Page 113 of Fatal Pattern

The second floor opened into another cavern of retail decay. But this level felt different. Lived in. The light source became clear as they rounded a concrete pillar. Work lamps on tripods with harsh white beams cutting through the dark.

It took him a moment to comprehend what he was seeing. The space had been transformed into an artist’s studio. A massive canvas dominated an easel near the windows, draped in white cloth as if waiting for a reveal. Smaller paintings leaned against the walls in neat rows. Paint supplies covered every surface. Brushes, palettes, tubes of color squeezed and abandoned. Splatters of red, blue, and yellow decorated the floor and walls like abstract blood spatter.

Barclay. Barclay himself was the Mandelbrot Killer.

He turned to share the revelation with Tori, but she was already moving toward the covered canvas. Her weapon remained ready as she approached the easel.

“Tori, wait—”

She grabbed the cloth and yanked it away in one swift motion.

The face on the canvas stared back at them. Maggie Quick.

“The warden,” Tori said.

Half finished but unmistakably her, painted with the same detail as the hidden portraits they’d found at the law firm.

Blade’s stomach dropped. “He killed her.”

“Or he’s about to.”

Blade swung his weapon across the room. Canvases lined every wall. Stacks of paintings leaned against each other. Abstract fractals that probably concealed more faces, more victims. He kept his sights locked on the threat, no room to peel back the fractals and find the buried faces in the paint.

This wasn’t just a studio. It was a trophy room. A monument to decades of murder disguised as art. How many people had Barclay killed?

The warden’s painted eyes seemed to track Blade’s movement as he studied the canvas. The paint still looked wet in places. Fresh. Recent.

A crash echoed from the back of the store. Metal against concrete.

Blade snapped toward the crash, Glock up, sights carving empty air.

“Detective.”

The word landed from behind.

Blade’s muscles locked. He angled his shoulders, ready to pivot.

“I wouldn’t.” The clean snap of a safety clicked off. “Dr. Crew and I are having a moment.”

Blade rotated anyway, and his world collapsed into a single, devastating image. Tori, statue-still, her weapon half raised but useless. Barclay’s service pistol pressed against her temple, his forearm wrapped across her throat.

The crash had been a feint. A distraction designed to exploit the one moment when their attention would be divided. Barclay hadn’t ambushed them. He’d lured them into a kill box of his own design and waited for the perfect opening, and it was Blade’s fault.

Professional curiosity had created that opening. His need to understand the art, to explore the evidence, had given Barclay the split second he needed.

“Drop your weapon, Detective,” Barclay growled. “Slowly. Kick it away.”

“Don’t do it,” Tori said.

Blade’s Glock dragged at his grip, heavier than steel had a right to be. His body screamed to keep it, to fight, to do anything but give the man leverage. But Tori was a step away from execution.

He crouched. Set the weapon down. Nudged it with his boot until it scraped across concrete and vanished into the dark.

Barclay’s mouth tugged upward, that warped grin more vicious than a snarl.

“Good. Now we can talk.”

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