Page 126 of Unholy Bonds

“Let’s find the room where he buries his skeletons,” I said.

We all had the room of secrets. Mine was my childhood bedroom, the place where I had first killed. Ryden’s was the one next to his master bedroom. But Logan’s skeletons were certainly not here in this apartment.

“It’s too clean. Not even a smudge of paint. He doesn’t paint or sculpt here,” Ryden said when we were done.

“Artists usually have studios,” I said as Ryden closed the door behind us, and we took the stairs down.

“I’ll call Reah about it,” Ryden said as we walked down to his car. I waited as he talked with Reah, telling her about Logan. He hung up and after minutes of silence, his phone vibrated with a message. “Oh. Yes. His studio’s closer to Wagner Park.”

“Wagner Park? It was where Daphne’s body was found,” I muttered, anger coating my words.

Ryden drove to his studio. Logan wasn’t there in his studio, either. He must be hiding or hunting for his next victim. I had to catch up with him before he killed again.

Ryden picked the lock, and we walked into the minimalist, white studio space. The massive place was filled with paintings and sculptures—on the walls, on the floor, on the tall shelves.

“He wouldn’t keep his trophies out in the open if he was The Strangler,” Ryden said.

We walked toward the back and stopped when we came across a locked room. Ryden tried the handle.

“A perfect place to hide his darkness,” I said.

Ryden flexed his magic fingers again, and the door gaped open. I saw it as soon as I walked in. A painting of a girl in a red dress, her head tilted back, and a garrote around her neck. Red garrote. I knew her. She was The Strangler’s third victim. Flora River.

“Oh fuck,” Ryden cursed. “It looks like you’re right.”

I looked around, and there were more. More portraits of women The Strangler murdered, but they weren’t dead in the paintings. They were alive but on the verge of death.

My breath came out in a shattered gasp when I found what I was subconsciously searching for. Kat. There she was. My eyes burned. She looked beautiful; she looked like my Kat.

That fucking monster.

Ryden grabbed another painting with a frown. “I know her. Her name was Vicky Ledgers. She was his ninth kill. Toledo. She was from Toledo.” He studied Vicky’s portrait for a while. “These paintings… he couldn’t have drawn them from the pictures from the newspaper. He had to see them to draw them with such precision.” He turned the small canvas around and cursed, ripping off a transparent bag taped to the painting. “Fuck. This is real hair, Yara.”

My stomach roiled. I felt like vomiting. My skin burned when I took Kat’s painting. My fingers trembled when I grabbed the lock of hair glued to the back of the painting. This was his trophy.

It was clear now. It was him.

“I need to check this for DNA, but it might be highly degraded,” I said, feeling a sinking sensation in my stomach. I didn’t need DNA to know, though. “I-I’m sure it was Kat’s,” I whispered. I wanted to burn Logan’s studio down until there was nothing left.

I took a few strands of hair and sealed it in the evidence bag.

“I have to get back to Miranda,” I said, checking my watch. I didn’t want to. I had e to find him, but my job was still waiting for me. “You can stay here and…”

“I’m not leaving you alone, Red. I told you.”

“But we can’t waste time, not now, Ryden, not when we’re so close to this fucking bastard. We need more evidence that he was indeed The Strangler. We need to find him before the FBI.”

“I’ll use other means to find the evidence and find him. But I’m not going anywhere. I’m not leaving you alone.”

Ryden stayed outside the autopsy room, while I worked on Miranda’s body. I could see him through the glass door, talking on the phone, one call after the other, busy with collecting more evidence.

Amy came with forensic reports. “Everything is an exact match except the lipstick. He must have bought these things in bulk. If we could just find the place he bought these dresses, shoes, and wigs from…”

“Are there any logos on the dress? Names?”

Amy shook her head. “You see here…” She showed me a photograph. “This was where the tags usually would be, even for a cheap brand. But he ripped it off. He’s careful about every little thing. The detectives were looking at the flower shops, but they didn’t find anything yet. I’ll check again,” Amy said, walking out.

Wearing my gloves, I grabbed a scalpel and a rib cutter. When I drew the first Y on her chest, my fingers shook.

---