The Artist: Closer Now, and Closer Yet

Sanders had led me to his car, and I had hopped in. He and I had spent the first minute in silence, passing trees and houses while the night breeze picked our hair up and sent it flying backwards. I was on the surface for a short while, pondering over the ideals of religion as my prey was focused on the road.
“Hey, Valary,” Sanders started. In the blink of an eye, Valary rematerialized and took over my true self. We turned to him, replying with a small “yes?” as a motion for him to go ahead. “I saw in the news that the Artist is in town. You better be careful, kid. You could be bleeding out right now for all you know, had I not found you.”
“The… artist?” Valary questioned. I wanted to scream and laugh at this, for the Artist was what the media called us. By us, I meant the Master and me, along with the many names I have used in the face of my prey. Michelle, Betty, Annabel, Leila, and countless others. Occasionally, I would even pretend to be a guy. Each and every time, my disguise had been flawless. Be it Victor or Victoria, nobody suspected that I was the Artist. I was quite pleased that the police finally had some clue where I was, even if I did make it obvious by placing an HB post card under my last victim. Surprise, surprise; the big men really did have brains in their thick skulls.
“Yeah, The Artist,” Sanders continued. “You don’t know?”
Valary shook her head. Sanders sighed, getting ready for what I presumed was an explanation of who I was. “The Artist is a serial killer. The media doesn’t know anything about him at all, but he’s killed over thirty victims. It seems he takes victims in random, so anyone and everyone can become a target. The poor idiots are found dead in their own house, with no signs of forced entry. Sometimes their eyes are missing, or teeth, or tongue… you get my point. This guy leaves no trace of himself. They know it’s a ‘he’, because a woman wouldn’t have enough strength to overpower over half of his victims, they said. ”
“Oh… oh my God,” Valary held a hand up to her mouth and widened her eyes. We’re so good at this game, the Master laughed with me, our glee masked by Valary’s frail demeanor. When the time has come, He continued. We shall shock him. He’ll never see it coming. “Wh—What does the Artist do?”
“A lot,” Sanders said; his voice was a strange hue of disgust and fear. “Like, he carves intricate patterns onto his victims’ bodies using knives, pens, and such. Or he’d draw on their walls using the victims’ blood. You’ll be much safer in a house than in that park, kid.” And you’ll be much safer if you haven’t taken pity in Valary, the Master and I chimed. Valary had nodded and gulped, before returning to the silken silence of the trip. Sanders intermittently threw a sidelong glance at me, and I ignored him. Eye contact in a time of void mentality might give me away, so it was safer for me to make as little eye contact as possible from there on out.
As expected, Valary Sanders didn’t mind. She didn’t mind at all. In fact, she was incredibly compassionate and had been admittedly pleasant toward me. Their dog was away at obedience school, so I didn’t have to worry about a yipping tattle-tale nose. That night, I got a clean spare bedroom with off-white walls, white bed sheets and duvet, and white everything. I decided I didn’t like it, and that it’d look better with just a touch of scarlet. [and by “a touch,” I mean “walls full of”]