The private jet seated twelve, but when I stepped onto the plane, only five of those seats were filled. Agents Sterling and Briggs sat at the front of the plane, on opposite sides of the aisle. She was looking at a file. He was looking at his watch.
All business, I thought. Then again, if it had really been all business between them, they wouldn’t have needed the space provided by the aisle.
Behind them, Dean sat with his back to the front of the plane. There was a table in front of him and a deck of cards on the table. Lia was sprawled across two seats, catty-corner from Dean. Sloane was perched, cross- legged, on the edge of the table, her white-blond hair pulled into a lopsided ponytail on top of her head. If she’d been anyone else, I would have been seriously concerned that she was about to topple over, but knowing Sloane, she’d probably already done the math on her current position and taken whatever steps necessary to ensure the laws of physics fell in her favor.
“Well,” Lia said, shooting me a lazy grin, “look who finally decided to grace us with her presence.”
They don’t know. The realization that Briggs hadn’t told the rest of the team about my mother—about the body—washed over me. If he had, Lia wouldn’t have been lazily poking at me; she would have been jabbing.
Some people comforted. Lia prided herself on providing distractions—and not the kind you wanted to thank her for.
My assumption was confirmed when Dean turned to look at me. “Don’t mind Lia,” he said. “She’s in a mood because I beat her at Chutes and Ladders.” A small smile played around the edges of his lips.
Dean wasn’t crossing the plane. He wasn’t putting a calming hand on my shoulder or neck. And that meant that he definitely didn’t know.
In that moment, I didn’t want him to.
The smile on his face, the way he’s teasing Lia—Dean was healing. Each day we were together, the barriers came down a little. Each day, he inched out of the shadows and became a little more himself.
I wanted that for him.
I didn’t want him thinking about the fact that my mother was a victim. I didn’t want him thinking about the fact that his father was a killer.
I wanted to hold on to that smile. “Chutes and Ladders?” I repeated.
Lia’s eyes glittered. “My version is much more interesting.” “That is concerning on so many levels,” I said.
“Welcome back,” Agent Briggs told me. Across from him, Agent Sterling looked up from the file she was reading and met my eyes. Briggs’s ex-wife was a profiler. She was my mentor.
If Briggs knows, Sterling knows. Within a heartbeat, my eyes went to the file in her hand.
“Grab a seat,” she told me.
I took that to mean, We’ll talk later. Sterling was leaving it up to me to decide what I wanted to tell the others—and when. I knew that I wouldn’t be able to keep this a secret indefinitely. Lia’s specialty was deception detection. Lying was out of the question, and no matter how firmly I locked this away, it wouldn’t take Dean long to realize that something had happened.
I had to tell them. But I might be able to put it off for a couple of hours
—especially since the one person who would have known immediately that something was wrong wasn’t on this plane.
“Where’s Michael?” I asked, sliding into the seat next to Dean. “Fifteen miles southeast of Westchester, due north of Long Island
Sound.” Sloane tilted her head to one side, like her slightly off-center ponytail was weighing it down.
“He went home for Christmas,” Dean translated. Underneath the table, his hand found its way to mine. Initiating physical contact wasn’t easy for
Dean, but slowly, he’d begun to reach out more.
“Michael went home for Christmas?” I repeated. My eyes darted to Lia’s. She and Michael had been on-again, off-again long before I’d arrived on the scene. We both knew—everyone on this plane knew—that “home” wasn’t a place Michael should be.
“Michael wanted to go home for a visit.” Agent Briggs inserted himself into the middle of the conversation, coming to stand in the aisle just behind Sloane. “It was his request and his choice.”
Of course it was. My stomach twisted. Michael had told me once that if you couldn’t keep someone from hitting you, the best thing to do was make them hit you. When Michael was hurting, when there was even a chance he might be hurt, he sought out conflict.
He’d taken my choosing Dean like a backhanded slap.
“He wanted to see his mom,” Sloane chirped up innocently. “He said he hadn’t seen her in a really long time.”
The rest of us understood people. Sloane understood facts. Whatever Michael had told her, she would have believed.
“I gave him a list of conversation starters before he left,” Sloane told me seriously. “In case he and his mom need something to talk about.”
Knowing Sloane, that probably meant she’d encouraged Michael to break the ice by informing his family that the last word in the dictionary was zyzzyva, a form of tropical weevil.
“Michael,” Briggs cut in, “will be fine.” Something about the way the agent’s jaw clenched told me that Briggs had made sure that Michael’s father knew his continued freedom depended on Michael’s continued well- being.
We’d all come to the Naturals program in different ways. Michael’s father—the one who’d taught him all about being hit—had traded Michael to the FBI for immunity on white-collar crimes.
“There, there,” Lia cut in flatly, “everyone’s fine, Kumbaya. If the comforting-Cassie portion of our daily ritual is over, can we get on with something a bit less tedious?”
One good thing about Lia: she didn’t let you indulge in worry or angst for long.
“Wheels up in five,” Briggs replied. “And Sloane?”
Our resident numbers expert bent her head back so she was staring up at Briggs. “There’s a high probability you’re going to tell me to get off the
table,” she said.
Briggs almost smiled. “Get off the table.”
