• •
  “You’re sick.”

“Perhaps.”

The killer looked at him with those disturbingly calm eyes.

“Now pick up your brush. I want a portrait.”

“Of what?”

“Of the man you think is going to save you.”

A silence followed.

Then the killer leaned closer and whispered:

“Make him beautiful. I want to see what hope looks like before I take it away.”

“No.”

The word was small, but it pleased him.

“Of course,” Alaric murmured. “You can refuse.”

He reached for the phone on the table and unlocked it. A photograph appeared on the screen: the painter’s apartment, his family, the life he had left behind.

The painter went still.

Alaric didn’t look at the screen. He watched the fear move across the painter’s face instead.

“Paint,” he said softly, “or I’ll start deciding what else you lose.”

“What do you want?”

“A portrait.”

“Of what?”

“Of the man you still believe is coming to save you.”

Silence filled the room.

Alaric leaned closer, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“Make him beautiful, darling. Give him kind eyes. Give him a hand reaching for yours.”

His smile sharpened.

“I want to see exactly what hope looks like before I teach you to stop looking for it.”