‌Sterling and Briggs spent the remainder of the flight showing us crime scene photos and briefing us on the facts of the case. One thing was clear: our victim had fought.‌

She was stronger than you expected. I shifted my focus from Celine to the UNSUB. You either lost control or you never had it. You weren’t ready.

Weren’t worthy.

That was guesswork as much as profiling. I needed to see the actual crime scene. I needed to stand where Celine had been standing. I needed to know her—to see her bedroom, examine her paintings, sort out exactly what kind of fighter she was.

“We’ll set up our base of operations at a nearby safe house.” As the plane began its descent, Agent Briggs laid out the plan. “Agent Starmans and Judd will accompany the Naturals to the safe house. Agent Vance, you’re with us.”

Us as in Briggs and Sterling. They’d scout out the scene and major players before we were allowed anywhere near the case.

“Is this a bad time to point out that I’m on the verge of turning eighteen?” Michael asked. It was the first time he’d spoken since Agent Sterling had concluded her briefing. For Michael, that might have been a record. “Redding’s eighteen. God knows when Lia’s birthday actually is, but I think we can all agree that she doesn’t need kid gloves.”

“I cannot help noticing that you did not mention Cassie or me,” Sloane told Michael, frowning. “I do not care for gloves of the kid or adult variety. Mittens conserve up to twenty-three percent more heat.”

“None of you are coming with us.” Agent Briggs was used to issuing orders. “The five of you are going to the safe house. We will deal you in on a need-to-know basis once the crime scene has been secured.”

“So what I’m hearing,” Michael replied as the plane touched down, “is that this is a good time to remind you that I am the only person here who knows Celine, the Delacroix family, or the local police department?”

“One guess as to how Townsend knows the local police department,” Dean murmured beside me.

The debate continued as we de-planed, until Briggs snapped, “Michael,

what are the chances that I’m going to change my mind?” “Slim to none?” Michael guessed flippantly. “Infinitesimal to none,” Sloane corrected.

Michael shrugged as he descended the stairs to stand on the runway. “What are the chances that I’ll do something stupid if you don’t let me come, Agent Tightpants?”

Briggs didn’t reply, which told me that Michael’s threat had landed. Agent Sterling stepped in front of Michael before he could say anything else. “Briggs understands more than you think,” she told him softly. She didn’t provide any context for that statement, but I found myself wondering how Briggs had grown up, if he had firsthand experience with Thatcher Townsend’s brand of parenting.

There was a long silence as Michael tried to ignore whatever emotions he saw on Sterling’s face.

Agent Starmans, who’d been on our protection detail more than once in the last ten weeks, cleared his throat. “I’d really prefer you didn’t make me spend my afternoon forcing you to stay put,” he told Michael.

Michael offered him a dazzling smile. “And I’d prefer if you didn’t peruse online dating profiles on your work phone.” He winked at the mortified agent. “Dilated pupils, slight smile, followed by visible agonizing about how to compose just the right message? It’s a dead giveaway every time.”

Starmans clamped his mouth shut and strode to stand next to Agent Vance.

“Now that was just mean,” Lia commented. “Who?” Michael countered. “Me?”

I knew him well enough to know that if he decided to do something stupid, Starmans wouldn’t be able to stop him. When you’re hurting, you hurt yourself. I wanted to stop there but couldn’t, because I knew exactly where Michael’s love affair with self-destruction came from. If you can’t keep someone from hitting you, you make them hit you, because at least then you know it’s coming. At least then you know what to expect.

Turning away from Michael before he could read the expression on my face, I saw a row of gleaming black Mercedes SUVs parked at the edge of the private airstrip. Four of them. A closer inspection revealed that the keys were in the ignitions and that each of the four had been stocked with sparkling soda and fresh fruit.

“No warm nuts?” Lia commented, her voice dry. “And they call this hospitality.”

Michael offered her his most careless smile. “I’m sure my father will remedy any disappointment. We Townsends pride ourselves on hospitality.”

Your father arranged for transportation. Four SUVs, when two would do. I tried not to read too much into the way Michael had grouped himself in with

his father, like Townsend men were Townsends first and anything else was a distant second—no matter how far they’d run.

“We’re not visiting dignitaries,” Briggs said flatly. “We’re not clients Thatcher Townsend needs to woo. This is a federal investigation. The local field office is perfectly capable of supplying us with a car.”

Sloane raised her hand. “Will that car have three rows of air bags, a seven- speed automatic transmission, and a five hundred fifty horsepower engine?”

Lia raised her hand. “Will that car have warm nuts?”

“Enough,” Sterling declared. She turned toward Michael. “I think I speak for everyone here when I say that I don’t care about your father’s hospitality, except insofar as it tells me that he’s grandiose, prone to unnecessary gestures, and seems to have conveniently forgotten the fact that we’ve already seen behind the man behind the curtain. We know exactly what he is.”

“Behind the curtain?” Michael said loftily, striding toward the farthest SUV. “What curtain? My father would be the first to tell you: with Townsends, what you see is what you get.” He pulled the keys out of the ignition and tossed them in the air, catching them lazily in one hand. “Based on the set of Agent Sterling’s mouth, not to mention those impressively deep brow ridges Agent Briggs is working, I have inferred that the FBI won’t be accepting dear old Dad’s gesture of goodwill.” Michael gave the keys another toss. “But I will.”

His tone dared Sterling and Briggs to argue with him.

“I call shotgun.” Judd knew how to pick his battles. My gut said that, on some level, he knew that Michael saw accepting his father’s gifts as akin to taking punches.

You take whatever he dishes out. You take and you take and you take— because you can. Because people would expect you to turn down his gifts out of spite. Because anything you could take from him, you would.

Michael caught my gaze. He always knew when I was profiling him. After a long moment, he spoke. “It appears we’re going to the safe house. Judd’s got shotgun. Lia?” He tossed her the keys. “You’re driving.”