It hadn’t occurred to Celine to tell anyone she was going on an impromptu trip to Oklahoma. She’d turned her phone off on the plane.
“I told you.” Lia smirked at Michael. “Say that I was right.”
“You were right.” Michael rolled his eyes. His voice softened slightly. “You promised.”
“In the interest of ultimate honesty,” Celine cut in, “I’m pretty sure that everyone present would appreciate it if you two got a room.”
“I wouldn’t,” Dean grumbled.
“I am unbothered by displays of physical and emotional intimacy,” Sloane volunteered. “The nuances and statistics underlying courtship behavior are quite fascinating.”
The edges of Celine’s lips quirked upward as she met Sloane’s gaze. “You don’t say.”
Sloane frowned. “I just did.”
“I could use some mathematical expertise for these facial reconstructions.” Celine cocked her head to the side. “You in, Blondie?”
Remembering Sloane’s reaction to the bodies in the basement, I expected her to decline, but instead, she took a step toward Celine. “I’m in.”
Agent Sterling, Celine, and Sloane left before the sun came up the next morning. I ended up along for the ride. In all my time in the Naturals program, this was my first visit to one of the FBI labs—in this case, a secure facility a two-hour drive from Gaither. After the medical examiner had finished her analysis of both bodies and a forensics team had gathered trace evidence from the clothing and skin, what little had remained of our victims’ flesh had been stripped from the bones. The two skeletons lay side by side.
Agent Sterling cleared the room before allowing us in.
Celine stood in the doorway, taking in the long view before advancing on the skeletons, circling them slowly. I knew, just from her posture, that her eyes missed nothing. Her gaze latched on to the smaller skeleton—our female victim.
You see more than bones. You see contours. A cheek, a jaw, eyes…
“Can I touch her?” Celine asked, turning to Agent Sterling.
Sterling inclined her head slightly, and Sloane handed Celine a pair of gloves. Celine slipped them on and ran her fingertips gently over the woman’s skull, feeling the way the bones curved and met up with each other. For Celine, painting was a whole-body endeavor, but this—this was sacred.
“Two-point-three-nine inches between her orbital cavities,” Sloane said softly. “An estimated two and a half inches between her pupils and mouth.”
Celine continued her exploration of the skull, nodding slightly. As Sloane rattled off more measurements, Celine reached for the sketch pad she’d laid on a nearby exam table. Within seconds, she had a pencil in hand and it was flying across the page.
As Celine drew, she stepped back from the rest of us. You’ll show it to us when it’s ready. When it’s done.
It was several minutes before the sound of Celine ripping the paper out of her pad cut through the air. Without a word, she handed the picture to Sloane, set down her notepad, and turned her attention to the second skeleton.
Sloane brought the picture to me. I brought it to Agent Sterling. The woman staring back at us from the page was in her late twenties, pretty in an ordinary kind of way. A creeping feeling of familiarity tugged at me.
“Recognize her?” Agent Sterling asked me quietly, as Celine continued to work on the other side of the room.
I shook my head, but inside, I felt like nodding. “She looks…” The words hovered, just out of grasp. “She looks like Melody,” I said finally. “Ree’s granddaughter.”
The instant that statement was out of my mouth, I knew. I knew who this woman was. I knew that Ree’s daughter—Melody and Shane’s mother— hadn’t skipped town after a brief stop at Serenity Ranch.
She’d never left.
I tried to remember anything else I could about the woman—anything I’d heard, anything I’d seen. Instead, I remembered what my mother had tried to keep me from seeing at the bottom of the stairs.
Something big. Something lumpy.
Blood on my mother’s hands…
I couldn’t make out the face on the body. I couldn’t tell if it was male or female.
Kane. Kane was there. The knowledge swept over me. Wasn’t he?
Feeling like the world was falling out beneath me, I walked toward Celine, who’d picked up her sketch pad again. This time, I couldn’t stop myself from watching as she drew.
She let me.
She let me watch over her shoulder, and slowly, a man’s face emerged.
Jawline first. Hairline. Eyes. Cheeks, mouth…
I took a step back. Because this time, there was no creeping feeling of familiarity, no searching the banks of my memory for some clue of who this body had belonged to.
I recognized that face. And suddenly, I was standing at the top of the steps again, and there was a body at the bottom.
I see it. I see the face. I see blood—
The man in the picture—the man in my memory, crumpled at the bottom of the stairs, the skeleton on the exam table, a decade dead—was Kane Darby.
YOU
The Masters find you sitting on the floor, the knife balanced on your knee. Five is in pieces beside you.
You look up, feeling more alive—more like yourself—than you ever have. “He was not worthy,” you offer.
You are not weak. You are not Lorelai. You decide who lives, who dies. You are judge and jury. You are executioner. You are the Pythia.
And they will play your game.
