The car moved smoothly down the highway, occasionally switching lanes to pass the other cars. She sat in the backseat, one leg crossed over the other. Her hands rested neatly in her lap. Gold glinted from her left hand. The ring's counterpart was on the finger of the man sitting next to her, though it was hidden under the leather gloves he wore.

Eyes lowered, Celestina surveyed his gloved hands while keeping her face forward. Save for the nights they were intimate, he hardly ever removed them. And they were always cold to the touch.

This thing they had—it wasn't a fairytale like she told the masses. Oh, but the things she said and the photographs catching them together had everyone fooled. Couple goals, they said. But those sweet little photos—those 'accidental' snapshots—were just like any other photo shoot. Posed.

In all honesty, Celestina didn't want a fairytale marriage. She wanted one that was just like the gold band that symbolized it—wrapped around her finger. And who was more perfect, she had thought, than this photographer with his convoluted sense of art and delicate ego? One that was convinced he had found his muse in the flesh. And like a good muse, she would fill him with so much inspiration. Narcissists were laughably easy to please.

That's what she'd thought. But she had misjudged. Instead of having him bend to her sultry, feminine will, it almost seemed the other way around. He seemed to hold her simpering in his gloved hand, only allowing it to reach his skin when he permitted it. And then there was his… other side. The one he used to snuff out lives like they were nothing—without the slightest care for the human being. It was almost as if he didn't realize they were people, only art. And yet maybe he did.

It frightened Celestina how someone could be so disconnected and yet so fully aware. And, as much as she didn't like to admit it, she was actually scared of him.

Funnily enough, that's what she found most attractive about him.

Suddenly, Celestina gave a loud sigh. She saw Stefano respond to the broken silence by twitching a leg. Testing the waters, she leaned against him. "Oh my darling," she purred. "This upcoming month will be so lonely. Are you going to miss me?"

"It'll certainly be colorless without you."

"And when I'm gone…" She put a hand on his knee. "Will your eyes stray?"

She felt the cold, impersonal touch of leather take her chin. Gently gripping her by the jaw, Stefano turned her face up to his. "Amore mio," he told her, his voice too quiet for the driver to hear, "what are they compared to you? I see them as nothing but blank canvases." He released her. Celestina fell back into her seat, only then realizing how fast her heart was racing. She could still feel the phantom of his tight grip pressing into her skin. Softly, she cleared her throat and looked out the window. They had arrived at the airport. Their car pulled up to the drop off.

"And look how they come," she heard Stefano say quietly. Crowded around the drop off, but held back by airport security, was a mid-sized crowd. "Cameras at the ready."

Celestina lifted her hand to the handle. She felt Stefano take her wrist. "Allow me," he said. "We are under their focus now, after all." He got out of the car. Celestina glanced out the tinted window and saw the crowd grow lively in response.

He obscured the view when he stopped by her window. The door opened and a leather-clad hand was extended towards her. Celestina looked up and smiled, taking his proffered hand with her left. His fingers closed down, covering the gold, and Celestina stepped out. No sooner had the heels of her knee-high boots touched the concrete did she hear the clicking of cameras.

The chauffeur took her luggage inside. When it was all checked in, Celestina stopped just outside the security gate. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the reporters and others who had come to see her go. Lenses pointed, honing in like watchful eyes.

Celestina looked down to one of Stefano's hands as he gently gripped her by the shoulders. Then, they slid up until they came to a rest beneath either side of her jaw. He leaned down to one ear, brushing against her cheek as he did. Celestina held tightly onto the front of his blazer.

"Amore mio," he whispered. "Smile for the camera."

He pulled his face back and pressed his lips firmly to hers. There came the rapid clicking, immortalizing the image of love that seemed incapable of doing any wrong.

'You busy?'

'Yeah, sorry.'

'It's okay.'

Ledford tossed the phone aside and scrubbed his face with his hands. 'Busy' was an understatement. In the last three days, he had only stopped by his apartment once to grab a bite, shower, and take a two-hour nap. That had been roughly 24 hours ago. He was starving, exhausted, half-delirious, and determined not to quit until there had been at least some progress.

His chair had been pushed far from the desk. Ledford stood with his palms planted on the desktop, looking down at the give separately collated stacks of documents in front of him. Each one was for a different murder victim—five in total, with the latest having been Janine Sawyer.

