He was impressed by how well Isabella Fisher was keeping it together. As they pulled up into the SecureStash parking lot, her breaths came out in small gasps, her chest heaving with the strain of concealed panic. She’d cried a bit on the ride over and even begged him to please let her go, but her resolve hadn't cracked; she still clung to the hope of walking away from this.
“What unit number?” he demanded.
“Eight.”
It was easy enough to find, as there were only twenty-two units on the premises. He drove through the first paved corridor he came to and stopped just shy of Unit 8. He killed the engine, his fingers tingling with the anticipation of what was to come.
"Out," he ordered, his voice devoid of emotion. The sharp click of Isabella’s seatbelt was followed by the creak of the car door. Her movements were stiff—damage from the first few moments of their time together—but calculated. She was doing everything she could not to aggravate him.
Smart girl, he thought.
The lot sprawled before them, littered with corrugated metal doors and padlocks. They walked to Unit 8, and he let Isabella take the lead. They stopped in front of Isabella’s unit, her hand hovering over the keypad. His presence loomed behind her like a shadow, his gaze fixed on the nape of her neck.
"Remember, Isabella," he said, his words sliding out like the blade he kept hidden in his pocket. "No games." The threat hung in the air, punctuated by the silence that returned as if nature itself was holding its breath.
She nodded, a subtle dip of her head, and he could almost hear the gears turning in her mind, plotting, planning. She thought she was buying herself time, believed in the chance of survival.
Maybe not so smart after all…
"Go on," he urged, his tone soft but laced with an unspoken ultimatum. It was time for the performance to resume, and for Isabella to play a very integral part.
The digits on the keypad blurred under Isabella's trembling fingers, each press a staccato beat in the quiet of the storage lot. As she typed them in, he walked back to the car and pulled the painting from the Moreno residence out. He was rather happy that it appeared the piece would spend a good deal of time in this stupid storage unit, collecting dust and forgotten to the world. It wouldn’t be worth much of anything then, now would it?
"Come on," he called out, my patience wearing thin. Time was a luxury neither of them could afford, especially not her. The lock beeped in protest, flashing red as Isabella feigned another failed attempt.
"It's not working," she said, turning to face him. Her eyes were wide with feigned innocence, and it made him want to just go ahead and kill her right then and there.
"Do you think I’m stupid?” he barked. “Try again.”
Isabella hesitated, then shook her head. "We might need to go to the unit manager."
He approached her, having to truly focus on his patience to not let his anger come out. But he was just a breath or two away from slamming her head into the side of the metal door, again and again until there was nothing but a bloody pulp. This charade had gone on long enough. "You're lying," he stated flatly, voice devoid of emotion.
Her eyes darted around the desolate lot, searching for an escape she wouldn't find. With a swift motion, he reached out and grasped her wrist, the one already bruised and swollen from earlier. She let out a small cry, tears welling up in her eyes.
"Please," she whimpered, beaten down by pain and fear. “I’ve done nothing. I don’t…please…”
"Code. Now. This is your last chance, I swear to God.”
Reluctantly, with her good hand trembling, she punched in the correct sequence. A green light blinked its approval. The metal door groaned upwards, revealing the shadowed interior of her unit.
"Good girl," he whispered as the expanse of her secrets lay bare before them. Inside, an overhead light cast an almost eerie glow over everything. At first, all he saw was furniture and useless landscaping accessories.
“Where are the paintings?” he asked, trying his best to keep his cool.
“Over here,” she said, starting to move down one of the haphazard aisles. Her performance was admirable but pointless. He made a point to remember this when he did finally kill her. She needed to suffer for these little acts of defiance and stupidity.
But it appeared that she was actually being truthful this time. As he followed her down the thin aisle, he saw what he was looking for.
There, nestled behind a grandiose gilt frame, the piece he sought—the final painting he needed before moving on to America. Its dark hues and dramatic contrasts whispered secrets of a long-past era. He understood the allure of this painting, but it was the history behind it that he truly respected. He almost hated to include this one in his trail of blood, but it would truly serve to nail down his legacy.
A smile crept onto his lips as he reached out, the texture of the canvas rough and slightly yielding to his fingertips. With meticulous care, he exchanged the paintings—Moreno's for Fisher's. An uneven trade for sure but he honestly didn't care. That was sort of the point of all of this.
And with that, his work was done…at least here in France, anyway. He’d be on a plane in five hours, headed to Washington, D.C., where he would start a new stage to his work.
Well…it was almost done. He still needed to take care of Isabella.
With calm precision, he reached into his pocket, fingers wrapping around the cool metal of the pocketknife. It slid from fabric confines like a deadly whisper, its blade catching the overhead lights.
"Thank you for your cooperation," he said, as he stalked toward Isabella.
The blade gleamed, a silent promise in the dim light of the storage unit. A chill ran across his palm, a sensation mirrored by the cool resolve that filled his chest. Isabella's eyes widened, reflecting the glint of the knife as if it were the final piece of this deadly exhibition.
"Please," she whispered, the word hanging fragile in the air between them.
He could feel the pulse of time thumping urgently, each beat a tick closer to her inevitable end. The storage unit felt smaller now, the shadows pressing in like an audience leaning forward, eager to see what he was on the verge of creating.
She was breaking now, her legs wobbling and her voice nothing more than a trembling moan. She’d accepted that it was over, and that was good.
But she’d pay for being so difficult. Smiling, he inched even closer as she backed up on shaking legs, retreating deeper into the treasures of her life she’d never get to enjoy again.