Page 83 of My Bloody Valentine

Carter pulls out a notepad. "You worked with Marcus Reynolds before his disappearance?"

"He reviewed my collection." I offer a practiced frown. "Terrible business, his disappearance. The industry's still buzzing about it."

The bell chimes, and Gabe strolls in, Amelia close behind. Perfect timing.

"Adrian! Those paintings we discussed arrived." Gabe's casual tone betrays nothing of the urgency that brought him here. "Oh, sorry—didn't realize you had company."

"Detective Carter, this is Gabriel Dawson, owner of Blue Note Jazz Club." I make introductions. "And Amelia Stone, our resident artist."

Amelia immediately engages Carter about her upcoming installation at Gabe's club, her cheerful enthusiasm drawing his attention. Meanwhile, Maya returns with coffee, strategically placing herself between Carter and my office.

Gabe casually mentions his regular police contacts, dropping names that make Carter straighten. The detective's questions become less pointed, more perfunctory.

We're a well-oiled machine—Maya's professional credibility, Amelia's disarming charm, Gabe's strategic connections, and my careful responses. By the time Carter leaves, he apologizes for taking up our time.

"Smooth," Gabe mutters once the detective is gone. "But we should lay low for a while."

I nod, watching Carter's retreating figure through the window. Having the right partners makes all the difference.

I pour aged whiskey into four crystal glasses, a celebratory toast after Detective Carter's departure. The amber liquid catches the boutique's lighting, reminding me of preserved specimens in my private collection.

"Did you see his face when I mentioned Captain Rodriguez?" Gabe lounges on my leather couch, arm draped around Amelia. "Man nearly swallowed his tongue."

Maya perches on my lap, sipping her drink. "The coffee was a nice touch. Nothing says 'we have nothing to hide' like offering refreshments to the cop investigating your murders."

"Speaking of hiding..." Amelia traces the rim of her glass. "That hedge fund manager's wife commissioned a piece. Asked me to capture his essence." She shares a wicked smile with Gabe. "If only she knew I'd watched him become art of a different kind."

"Your latest paintings do have a certain visceral quality." I savor the whiskey's burn. "The red you used in 'Midnight Symphony' came from a particularly inspiring session."

"We should celebrate properly." Gabe's eyes darken with a hunger I know all too well. "That upscale bistro on Michigan Avenue," Gabe swirls his whiskey. "The owner likes to corner his female staff after closing. Money and connections keep him untouchable, but..." His lips curve into a cruel smile. "I bet he'd add a unique flavor to your spring collection, Adrian."

Maya shifts against me, her excitement evident in her quickened breath. "I've reviewed his work. He lacks depth. Perhaps we could help him find some."

"A double date, then?" Amelia's fingers intertwine with Gabe's, her delicate artist's hands against his calloused musician's grip. "I've been wanting to try that new technique we discussed."

The four of us share knowing looks, bound by our secrets. We are broken in our own way, finding a home in our shared madness. Where others might see monsters, we see family.

"To partnerships," I raise my glass, feeling Maya's warmth against me. "In business and pleasure."

"To art in all its forms," they echo, and we drink to the beautiful darkness we create together.

35

EPILOGUE

MAYA

One year later…

Alight snow falls outside the cabin windows as I watch Adrian meticulously lay out his tools on the wooden table. The leather restraints catch the firelight, worn smooth from use. His white skull mask rests beside them, empty eye sockets staring at the ceiling. The small knife we use for blood play gleams—clean, sharp, waiting.

I watch his fingers trail over each implement. Even after a year together, seeing his preparations makes my pulse race. The cabin creaks around us, winter wind whistling through the trees outside. We’re miles from Chicago, alone in this remote corner of Wisconsin.

“Cold, little critic?” Adrian’s voice has that dangerous edge that pools heat in my belly.

I wrap my arms around myself, though the chill I feel has no relation to the temperature. “A little.”

He picks up the knife, testing its edge with his thumb. “I’ll warm you up soon enough.”

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