Ledford picked up a document of the first victim's stack to read the one underneath. Natalie McMann—Ledford skimmed through her dossier and the report on her death. Names of possible suspects had been listed, but it had been useless. This one had a solid alibi. So did this one. Ledford grinded his teeth. McMann's case had remained cold. Just like all of them.

A knock made him look up. Ledford hadn't realized how low he was stooped over the files. At the threshold to his office, Sebastian locked eyes with Ledford. Then, he placed a paper bag and fountain drink on the table by the door. With a nod, Sebastian turned away and disappeared.

The aromas that immediately wafted out of the bag triggered a deep grumble in Ledford's gut. Quickly giving in, he pushed himself off the desk and walked over to it. He picked up the drink and called out, "Thanks, babe!"

"Any time, sugar," Sebastian's droll voice returned from somewhere down the hall.

Ledford took a drink from the straw. He could practically imagine his sister wrinkling her nose while saying, "That's a one-way ticket to getting a candy gut."

Ledford pinched the bridge of his nose, still clenching the straw between his teeth. Well, given the amount of calories I've been missing out on these past few days, I say there's no harm this time. He turned to the back and began digging through it. I guess a 15-minute break is in order.

The effect that food on his concentration was amazing. Ledford felt as though this was the first time in years he had eaten. But as soon as he had crumpled the empty burger wrapper, it was time to get right back to work. He needed to comb through all the files again and find something, anything, which might prove a possible link.

Ledford was sitting in his chair this time with the documents of the Emily Lewis case in his lap. She had been a fashion model and was nurturing a promising acting career when her life had been taken. As Ledford sifted through the papers, he came across a newspaper clipping from the Krimson Post that had been included. It'd been published shortly after Vankirk had held the press conference about the murder. Displayed with the article was the picture forensics had taken of the body at the crime scene. Good fucking God, Ledford thought grimly. The Krimson Post really doesn't sugarcoat their stories. His eyes skimmed over the article. It summarized the circumstances of Lewis's murder. Yeah, Ledford knew the story inside and out—he'd written the 10-page report after combing through every scrap of evidence the boys in blue had turned in.

Ledford didn't know how this article clipping wounded up in here. Usually, he never bothered with these things. The press was a thorn in his side—they blew everything out of proportion. Sure, it was nice when they asked for pictures and sang praises when you did something right. But if you even sneezed the wrong way… Man, hungry wolves over a deer carcass had nothing on them.

Still, the clipping had been included, and it was relevant. That meant Ledford had to give it some attention as well. But then, as his eyes came to the last paragraph in the article, his grip on the paper tightened.

This was a new piece of information—an interview that had never come to his attention because the police had not conducted it. But what struck him weren't the words inside the quotation marks. It was the name attributed to them. I've seen that name before!

Ledford shot out of his chair and hurried to the desk. He put Lewis's file down and picked up another one—Amanda Cabera. He flipped down to transcripts of interviews and… There it was! That name again! He chose another file and rifled through it.

That name. Only a brief mention this time, just like in Lewis's file. Almost invisible. But it was there.

Ledford's eyes lifted, unable to see what was in front of him because of the thoughts racing in his head. Then he straightened up and whirled around. Whisking his leather jacket from the back of his chair, he pulled it on as he marched out the door. The lights were switched off with a quick flick of the switch and the door to his office slammed shut.

The pilot's voice filled the cabin, announcing that the plane would reach New York City in about 30 minutes. Boredly, Celestina glanced out the window and watched the textured landscape of clouds pass slowly underneath. How she'd long to go on this nationwide tour as soon as Clyde had given her the news. But how cruel it was that doing so delayed her honeymoon. Oh well—give and take. She wouldn't have traded this opportunity for anything.

"Celestina," she heard Clyde say, pulling her attention. She turned her head to the man sitting next to her. "We've got a bit of time before we reach the airport, and I'm sure you'll want to get to the hotel and decompress as soon as we land. Might as well get a bit of admin out of the way."

"Of course," Celestina replied.

