Page 81 of Fatal Pattern

“This keeps the dust away and gives us perfect color temperature,” Laelanie explained, lifting a wrapped canvas from a shipping box.

Tori clasped her hands behind her back, fingers interlaced so tightly her knuckles ached. The woman moved with infuriating slowness, smoothing her white cotton gloves before peeling away each layer of protective paper with museum-quality care.

Rip it off already.

But the gloves were a blessing. No fingerprints contaminating evidence. No blown cover requiring explanations about chain of custody.

The final layer of tissue paper fell away.

Tori’s breath caught. Violent brushstrokes erupted across the canvas. Aggressive slashes of crimson and black that mimicked arterial spray. The same strokes she’d studied in the conference room painting.

She scanned the chaotic composition, searching for the hidden pattern. There. In the lower right quadrant where the paint formed a spiral of decreasing circles.

Donald Florek’s face emerged from the fractal geometry. Eyes wide with terror. Mouth open in a silent scream. The killer’s latest trophy.

Tori’s gasp escaped before she could stop it.

“I know, right?” Laelanie beamed, misreading the sound entirely. “This one’s even more breathtaking than his last. The artist is really growing in his craft.”

Growing. Tori’s stomach lurched. Each murder refined his technique. Each victim taught him something new about staging, about violence, about transforming death into art. Laelanie was right. This . . . this . . . Mandelbrot killer was perfecting his masterpiece, one corpse at a time.

“It’s incredible,” Blade managed, clearing his throat. “Where is this headed? I’d love to see more of his work in person.”

Laelanie consulted the packing slip. “Interesting. The final destination is TBD. The Mandelbrot Group has instructed us to hold it until they provide shipping instructions.”

Tori’s heart sank. A dead end wrapped in a breakthrough. They had irrefutable proof connecting the murders. Florek’s terrorized face stared back at them from the canvas. But the killer remained a ghost, hidden behind corporate anonymity.

“How frustrating,” she said, forcing disappointment into her voice instead of the rage building in her chest. “We were hoping to meet this artist.”

“I’ll keep your information on file,” Laelanie offered. “If they contact us again, I can pass along your interest.”

Perfect. Another waiting game while the killer planned his next fractal masterpiece.

23

The sand shifted beneath Blade’s feet with each punishing stride, his lungs burning as he drove himself harder along the deserted shoreline. Three miles into his run and the image still blazed behind his eyelids. Florek’s terrified face hidden in those violent brushstrokes, staring back at them like an accusation.

Another dead end.

His feet pounded the packed sand at the water’s edge, salt spray misting his face. The Mandelbrot Group. A corporate shell hiding their killer behind layers of bureaucracy and legal protection. Meanwhile, the psychopath—the Mandelbrot Killer as Tori had dubbed him—was out there planning his next masterpiece, selecting his next victim to transform into fractals and fear.

And Blade couldn’t stop him.

The failure gnawed at him worse than the stitch developing in his side. Four victims. Four families destroyed while he chased shadows and corporate records. The killer stayed three steps ahead, orchestrating each scene with geometry while Blade stumbled through the aftermath like a rookie.

No wonder Kiara had dumped him. Normal guys didn’t stand over a body staged like a math equation. They didn’t skip dinners for diagrams of blood spray. They didn’t let their cases fracture their relationships.

He reached his turnaround point and pivoted, driving himself back toward his condo. His quadriceps screamed in protest, but he welcomed the burn. Physical pain was clean. Manageable. Unlike the mess churning in his gut.

How could he be so close to answers but feel miles away?

Tori deserved answers after all these years. After all she’d endured. The murder of her parents. The nightmares and foster homes and years building walls so thick even he couldn’t break through them. And now her brother—her twin—might be hunting her with plans to finish what had begun that night.

He should have connected the dots sooner. Should have protected her better. Should have been the detective Stryker believed he could become instead of this broken version stumbling through cases he couldn’t solve.

His legs gave their opinion first. The trembling started at his knees and worked up. He slowed to a walk at the surf’s edge, hands on his hips, head down, gasping. The waves hit the shore and hit it again. Relentless. A1A hummed somewhere behind the dunes. The patio music from across the Intracoastal had long since faded. Just him and the water and the air scorching his lungs.

Utterly alone under a canopy of stars that offered no answers.