A Study In Crimson

The bar glowed like oil on canvas, amber lights smearing across glassware, shadows painted in soft strokes.

He watched her over the rim of his drink, cataloging every detail.

High cheekbones, eyes as grey as storm clouds. Porcelain face worthy of a gallery.

Above them, the TV flickered. “...the seventh woman found in what police are calling a serial pattern. The latest victim, discovered behind...”

He knew.

He could still see her, arms folded like wings, blood pooling beneath her like The Death of Marat. Her final expression captured forever in the alleyway’s chiaroscuro.

“Creepy, right?” she asked, gesturing at the screen. “Some guy out there thinks he’s untouchable.”

He smiled, tracing the rim of his glass. “Or maybe he thinks he’s an artist.”

She laughed. “Morbid.”

He didn’t correct her.

She asked about his work, and he lied easily. “Commercial illustrator, dabbling in fine art.”

Truth was, he hadn’t picked up a brush in years. Not since he found a new medium.

Blood had such a vibrant tone.

He imagined her in repose, pale bloodless limbs spread like his favorite painting, Ophelia, as she floated in a tub of crimson-streaked water.

Perfect symmetry.

Perfect silence.

But she kept talking, kept laughing, and just like that, he felt his plans began to blur.

She was clever. Sharp. When she joked, her eyes searched his for reaction, like she wanted to be known. He’d never wanted to know someone like this.

They walked to her apartment under the hush of a bruised sky.

As she led him inside he was struck by the smell. Crisp citrus. A hint of pine beneath it all.

Clean.

Clean like a gallery before an exhibit. Like a canvas waiting for its first stroke. He inhaled deeply, and for a moment, he felt high.

“I like to keep things tidy,” she said, slipping off her red heels. “Makes it easier to breathe.”

He followed her in, heart skittering. Everything was pristine. Surfaces gleamed. No clutter. Nothing out of place.

She handed him a glass of wine. “You’re not allergic to lemons, are you?” she joked.

“No,” he said, sipping, watching her.

She moved with a deliberate dancers grace.

God, he wanted her. Not her death. Her presence. Her mind. She was beyond art. She was art. I can’t kill her. He thought.

“I don’t usually invite people up,” she said.

“You shouldn’t,” he murmured. “What if I was dangerous?”

She smiled seductively. “Are you?”

He chuckled, playing along. “I could be a serial killer.”

She set her glass down with care and deftly reached beneath the couch cushion, drawing a knife, sleek, stainless, and familiar in her hand.

“What are the chances,” she said, “of there being two serial killers in the same room?”

His breath caught.

Not with fear.

With awe.

He saw it all now! Them, together!

Two artists with matching brushes.

As the knife opened his throat, deep crimson spilling down his chest, he felt his heart stutter.

My God, he thought, she’s perfect.