“How could you?” she says.
“It belongs to me,” I snarl. “It’s mine to keep, or mine to destroy.”
She stares down at the thick drifts of shattered glass, the downward tilt of her head causing the tears to spill down her cheeks.
In all the time she’s worked for me, I’ve never seen Sonia cry. She’s competent and capable, and keeps her emotions securely buttoned down. That’s why we get along. I would tolerate nothing less.
I don’t blame her for the tears in this moment, however. The solar model was one of the most stunning works of art I’ve ever seen. Truly unique and irreplaceable.
I destroyed it on impulse.
Something is happening to me.
Something is taking me over—twisting me, changing me. I’ve been infected. And Mara is the disease.
“Get someone to clean that up,” I order.
I storm out of my office, heading down to the main floor. I don’t bother stopping at Mara’s studio—I know she isn’t here. She’s probably still at home, sleeping.
As I pass Janice’s desk, I see several artists crowded around her computer screen. They break apart as I approach, hurrying off in every direction except mine.
Janice tries to close her browser window, but I knock her hand aside, barking, “What are you looking at?”
“Another girl’s been killed,” Janice stammers. “It happened last night.”
I lean over her desk, unpleasantly enveloped in her sickly-sweet perfume, so I can examine the computer screen.
She’s on some trashy true crime site. The page is covered in full-color photos of the murder scene.
Alastor’s work.
His bodies are far more distinct than his paintings.
And yet . . . this is a new level of violence, even for him. I see the frenzy in the scattered body parts. This wasn’t just lust . . . it was rage.
I stand up again, my heart already returning to its steady beat.
This explains why Alastor wasn’t at the show last night. He must have gotten distracted on the way over.
He missed something he really should have seen.
Lucky for me. It buys a little more time.
I walk over to Mara’s dingy Victorian. I hammer on the door, startling her roommate Frank who opens the door after a long delay, looking high and paranoid.
“Oh,” he says, looking partly relieved and partly even more confused. “It’s you.”
“Where’s Mara?” I demand.
“I dunno,” he mumbles, running his hand through his wild curls. “Work, maybe?”
The second I get my hands on her phone I’m putting a tracker on it.
This intention becomes an absolute fixation as I unsuccessfully visit Sweet Maple and Golden Gate Park in turn, without finding her.
WHERE THE FUCK IS SHE?
Several fantasies play through my mind as I search the park. The first is how I’m going to drag her into the trees and strangle her. But when I picture wrapping my hands around her throat, instead I see them sliding down her body . . . cupping her breasts . . . squeezing her tiny waist as hard as I can . . . forcing her down on my cock over and over and over . . .
Fucking her in the woods isn’t good enough.
I want her somewhere isolated, where we can be utterly alone together. Somewhere I’ll have every tool I desire at my fingertips. Somewhere I can spend all night long having my way with her . . .
I want to bring her to my house.
No one but me has stepped foot through the front door since my father died. The house has been my cave. My one place of absolute privacy.
My desire to bring Mara there shows me how far this obsession has grown. Bringing her into my house is like bringing her inside my own body. A far more intimate act than simply fucking her . . .
Where could she be?
Did she meet up with that fuckboy again?
Is she at his house right now, letting him put his hands all over her?
The thought is so enraging that I have to put my hands on my knees and lean over for a moment, breathing heavily.
No. She wouldn’t do that. She only fucked him to get back at me. Because she knew I was watching.
That’s what I want to believe. But I have to know for certain.
I pull out my phone, accessing Mara’s social media once again.
By now, I know every photograph, every caption. I have them all committed to memory. And I think . . . possibly . . . I’ve seen that guy before.
I scroll through the images, searching.
At last I find it: a post from the day Mara got the tattoo of a snake on her ribs. There he is, standing right next to her, latex gloves on his hands.