“Well, she’s not lying.” Lia broke the silence. “She’s really a special agent, her name really is Veronica Sterling, and for some reason, she’s‌

operating under the misguided belief that she resides under our roof.”

“Lia, I presume?” Agent Sterling said. “The one who specializes in lies.” “Telling them, spotting them—it’s all the same.” Lia executed a graceful

little shrug, but her eyes were hard.

“And yet,” Agent Sterling continued, ignoring both the shrug and the intensity of Lia’s gaze, “you interacted on a daily basis with an FBI agent who was moonlighting as a serial killer. She was one of your supervisors, a constant presence in this house for years, and no alarm bells went off.” Agent Sterling’s tone was clinical—just stating the facts.

Locke had fooled us all.

“And you,” Agent Sterling said, her eyes lighting on mine, “must be Cassandra Hobbes. I hadn’t pegged you for the type to play strip poker. And no, you don’t get credit for being the only person in this room besides me who’s still wearing a shirt.”

Agent Sterling pointedly turned her attention from me to the pile of clothes on the coffee table. She folded her arms over her chest and waited. Dean reached for his shirt and tossed Lia’s to her. Michael didn’t appear overly bothered by the crossed arms, nor did he seem at all compelled to get

dressed. Agent Sterling stared down the length of her nose at him, her gaze settling on the bullet scar on his chest.

“I take it you’re Michael,” she said. “The emotion reader with the attitude problem who’s continually doing stupid things for girls.”

“That’s hardly a fair assessment,” Michael replied. “I do plenty of stupid things that aren’t for girls, too.”

Special Agent Veronica Sterling didn’t show even the slightest inclination to smile. Turning back to the rest of us, she finished her introduction. “This program has a vacancy for a supervisor. I’m here to fill it.”

“True,” Lia said, drawing out the word, “but not the whole story.” When Agent Sterling didn’t rise to the bait, Lia continued. “It’s been six weeks since Locke went off the deep end. We were starting to wonder if the FBI would ever send a replacement.” She raked her eyes over Agent Sterling. “Where did they find you, central casting? One young female agent swapped in for another?”

Trust Lia to cut through the niceties.

“Let’s just say I’m uniquely qualified for the position,” Agent Sterling replied. Her no-nonsense tone reminded me of something. Of someone. For the first time, her last name sank in, and I realized where I’d heard it before.

“Agent Sterling,” I said. “As in Director Sterling?”

I’d only met the FBI director once. He’d gotten involved when the serial killer Locke and Briggs were hunting had kidnapped a senator’s daughter. At the time, none of us had known that the UNSUB—or Unknown Subject— was Locke.

“Director Sterling is my father.” Agent Sterling’s voice was neutral—too neutral, and I wondered what daddy issues she had. “He sent me here to do damage control.”

Director Sterling had chosen his own daughter as Locke’s replacement. She’d arrived when Agent Briggs was out of town on a case. I doubted the timing was accidental.

“Briggs told me you left the FBI,” Dean said quietly, addressing the words to Agent Sterling. “I heard you transferred to Homeland Security.”

“I did.”

I tried to pinpoint the expression on Agent Sterling’s face, the tone of her voice. She and Dean knew each other—that much was clear, both from Dean’s earlier statement and from the way her face softened, almost imperceptibly, when she looked at him.

A maternal streak? I wondered. That didn’t fit with the way she was dressed, her super-erect posture, the way she talked about the rest of us rather than to us. My first impression of Agent Sterling was that she was hypercontrolled, professional, and kept other people at a distance. She either didn’t like teenagers, or she disliked us specifically.

But the way she’d looked at Dean, even if it was only for a second…

You weren’t always this way, I thought, slipping into her head. Tying your hair back in French knots, keeping your every statement clinical and detached. Something happened to send you into hyperprofessional mode.

“Is there something you’d care to share with the class, Cassandra?”

Whatever sliver of softness had crept into Agent Sterling’s expression disappeared now. She’d caught me profiling her and called me out. That told me two things. First, based on the way she’d chosen to do so, I sensed a hint of sarcasm buried beneath her humorless exterior. At some point in her life, she would have said those words with a grin instead of a grimace.

And second…

“You’re a profiler,” I said out loud. She’d caught me profiling her, and I couldn’t keep from thinking, It takes one to know one.

“What makes you think that?”

“They sent you here to replace Agent Locke.” Saying those words— seeing her as a replacement—hurt more than it should have.

“And?” Agent Sterling’s voice was high and clear, but her eyes were hard. This was a challenge, as clear as the earlier subtext between Michael and Dean.

“Profilers put people in boxes,” I said, meeting Agent Sterling’s eyes and refusing to look away first. “We take in an assortment of random details, and we use those details to construct the big picture, to figure out what kind of person we’re dealing with. It’s there in the way you talk: Michael’s ‘the emotion reader with the attitude problem,’ you didn’t ‘peg me’ for being the type to play strip poker.”

I paused, and when she didn’t reply, I continued, “You read our files, and you profiled us before you ever stepped foot in this house, which means you know exactly how much it kills us that we didn’t see Agent Locke for what she was, and you either wanted to see how we’d deal with you mentioning it, or you just wanted to pick at the wound for kicks.” I paused and raked my eyes over her body, taking in all the tiny details—her fingernail polish, her posture, her shoes. “You seem like more of a masochist than a sadist, so I’m guessing you just wanted to see how we’d respond.”

The room fell into an uncomfortable silence, and Agent Sterling wielded that silence like a weapon. “I don’t need you to lecture me on what it means to be a profiler,” she said finally, her voice soft, her words measured. “I have a bachelor’s in criminology. I was the youngest person ever to graduate from the FBI Academy. I clocked more field time during my stint at the FBI than you will see in your entire life, and I’ve spent the past five years with Homeland Security, working on domestic terrorism cases. While I am residing in this house, you will address me as Agent Sterling or ma’am, and you will not refer to yourself as a profiler, because at the end of the day, you’re just a kid.”

There it was again in her voice, the hint of something else beneath her frosty exterior. But like a person staring at an object trapped under several feet of ice, I couldn’t make out what that something was.

“There is no ‘we’ here, Cassandra. There’s you, and there’s me, and there’s the evaluation I’m writing of this program. So I suggest that you all clean this mess up, go to bed, and get a good night’s sleep.” She tossed Michael his shirt. “You’re going to need it.”