It wasn't a coincidence.
That wax figure in the basement had been a perfect copy of me. Not "similar." Not "inspired by." It was me my face, my posture, even the tiny expressions I made without thinking. Whoever created it didn't guess. He studied.
For a long time.
Long enough that it could've started before my death.
And after I died, he must've lost whatever he was chasing. Lost his "muse." Then Riley appeared someone with a face close enough to reopen that obsession and he aimed it right back at me.
It wasn't affection.
It wasn't love.
It was hunger dressed up as art.
My skin crawled at the thought of it. The idea of him examining my body like a project, like a thing. The cold focus. The patience. The sick pride of creating something "perfect."
I swallowed hard. My throat felt tight.
"Lewis," I whispered, voice shaking, "what do we do? Whitney is still trapped with Vito. You have to help her."
