The face that stared back at me from Celine’s drawing was one I recognized.
Nightshade.
The likeness Michael’s half sister had drawn was eerily accurate, down to the boyish expression on the murderer’s face.
Seven, I thought, my heart pounding viciously in my chest. Seven Masters, seven ways of killing. The progression went in a predictable order, starting with the Master who drowned his victims and culminating in poison.
Nightshade is Seven.
Nightshade is Mason Kyle.
The part of me that had felt numb and hollow from the moment I’d realized that the Masters had Laurel began to crack, like ice under the force of a pick. In the past ten weeks, the FBI hadn’t been able to uncover anything about Nightshade’s background. Now we had his real name. We knew where he’d been born. And—most importantly—we knew that he’d tried very hard to bury that information.
You’re the one who brought Laurel to Vegas. You’re the one who told me where she was.
I felt like my gut had been ripped open, like everything inside of me was leaking out. The man in this drawing had killed Judd’s daughter. He’d stalked us, and when we’d caught him, he’d wrapped Laurel up for me in a tidy little bow. Why? Had he been instructed to do so? Had it all been part of some twisted game?
I found Agent Sterling in the kitchen sitting opposite Briggs. Her hands were folded on the table, inches from his. You won’t let yourself touch him. You won’t let him touch you.
She was the one who’d brought me to Laurel. She wouldn’t blame Briggs for this. She wouldn’t blame me. After Scarlett’s death, Agent Sterling had left the FBI—because she blamed herself.
“Celine Delacroix is a Natural.” I spoke up from the doorway. Right now, wallowing in guilt wasn’t a privilege any of us could afford. “She did an age progression of a photo Sloane found. Nightshade’s name is Mason Kyle. We
can use that.” My voice broke, but I forced myself to continue talking. “We can use him.”
