She’s shaking now, fine tremors running through her entire body. I can’t decipher if it’s fear or rage or something else entirely—her eyes hold a storm I’ve never seen before.
“And the things we’ve done together? The sex, the—was that just you practicing? Honing your skills on a willing victim?”
The question cuts deeper than I expected, a blade slipping between my ribs. I hadn’t anticipated this pain.
“No.” I drop to my knees before her. The position feels foreign, dangerous.
“What we have is real. Separate from the other part of my life. You must believe that.” The words leave my mouth with an urgency I rarely permit myself. I’m not accustomed to pleading. The sensation is uncomfortable.
“Why should I believe anything you say?” Amelia’s voice trembles, but her gaze remains steady.
“Because I could have kept lying. Could have cleaned this up, made it disappear, and you’d never have known. But I’m choosing honesty, right now, even though it might cost me everything.” I reach for her hand, half-expecting her to recoil. She doesn’t pull away. Her skin feels cold against mine, but the contact steadies something inside me. “I’m telling you the truth because you matter. Because what we have matters.”
Tears streak down her face, catching the morning light. Even now, breaking apart before me, she’s beautiful. I want to capture this moment—her vulnerability laid bare against mine. The symmetry feels perfect, tragic.
“This is insane. I should leave. I should call the police.” Her voice breaks on the last word.
“You could. And I wouldn’t stop you.”
I stand, moving to my desk with deliberate calm. My hand doesn’t shake as I write down a number on club stationery. The pen leaves smooth, dark lines.
“This is the direct line to homicide detective Gregory Hawthorne. Tell him what you’ve seen. He’ll arrest me within the hour.” I hand her my phone, unlocked. A final offering of trust that feels dangerously sincere. “Or you could listen to the whole story. Learn who I really am and why I do this. And then decide.”
She stares at the phone in her hand for a long moment. I watch her fingers curl around it, then loosen.I wonder if she has the capacity to see beyond the horror to the complex design beneath. The same talent that makes her art transcendent now keeps her from fleeing.
Then, slowly, she sets it down.
“Tell me everything.”
20
AMELIA
Isit motionless as Gabe talks, his voice a steady stream flowing through the hours. Morning light shifts across the room, painting shadows that dance like ghosts around us.
“Adrian and I have been friends since we were ten years old,” he says, perched on the edge of his desk while I remain frozen in the chair. “We recognized something in each other immediately. A shared understanding of the darkness in the world.”
His eyes never leave mine as he describes their childhood—watching helplessly as Adrian’s neighbor beat his wife bloody every weekend, police arriving only to leave without making arrests. The woman’s bruised face greeted them at school bake sales, everyone pretending not to notice.
“We were fifteen when we found her body. Suicide, they called it.” His voice tightens. “Her husband remarried six months later. Started showing up with a new woman sporting the same kinds of bruises.”
The first kill wasn’t planned, he explains. The man—drunk, belligerent—had been beating his new wife in the backyard. Adrian distracted him while Gabe struck from behind. They buried him in the woods and told no one.
“It felt like a correction. Like we’d finally balanced something that had been wrong for too long.”
My stomach churns as Gabe details how they refined their approach over the years—their selection criteria—demonstrable harm to others, pattern of behavior, lack of remorse—their methods of abduction, their kill rooms.
“The preservation came later,” he says. “I studied ancient techniques, modified them. Each body tells a story—corruption captured forever in a state of perfect suspension.”
He explains how he built The Blue Room, designing the basement with hidden chambers. “People dance above my gallery every night,” he says with a strange pride. “They drink and laugh and feel safe, never knowing justice sleeps beneath their feet.”
The words wash over me in waves. I should be running. Screaming. Calling the police. Instead, I find myself admiring the passion he has as he describes his technique, the elegance of his planning, and the artistic care in his presentation.
Gabe hesitates, then walks to his desk drawer. “I want to show you something else.”
My heart pounds as he pulls out a leather portfolio.
“My gallery,” he says softly. “As it exists today.”
