Page 114 of If You're Reading This
“The blackmail story.” In an instant, all the facts clicked in place in his mind with sickening clarity. “It was all an act.”
“Quite convincing, wasn’t it? I’ve had years to perfect the role of the nervous, guilt-ridden pharmacist.” Zimmerman smirked. “Amazing how easily people believe what they want to believe.”
Logan looked at Morgan, saw her staring at Zimmerman with growing recognition dawning in her eyes.
“I know you,” she said slowly. “You’re older, different, but . . .”
“We went to art school together,” he finished.
She sucked in a breath. “That’s right. At the University of Alaska. You were in my advanced photography class.”
Zimmerman’s smile widened. “Very good, Morgan. Though I’m disappointed it took you this long to remember. We spent an entire semester together.”
“You were kicked out,” Morgan continued, squinting as memories seemed to flood back to her. “For copying other people’s work and claiming the ideas as your own.”
“Expelled for ‘plagiarism and artistic theft.’” Zimmerman scowled. “Such harsh words for what was simply . . . inspiration. Homage. The professors couldn’t understand that I was improving upon existing work, making it more meaningful.”
“You were stealing.” Morgan’s words held no apology.
“I was completing visions that others had left unfinished.” Zimmerman’s tone remained calm, but Logan could see the dangerous gleam in his eyes. “Just like I’m doing now with your portfolio.”
Logan tested his restraints again, looking for any weakness. “So this whole thing—the murders, the staging—it’s all revenge because you got kicked out of art school?”
“Revenge?” Zimmerman laughed. “Oh, Trooper Gibson, you understand so little. This isn’t about revenge. This is about redemption. About proving that my vision was right all along.”
He moved closer to Morgan, studying her face with the intensity of an artist examining his subject.
“My wife was the only one who believed in me after the expulsion,” he continued. “Elise understood that true art transcends conventional boundaries. She supported me when I decided to become a pharmacist—such a boring profession. I had to put my artistic dreams aside.”
“Elise,” Morgan repeated. “The woman you mentioned before.”
“I took care of her while she died of cancer. Watched her fade away, day by day, until she was barely a shadow of herself.” Zimmerman’s voice grew softer, almost reverent. “But in those final moments, she told me that death could be a beautiful thing—a transformation from one state of being to another.”
Logan felt sick listening to the twisted logic.
“She was deeply spiritual,” Zimmerman continued. “And she was right. Death isn’t an ending—it’s the completion of a composition. The final brushstroke that makes everything else meaningful.”
“You’re insane,” Logan said.
“I’m an artist.” Zimmerman’s words took on a new, sharper edge. “And tonight, I complete my masterpiece.”
Morgan looked at him with a mixture of pity and horror. “You’re taking us to Smith Lake, aren’t you?”
Zimmerman’s smile returned, but he shook his head. “Too easy, my dear Morgan. Your colleagues have already figured out that location. They’ll have it surrounded by now, waiting for a killer who will never arrive.”
He gestured toward the ceiling, where they heard him moving equipment around earlier.
“I have somewhere much better in mind. Somewhere private, where we won’t be interrupted. Where I can take all the time I need to capture the perfect expression in Trooper Gibson’s eyes.” Zimmerman’s voice carried the satisfaction of someone who’d planned every detail.
“Where?” Logan demanded.
“Patience.” Zimmerman returned to his preparations. “All will be revealed when we arrive.”
Logan exchanged a glance with Morgan. Whatever location Zimmerman had chosen, it would be somewhere he feltcompletely in control. Somewhere he could stage his final, twisted composition without any possibility of rescue.
As Zimmerman withdrew a syringe, Logan’s breath caught. No . . .
He struggled to get away.