"Now I've got this little checklist…" Clyde leaned to the side to pull a folded piece of paper from his suit pocket. "Just some tips for, uh, out-of-city shows. Seeing how this is your first. These are some good pointers I learned back in my Macy Clarke days."

Celestina bit back her exasperated groan. She detested it whenever Clyde brought up that name. It made him sound like some discarded trash sulking over an ex. Macy Clarke was a singer Clyde had been manager to several years back. Her fame snowballed to the point where she had swapped Clyde out for a different manager, one whom she considered of a "higher caliber" to match her rising status. But Clyde was working for Celestina now, and she so wanted to pull out that tongue every time it mentioned that name.

But she kept silent, hiding away her disdain, as Clyde began going through the list. "Oh, and right when you get on stage, be sure to greet the audience. Mention the city—they love that."

Celestina leaned her face against her fingertips, occasionally giving a nod at the end of each of his pointers. They were sound but… Well, her mind was beginning to encroach on more important things.

"Clyde," she suddenly interrupted. Her manager stopped. "Before we left, did you remember to send those flowers I asked you to send?"

"To Mrs. Newell?"

"Yes."

"I did."

Celestina smiled softly as she straightened up and rubbed the back of her sore neck. "Good, thank you," she said. "I'm sure they'll look lovely next to her hospital bed."

"And I'm sure she and Douglas appreciate the thoughtfulness."

Celestina looked back out the window. That's what I'm counting on.

Oh how he lamented the departure of his wonderful muse, especially now since her absence left him with nothing except the company of these feebleminded dullards.

For example, the curator of the Krimson City Gallery of Art. He had called Stefano down to his office to discuss one of his works that was currently on display. When he got there, the curator told him that he was debating on whether to take that specific work down from the rest of the exhibits.

Obviously, Stefano wasn't pleased, but he was going to grant this idiot the chance to explain himself.

"I just wanted to double-check," the curator said, looking at the large print that was propped up on a nearby chair. "I know we talked about this when you first submitted it, but the blood is fake, right?"

Within the bronze frame was a photograph of a white rose, its blossom lying just short of the edge of a dark mahogany tabletop. Underneath the rose was a small pool of crimson. It had seeped up into the flower itself, outlining the seams between each delicate petal in bright red. The blood was falling over the edge of the tabletop in two thin, viscous streams. Resting over the thorny stem of the rose was a feminine hand, its fingers posed listlessly over the thin green stalk.

"For the last time, yes," Stefano replied, letting his irritation surface just a touch in his voice. "It was corn syrup and red dye—just like what's used on movie sets." Oops, a lie.

"And the hand is… a model's or a mannequin's?"

"Real," Stefano stated.

"Can I ask whose hand it was? Those thorns look…"

"Nothing was harmed during the shot," Stefano said in a vexed tone, one hand clenching. The leather creaked. "It was my—let's see—then fiancé's. And the only injury she sustained was a sticky hand." Oops, another one.

"Okay," the curator replied in a tone that attempted to placate him. It did quite the opposite. "Well it's just that—and let me just preface with this, Mr. Valentini. I think it's a very well-done piece—."

Sure you do.

"—But I've gotten, well, more than a few complaints from patrons. They say it's disturbing, and I can't rightly ignore them."

Stefano wasn't quite sure what he was more astounded by—the disgustingly proletarian opinions of those too short-sighted to recognize an art form from a stain on the sidewalk, or this cowardly curator bending over backwards to their will. How did this simpleton even obtain his position? Oh, that's right. Other simpletons had appointed him.

Stefano sat back in the chair, his leg crossed. He opened his hands up before clasping them back together again. "That's disappointing."

"I know, and I'm sorry to have to tell you this. No one likes to hear this kind of thing about their work."

Don't try and pretend you know what it's like to be an artist. You just hang up the works.

"Well is it your final decision to have it removed?"

"It's what I'm leaning towards, yes. I just wanted to give you a heads up, and…"

Stefano's one visible eye flicked up to the curator, very clearly conveying the snappish command, "Get to the point."

"I don't want this to be a burning of bridges, Mr. Valentini. Your past works have always been very well received and I can confidently say that this museum's collection has been bettered by them." He gestured towards Stefano. "Your landscapes, for example. If you have any more of those, I'd be more than happy to display them."

