We joined the rest of the team in the observation room. Sloane was sitting cross-legged on top of a nearby desk, her blond hair barely
contained in a messy ponytail, her posture unnaturally straight. Agent Sterling stood beside her, a few feet behind Lia, who was still staring at Redding through the two-way mirror, her arms crossed over her chest, painted fingernails resting on her elbows. On the other side of the mirror, Agent Vance entered to transfer the prisoner back to his cell.
A hand grazed my shoulder, and I turned. Michael didn’t say anything— he just studied my face.
I couldn’t turn my face away from his. I didn’t tell him I was fine or that Redding hadn’t gotten under my skin—whatever I was or wasn’t, Michael already knew. There was no use belaboring the point.
“Are you okay?” Agent Sterling actually verbalized the question. I wasn’t sure if she was talking to me or to Dean.
I sidestepped the question for both of us. “Ignore the bit about my mother,” I told Lia. “Focus on the case. How much of what Redding told me in there was true?”
Lia finally managed to pull her eyes away from the mirror. For a few seconds, I thought she would ignore my instructions. I willed her not to. She’d said it herself: the best liars were magicians. Whether Dean’s father had been lying or telling the truth when he’d said I would never find my
mother’s killer, I didn’t want to know. Misdirection. My mother’s case was five years old. Our UNSUB was out there killing now.
“Well?” I said. “What was everyone’s favorite psychopath lying about?”
Lia crossed the room and flopped down into an office chair, flinging a hand to each side. “Nothing.”
“Nothing?” I repeated.
Lia slammed her palm into the side of the chair. “Nothing. I don’t even know how he’s doing this.” She shot to her feet again, vibrating with anger and too restless to stay still. “There were two versions of every question. I was supposed to be able to contrast his responses. That should have made things easy, but I would swear that every single answer was true.” She cursed—creatively and with impressive verve. “What is wrong with me?”
“Hey.” Dean reached out and grabbed her arm as she paced by him. “It’s not your fault.”
She jerked out of his grasp. “Then whose fault is it? The other deception reader in the room who is apparently completely useless?”
“What if you’re not?” Sloane interjected. Her eyes weren’t quite focused on the here and now. I could practically hear the gears in her head turning. “Not useless, I mean,” she said, haphazardly pushing white-blond bangs out of her eyes with the heel of her hand. “What if he was telling the truth, every single time?”
Lia shook her head hard enough to send her ponytail swishing. “That’s not possible.”
“It is,” Sloane said, “if there’s more than one apprentice.”
Is your apprentice a college student?
Is your apprentice someone who’s never been to college? Is your apprentice over the age of twenty-one?
Is your apprentice under the age of twenty-one? Oh, God.
Sloane was right. Redding could have answered every single question truthfully if he was working with two people on the outside—very different people on paper, but equally easy for Redding to manipulate, with equal tastes for violence and control.
Briggs weighed the possibility. “So Redding gives us answers specifically designed to make us think he’s just jerking us around, when in reality, he’s telling us exactly why this case has never added up.”
Why Emerson Cole’s murder had appeared to be the work of a primarily organized, extremely precise offender who left behind no evidence, while Trina Simms’s killer had killed her within earshot of her neighbors and left his DNA at the scene.
Briggs’s phone rang. The rest of us fell into silence. Redding’s promise that the bodies were going to start piling up echoed in my mind. Agent Briggs will get the call about one of them any minute.
Beside me, Michael watched Briggs out of the side of his eye, until the older man turned his back to us. I raised an eyebrow at Michael. He shook his head.
Whatever Briggs was feeling, it wasn’t good.
Keeping his voice low, Briggs stepped out into the hallway, allowing the door to slam shut behind him. In the silence that followed, none of us wanted to put the likely into words.
There’s been another murder.
I couldn’t just stand there, waiting for Briggs to come back and tell us that someone else was dead. I kept picturing the victims’ faces—Emerson’s lifeless eyes, Trina’s widening when she realized who Dean was.
Two killers, I thought, focusing on the UNSUBs and not the victims. I let the thought take hold. One killer who left evidence. One who didn’t. Both under Redding’s control.
Briggs came back into the room. He must have hung up, but he still had a death grip on his phone. “We have another body.”
“Where?” Agent Sterling asked.
