Who takes a stressed-out kleptomaniac shopping? I thought in self- recrimination as we slipped out the back exit. Seriously, who does that? The door closed behind us. Sloane was standing a few feet away, the silk shirt clutched in one hand and some kind of bracelet in the other.
“Sloane,” I said, “we have to go back inside.”
“It’s not just four bodies in four days,” Sloane said. “That’s what we missed. What I missed. January first, January second—those aren’t just days. They’re dates. 1/1. 1/2.”
“I understand,” Lia said, so convincingly that I could almost believe she did. “You can tell us all about it after we get back inside before either Judd or the sales girl notices we’re gone.”
“One, one, two.” Sloane continued on as if Lia had never spoken. “That’s the way the sequence starts. 1/1. 1/2. Do you see? The pattern hasn’t been broken, because a body every day was never the pattern.” Sloane’s voice practically vibrated with intensity. “January first, second, third, and fourth—they’re all Fibonacci dates. Thirteen, 1/3. One hundred and forty-four, 1/4.” The words poured out of her mouth, faster and faster. “I just have to figure out the exact parameters he’s using….”
At the end of the alleyway, another door opened. Lia thought fast, pulling Sloane and me back against the wall. She needn’t have bothered. The two people who exited were fully caught up in their own conversation.
I couldn’t hear what either of them was saying, but I didn’t need Michael there to tell me that emotions were running high.
Aaron Shaw. I registered Sloane’s brother’s presence a moment before I identified his companion. And Tory Howard.
Aaron said something, pleading with her. She pulled back, then went back into the building, slamming the door. Aaron cursed—loud enough that I could make out the words—then kicked the metal door.
“That’s my favorite curse word, too,” Sloane whispered. “Somebody,” Lia murmured, “has a temper.”
The metal door banged open behind me, and I jumped. Judd stepped into the alleyway, scanning the perimeter for threats. I knew the exact second his eyes landed on Aaron Shaw.
“Girls,” he said, “go back inside.”
We did as we were told. The door closed behind us, leaving Judd in the alley.
“Excuse me.” A man in a dark suit appeared in front of us. Security. He eyed the merchandise in Sloane’s hand and the direction from which we’d come. “I’m going to have to ask you girls to come with me.”
Security had caught Sloane on camera leaving the store. The fact that she’d also returned of her own volition didn’t seem to negate their opinion that she’d shoplifted. I tried to trust that when Judd came back in from the alleyway and found us missing, he’d also find his way to the security office, where the three of us had been deposited in front of a man I recognized all too well.
You’re the one who came to get Sloane’s father the night Camille was murdered, I thought as the man stared back at us. He was of medium height, with unremarkable features and a poker face that would have done any professional proud. Something in the way he sat and moved screamed power and authority, maybe even a hint of danger.
“Do you know how much shoplifting costs this casino every year?” he asked us, his tone carefully controlled.
“Thirteen billion dollars’ worth of merchandise is shoplifted annually.” Sloane couldn’t help herself. “I’d estimate your share of that to be less than point-zero-zero-zero-one percent.”
Clearly, the man hadn’t expected an actual answer.
“She wasn’t shoplifting.” Lia made it sound like the very idea of Sloane stealing anything was worthy of an eye roll. “She had a panic attack. She went outside for air. She came back in. End of story.”
Lia’s lie skated close enough to the truth that even with security footage, they would have trouble arguing her interpretation. Sloane had been agitated from the moment we’d entered the store. Sloane had gone outside. Sloane had come back in. All true.
“Victor.”
The head of security looked up. The rest of us turned toward the door of his office. Aaron Shaw stood there, looking every bit as self-possessed and in control as he had the day we met him.
“Aaron,” Victor greeted him.
Not Mr. Shaw, I noted. When it came to the hierarchy at the Majesty, it wasn’t entirely clear which one of them came out on top.
“Can this wait?” Victor’s tone made that sound more like an order than a question.
“I was just checking in on some of our VIP guests,” Aaron replied. “These girls are staying with Mr. Townsend in the Renoir Suite.”
The words Renoir Suite had Victor stiffening. Big spenders, leave them be, Aaron might as well have said.
“Let me do my job,” Victor told Aaron.
“Your job is harassing teenagers with anxiety issues?” Lia asked, arching an eyebrow at him. “I’m sure a variety of news outlets would find that fascinating.”
Once Lia had given life to a creative interpretation of the truth, she was fully committed to it.
“Why don’t we hear from the girl in question?” Victor said, narrowing his eyes at Sloane. “Were you, as your friend claims, having a panic attack?”
Sloane stared at the front corner of the man’s desk. “Patients with panic disorders are more than ten times more likely to be double-jointed than controls,” she said clearly.
“Victor.” Aaron’s voice held a note of steel. “I’ll take care of this. You can go.”
After a tense moment of silence, the head of security walked out of the room without a word. Clearly, Aaron held the upper hand here. I might have
breathed a sigh of relief, but when Aaron closed the door behind the man, he turned back to us.
“Let’s chat.”