"Landscapes?" Stefano repeated softly, though he wanted to scream it. Was this a joke? No, really, was it? It had to be.

"Yes. Or your portraits," the curator continued, completely unaware. "Your recent ones of your wife turned out—."

"Thank you," Stefano cut off, planting his foot down and rising. "This has been a nice chat." The curator looked startled. Stefano walked towards the door.

"Mr. Valentini—."

"Have a good day."

His mind was still roaring and ripping in tumultuous wrath as he headed out of the museum's administration wing. Landscapes? Why waste perfectly fine gallery space for such a boring, vapid, insipid, stupid thing? If the curator wanted landscapes, he ought to just look out the window for fuck's sake!

Stefano slowed his steps, quickly tempering himself down. Taking a deep breath, he reached up. Out of habit, he almost brushed his hair out of his face. But he didn't, and his hand dropped back down to his side.

The man who had once photographed landscapes and other equally dull compositions was gone. One could even say he had been killed in the explosion that had taken out Stefano's eye. And the man standing in his shoes today was better for it—he had been enlightened. He would rather burn every single one of his beautiful pieces than revert back to those pitiful years.

But now he was so very alone, pummeled by the dimwitted critiques of apes. Stefano bitterly missed his muse—his darling Celestina. She was the only one who understood him. Amore mio, never has any other month seemed so long as this one.

He pushed his way out of the museum through the revolving glass door. The street outside was bright and lively. Hundreds of feet pounded across the concrete. They belonged to blots of moving color—splotches of paint that had been carelessly thrown onto a canvas.

Stefano let out a heavy, irate breath. He pulled the collar of his white dress shirt lightly away from his throat. The cruel, mocking memory of Celestina's hands wildly pulling his collar open flashed briefly like a double exposure over his senses. There had once been a day when he could suffer through these Neanderthals alone, but those days too were dead and gone.

As he walked, one of the blobs moved closer. It suddenly assumed the form of a man. Stefano gave him a brief side-glance, not slowing his pace. Whatever you want, I've no interest in giving it to you.

This man was… ugh. His only saving grace was his rather stylish leather jacket, but his coppery brown hair was unkempt and the dress shirt underneath looked wrinkled, as though worn several days without being ironed.

But he was quickly converging on Stefano's path, so he had no choice but to slow down. He was tall, broad set. The leather sleeves strained around the man's arms.

"Stefano Valentini?"

"Who's asking?" Stefano replied casually.

"Detective Ledford, KCPD." The man pulled back the front of his jacket by a bit, revealing the corner of his badge tucked inside only for a second before closing it.

Oh boy. A cop. Just when Stefano thought he could salvage the rest of this day—no. He'd just traded the company of one simpleton for another. "Yes, it's me."

"Well," the detective suddenly mused. His lips twitched into a smile. Stefano couldn't see past the offending scruff. Uncouth. You could have at least shaved that mess off before talking to me. "Finding you has really made my day, Mr. Valentini." He leaned an inch closer, his voice growing low. "Now, if I'm not mistaken, you're probably recognized here in the art district. Just because I'm a nice fella, I'm going to give you a chance to preserve your reputation and cuff you when you're out of sight. My patrol car is right around the corner. Come along, but if you want to be loud I can roll with that too."

Stefano followed the detective down the street.

The patrol car was sitting along the curb in a secluded part of the district. When they reached it, the detective turned around to face Stefano. "Hands on the car, please." When Stefano complied, the detective pulled his arms back one at a time. He heard the mechanical clicking of the handcuffs and felt their cold, firm grip latch onto his wrists.

"Mr. Valentini, you're under arrest for the murder of Janine Sawyer. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can…"

Janine Sawyer, huh? Oh yes, Stefano remembered. That one had been quite a special one. So the detective had come to arrest him for that one, had he? He wondered what had pointed the detective in his direction. Still, Stefano couldn't help but commend this one for getting closer than any of the other badge-wearing buffoons in this city. Not that it'd help him in the end.

"… Do you understand the rights as they have been read to you?"

"Of course, Detective. What kind of man do you think I am?"

The detective opened the backseat door for him. Before Stefano stepped in, he and the detective locked eyes for a heartbeat. There was something interesting about this one.

"That remains to be seen," the detective replied stonily.