Page 80 of Fatal Pattern

“Of course.” Laelanie’s smile widened. “What kind of pieces speak to you?”

She pulled out her phone, swiped to the photos, and handed Laelanie the phone. “Something like these. They’re so powerful.”

She watched Laelanie’s face as the woman studied the screen. No shock. No horror. Just a flicker of professional recognition.

“I recognize these,” Laelanie said, handing back the phone. “But I’m sorry, I have no idea who the artist is.”

Tori let her shoulders dip, stretching the sigh into her bones, leaning into the letdown harder than she needed to. “Really? They’re incredible. We heard they came from this gallery.”

“The paintings are shipped here for treatment and mounting,” Laelanie explained. “We handle the preservation work, frame them properly, then ship to whatever address we’re given. Very anonymous process.”

Tori looked at Blade. “I really wanted to meet them. Maybe even commission something.”

Laelanie’s expression brightened. “Oh, I might be able to help with that. Let me show you something.”

She gestured toward the back of the gallery. “We keep detailed records of our preservation work. Perhaps we can trace the shipping information.”

Tori squeezed Blade’s arm as they followed Laelanie deeper into the gallery. Anonymous shipping. That meant paper trails. Records.

Maybe even an address.

“It’s understandable you’d be drawn to those pieces,” Laelanie said, navigating around stacked canvases and shipping crates. “They’re abstract fractals.”

Tori’s foot caught on a wooden frame leaning against the wall. Blade’s hand shot out, steadying her before she could fall.

“Oh yes, watch your step,” Laelanie called over her shoulder. “There’s junk everywhere back here.”

Tori’s heart slammed upward like it wanted out. “What’s an abstract fractal?”

“Well, back in ninety-eight or ninety-nine, a physicist proved that Jackson Pollock’s drip paintings follow fractal patterns.” Laelanie stopped at a cluttered desk, waking up her computer with a mouse click. “That just means that paint splatters repeat at different scales, just like you see in nature when you look at flowers or shrubs.”

The screen flickered to life, displaying a shipping database.

“Some people think you can authenticate a Pollock using mathematical equations, though that’s debatable.” Laelanie’s fingers moved across the keyboard. “But I can see how these pieces would be soothing. There’s something about abstract fractals that speaks to us.”

Tori gripped Blade’s arm tighter. Fractals. Mathematics. The same obsession that connected Damien Sullivan to their killer.

“Ah, here it is.” Laelanie’s finger traced across the screen. “The paintings are shipped from The Mandelbrot Group.”

“Mandelbrot,” Blade corrected gently. “Like ‘bro,’ not ‘brot.’”

“Right, thank you.” Laelanie smiled, but Tori barely heard the exchange.

Mandelbrot.

Damien’s rambling about fractals. Dr. Stone’s casual lecture on Keplerian patterns. The mathematical staging of each crime scene.

She forced her breathing to remain steady, her expression mildly interested rather than electrified. She’d been reading about the Mandelbrot set. The most famous fractal equation in mathematics. Self-similar patterns repeating infinitely, beautiful and terrifying in their complexity.

Just like their killer’s methodology.

She flicked a look at Blade. His gaze locked on hers, sharp and lit with the same strike of recognition. He pinned his jaw shut, muscle ticcing once.

“Oh.” Laelanie’s voice brightened with discovery. “Looks like we have a painting that just came in from them. Would you like to see it?”

“We’d love to,” she managed, her voice steady despite the adrenaline flooding her system.

Laelanie guided them through a maze of shipping crates to a sterile viewing room lined with adjustable track lighting. White walls, white floor, white ceiling. Everything designed to eliminate visual distractions.