The expression on Briggs’s face was grim. “Colonial University.” My mind went straight to the people we’d met there, the others in
Professor Fogle’s class.
“Anyone we know?” Michael managed to keep his tone neutral. “The victim was nineteen.” Briggs was in full-on FBI mode—all
business. “Male. According to his roommate, who discovered the body, his name was Gary Clarkson.”
A breath caught in my throat. Lia slumped back against the mirror.
Clark.
Briggs and Sterling didn’t take us to the crime scene. They dropped us off at the house, then went themselves. No matter how many lines they crossed, there were still limits. They wouldn’t risk anyone—including the killer— seeing us at the crime scene. Not when they could, at least theoretically, bring us pictures that would work just as well.
We waited. By the time Briggs and Sterling got back, a restless pallor had settled over the house.
They didn’t come bearing pictures. They came with news.
“Forensics is still processing the evidence, but they won’t find any trace of the killer,” Agent Sterling said. “This UNSUB bludgeoned the victim with an iron brand, but followed the rest of Redding’s MO down to the tiniest detail. He was confident, not frantic. He enjoyed himself.”
He’s learning, I thought.
“It sounds more like the UNSUB who killed Emerson Cole than the one who killed Trina Simms,” I said out loud, my mind flipping into high gear.
Two UNSUBs. UNSUB 1 was organized. He’d killed Emerson and Clark— and quite possibly the professor. UNSUB 2 was disorganized. He’d murdered Trina Simms right after we’d gone to visit her.
“What’s the connection?” Dean asked. “How does someone go from targeting Emerson to targeting Clark?”
“They were in the same group in Fogle’s class,” Lia offered. “Clark was head over heels for the girl.”
“His dorm room was full of pictures of her,” Briggs confirmed. “Thousands of them, under his bed.”
“What about the other two people in their group?” I asked. “Derek and Bryce. Think UNSUB 1 could be going after them next?”
First Emerson. Then Clark. Meanwhile, UNSUB 2 kills Trina Simms….
My thoughts were interrupted by the ding of incoming texts—one from Sterling’s phone and one from Briggs’s.
“Forensics?” Michael guessed.
Sloane naysayed him. “It’s too soon. Even if results are being rushed, they can’t have run more than one or two tests—”
“The tests were rushed,” Briggs interrupted. “But the only thing they’ve managed to do so far is take a sample of our victim’s DNA.”
“Why did that merit simultaneous texting?” Lia asked suspiciously. “Because a match came up in the system.” Briggs shrugged off his suit
jacket and folded it neatly over one arm. It was a restrained action, one that didn’t match the look in his eyes in the least. “Clark’s DNA matches the sample found under Trina Simms’s fingernails.”
I took a moment to process the implication. Sloane was obliging enough to put it into words.
“So what you’re saying,” she replied, “is that Gary Clarkson isn’t just victim number four. He’s also our second UNSUB.”
YOU
You can still see the look in that pudgy, pathetic little hanger-on’s eyes when you dug the point of the knife into his chest.
“This is how you’re supposed to do it,” you’d told him, zigging and zagging your way down his abundant flesh. “Every moment, perfect control. No evidence. No chances.”
After you’d received word that Trina Simms was dead, you’d imagined how it should have gone down. You’d pictured every detail—how you would have done it. The pleasure you would have gotten from hearing her scream.
But this imitation, this pretender—he’d done it wrong. He’d had to pay.
Sweat and tears had mingled on his face. He’d struggled, but you took your time. You were patient. You explained to him that you were acquainted with Trina Simms and that she deserved better.
Or worse, depending on your perspective.
You’d showed that pale imitation, that copy of a copy, what patience really was. The only shame was that you had to gag him—couldn’t risk Joe College next door coming over to see what the little pig was squealing about.
You smile in memory as you clean the tools of your trade. Redding didn’t tell you to kill the pretender. He didn’t have to. You’re a species apart, you and the boy you just dispatched to hell.
He was weak.
You’re strong.
He was painting by numbers and still couldn’t manage to stay in the lines.
You’re a developing artist. Improvisation. Innovation. A rush of power works its way through your body just thinking about it. You thought you wanted to be like Redding. To be Redding.
But now you’re starting to see—you could be so much more.
“Not yet,” you whisper. There’s one more person who has to go first.
You hum a song and close your eyes.
What will be will be—even if you have to help it along.
