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“Go on.”
“We’re here for Logan Jones. Is he here?” Ryden asked, shaking the woman’s hand.
“He isn’t here,” she said. “Do you need anything from him?”
“It’s alright. We’ll find him later… But… can you answer some questions for us?” Linda nodded. “Did you meet anyone unusual on the night of the exhibition? Perhaps someone suspicious Daphne was talking to? Did Daphne look normal?”
“I told the cops the same thing, but no. She was stressed about the gallery opening, but she was fine otherwise. There were a lot of new faces and old ones, and Daphne was busy talking with the patrons, trying to raise more funds. When the exhibition was over, she told me she was going home. I offered to drive her, but she said Logan was giving her a ride.”
“She was so happy,” Trish said. “We sold a lot of art and… I ca-can’t believe she’s gone now.”
“Did you talk with Logan after Daphne’s death?”
“Yes. He was here yesterday,” she said, rubbing her red-rimmed eyes. “He was her friend and…”
Fuck. He was no friend of Daphne. My suspicions were beginning to solidify the more I heard about him. His charm was poisonous. He was a fucking snake.
“He talked with the cops about her. He said he dropped her off at her apartment around twelve-thirty.”
“Do you have his address?” Ryden asked.
The two women looked at us suspiciously, eyes narrowed.
“Why? Did he do something?” Linda asked.
“No. We talked about commissioning a sculpture from him and…”
“I’ll get his address from the file,” Trish said. “Your… your art—the one you bought, if you want to take it with you.” Trish smiled, and I nodded.
“That’d be awesome. Thank you.”
Ryden and I shared a look when Trish finally came out with a piece of paper and the wrapped painting I’d bought. “I wrote down his apartment address,” Trish said. “Here’s your painting.”
“Thank you, Trish,” I said, grabbing the note from her as Ryden took the painting. “Bye.”
Nervousness warred with excitement. I felt it… the adrenaline rush of the hunt. The need for blood, his blood, was a thousand times sharper. It was like pin pricks on my skin.
Logan Jones, I’m coming for you.
“Do you think it’s him?” Ryden asked when we were driving toward his house.
I nodded. “I don’t know, but I have a bad feeling whenever I think about him. It’s… instinct. He was charming, but his charm was fake.”
I handed Ryden gloves when we finally reached Logan’s apartment. I always carried them with me—you never knew. Ryden smirked as he pulled it on.
Four rings of Logan’s doorbell didn’t bring him out. Of course, the fucker wasn’t here.
“I’m going to pick the lock,” Ryden said, quickly pulling out a pick set from his pocket. He used the tension wrench and a pick to unlock the door. Those fucking fingers were proficient with so many things. The door opened with a squeak. “What? I was a boy scout,” he said with a wink when he saw me staring at him.
“Well, good for you, Turtle Mocha. So… you’re not really a good boy.”
“I’m a good boy only for you,” he said with a salacious smile.
We walked into the clean apartment. Everything in his place was white, clinical—this place was all about efficiency and precision, and it barely looked lived in.
“This is definitely the house of a psychopath,” Ryden said with a shake of his head.
We searched the living room, which was filled with statues—one of Persephone drinking blood from a crushed heart. There was another of Medusa, but this time, she had the body of a snake. He was truly gifted but… also not normal. I recognized his darkness, his monsters.
