Page 109 of If You're Reading This
And Andi would make sure he regretted that decision.
Logan tested his restraints again, the zip ties cutting into his wrists with each movement. The basement felt smaller now, more oppressive with three people in the confined space.
The killer had descended the stairs wearing an abstract Picasso mask—geometric shapes and distorted features that made him look like something from a nightmare. A beret had been pulled over his head.
“Admiring my gallery?” The Gallery Killer motioned toward the photographs covering the walls. His voice was muffled by the mask, but something about the cadence nagged at Logan’s memory.
He’d heard this man speak before. But when? Where?
Who?
“You’re going to keep me alive until the final shot.” Logan didn’t frame his words as a question. “You want that moment of realization in my eyes, just like the others.”
“Very good.” The man moved closer, openly studying Logan. “The expression has to be authentic. Fear, understanding, acceptance—it all has to be genuine for the composition to work.”
Logan glanced at Morgan and saw the exhaustion mixed with terror in her face. “What happens to her when you’re done with your sick art project?”
“Morgan?” The killer glanced at her, his voice turning fond. “She’s my muse, my inspiration.”
The casual way he said it—like Morgan was a willing collaborator rather than a captive—made Logan’s skin crawl.
“She’ll never help you,” Logan said.
“She already has. Every photograph in her portfolio gave me ideas, showed me possibilities I’d never considered.” The killer moved to one of the developed prints hanging on a line. “Take Ryan Mercer, for instance. A pathetic chemistry teacher who thought he had a chance with Morgan.”
“And Knox?”
The killer’s posture shifted, became more rigid. “Ah, Knox. Now there was someone who truly deserved what he got.”
“Why do you say that?” Logan asked.
The killer moved closer to Logan, close enough that Logan could see his eyes through the mask’s openings. “Knox claimed to be reformed. He begged for his life when I found him. He said he used to be the kind of monster who destroyed innocent things.” The killer’s voice turned cold. “He said he’d changed and so could I.”
Had Knox really come here to make amends with Morgan? That was a thought for another time.
“What did you tell him?” Logan asked.
“I told him he’d had his chance. That some sins can’t be forgiven, some damage can’t be undone.”
“And the others?”
“Walsh at least kept his distance, but his obsession was becoming obvious. Following her to different locations, timing his visits to coincide with hers. Pathetic.”
Logan thought about Dr. Winters, about the inappropriate notes he’d found in the man’s office. “You were cleaning house. Getting rid of anyone who objectified her.”
“I was protecting what’s mine.” The killer raised his head as if proud. “These men saw Morgan as something to possess. They didn’t understand that true appreciation requires distance, respect, and reverence.”
The irony of a kidnapper and murderer talking about respect wasn’t lost on Logan, but he bit back his response. He needed to keep this guy talking. Logan needed to understand the man’s psychology. Needed to find a weakness to exploit.
Logan studied the man’s eyes, tried to place the voice beneath the mask’s distortion. “Who are you?”
The killer tilted his head, considering. “Does it matter? Names are just labels. What matters is the work, the vision, the permanence of what we create.”
“It matters to me.”
“I’m sure it does.” The killer straightened, moving back toward his equipment. “But revelation comes in its own time, Trooper Gibson. And yours is still hours away.”
Logan watched him adjust camera settings with detailed accuracy. The voice, the mannerisms, the way he moved—it was all maddeningly familiar. Someone from his past, someone he’d encountered before. But the mask and the distorted voice made it impossible to be certain.
