The screens went black. I had the phone pressed to my ear. No answer. No answer. No—
“Cassie.” Agent Sterling came on. “It’s fine. The UNSUB cut the power, but we have Michael secured.”
Something gave inside of me, but I didn’t have time for relief. The UNSUB’s name was on the tip of my tongue. What came out was, “What if it’s not Michael he’s after?”
We’d been going off the assumption that if given a choice, the UNSUB would revert to the original plan, targeting Michael. But if he’d discovered his intended victim had left Las Vegas, if he’d changed the plan, if he’d already found a way of regaining power and control—
“Aaron,” I told Agent Sterling. Those words were met with silence.
“The UNSUB is Beau Donovan, and he’s targeting Aaron Shaw,” I plowed on. “Michael was only ever a stand-in. Beau saw him with Lia, and it was like looking at Aaron with Tory. If Beau thought, even briefly, that Michael wasn’t an option, he’d compensate by going for the real thing.”
“Briggs.” I heard Sterling call out, even though she was keeping her voice low. “We’re looking for Beau Donovan, targeting Aaron Shaw.”
On-screen, the lights flickered back on. Over the phone, I heard a piercing scream. My eyes darted from one video feed to the next. Beside
me, Sloane slipped off the sofa and to her knees in front of the coffee table, her hands on either side of one of the tablets.
The agent wearing the camera ran forward. The image shook. A crowd formed. The camera was jostled, and then the agent knelt.
Next to the body of Aaron Shaw.
A high-pitched wheezing sound filled the air. Lia sank to the floor and wrapped her arms around Sloane.
“I told him,” Sloane whispered. “I told my father. January twelfth. The Grand Ballroom. I told him. I told him. I told him.”
He should have listened. But he hadn’t, and now Aaron was pale and still and covered in blood. Dead.
“Cassie?” Agent Sterling’s voice came back over the phone. I’d forgotten I was even holding it. “How sure are you about the UNSUB’s identity?”
On one of the other screens, I saw Beau Donovan, standing near the stage. He didn’t look like he’d just killed someone. Without Michael to read him, I couldn’t tell if that was satisfaction on his face.
You don’t have to say anything, Agent Sterling had told Beau during his interrogation. But I think you want to. I think there’s something you want us to know.
Michael had indicated that Agent Sterling was right. There was something Beau wanted them to know, something he wouldn’t say. You wanted them to know how superior you are—better than the FBI, better than the group you’re emulating.
He’s got the potential for violence, Dean had told us. The rest of Dean’s assessment echoed in my head. I’m guessing he’s spent a lot of his life being tossed aside like garbage. Given the opportunity, he’d enjoy playing a game where he came out on top.
We’d known the Vegas UNSUB was capable of arranging deaths that seemed like accidents. It wasn’t much of a leap to think he might be able to plan an attack that looked like self-defense. You picked a fight with Aaron. The Majesty’s head of security came after you. You knew he would. You picked the fight with Aaron so that he would. Beau had probably hypnotized that girl into joining Aaron at Tory’s show, to give him an excuse to pick the fight. You didn’t kill Victor McKinney. You never meant to kill him—because he wasn’t number five.
He was your defense.
What better way to avoid suspicion than being arrested for the crimes and then exculpated and released?
You wrote the wrong number on his wrist. Misdirection.
“Cassie?” Agent Sterling said again.
On the floor, Sloane rocked back and forth, shuddering in Lia’s arms. I told Agent Sterling what she needed to hear. “I’m sure.”
