Lake, which was located about an hour north.
What if this guy was going through Morgan’s most recent series in chronological order?
Logan examined the photos of the lake.
The striking images showed the aurora borealis reflecting on the frozen water, the mirrored symmetry broken by a single crack in the ice.
The location was isolated. Difficult to access. Visually stunning.
The perfect place to stage another murder.
This guy’s pattern had been a new dead body every other day. Would that continue? If so, his plan was ambitious, especially considering all the details that would need to be covered to replicate Morgan’s photos.
If this location was where the man planned on striking next, they needed to be there when he arrived. They needed to catch this guy in the act.
Maybe in the process, they’d also find Morgan.
Logan rose to his feet, knowing he needed to start planning now. “I think I know where he’ll strike next.”
CHAPTER
THIRTY-FOUR
I walked down the stairs,excitement racing through me at the thought of seeing Morgan again. Today had been a long day, and tonight’s activities were the one thing that had kept me going.
At the bottom of the steps, I took a moment to inhale deeply.
The room carried a scent that clung to everything—sharp acetic acid, like vinegar left too long in the air, mingled with the bitter, metallic tang of developer and the faintly sulfurous trace of fixer.
Damp paper and plastic trays added a musty undercurrent, the kind of wetness that never quite dried. It was a chemical haze, thick and unmistakable. The smell settled into clothes and memory alike — the scent of solitude, of slow magic unfolding in crimson light.
I loved no other scent more.
Mercer and Kohler had been adequate compositions. My next victim should be suitable as well. I couldn’t wait to watch my creation unfold.
I stopped by Morgan, whom I’d tied in a wooden chair while I was gone. I was trying to ease up on the sedatives. I wanted to see more of the light return to her gaze.
But it was risky. I hoped it was worth it.
“Hello, my muse. In case you haven’t realized it yet, no one appreciates your work like I do. They say imitation is the highest form of flattery. My work represents my soul.”
Morgan’s fingers gripped the armrests, her knuckles white. “And what does your soul look like?”
I smiled, pleased by her engagement. Our conversations had been progressing—evidence she was beginning to understand our partnership.
“My soul looks like potential. The moment before transformation.” I moved to my workbench, where my photos from the Kohler session were arranged in sequence. “You capture the instant between what was and what will be. I . . . complete the sequence.”
