All In (The Naturals, #3)(45)

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible.” Agent Briggs knew how to make an entrance—in this case, with his badge held high for everyone to see. “Special Agent Briggs, FBI,” he said, his voice carrying. “I’m going to need to ask you all some questions.”





YOU

Could you be any clearer? The numbers. The spiral. The dates. It’s an act of contrition. An act of devotion.

An act of revenge.

You’ve waited so long. You’ve waited, and you’ve planned, and now that you’re this close, you can feel it. The old anger, creeping back into your veins. The power.

The fear.

You will finish it. Three times three times three. You will be worthy.

This time, you will not fail.





The dream started the way it always did. I was walking through a narrow hallway. The floor was tiled. The walls were white. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead. On the ground, my shadow flickered, too.

At the end of the hallway, there was a metal door. I walked toward it. Don’t. Don’t open the door. Don’t go in there. The warning came from my conscious mind, which knew all too well what lay down that road.

But I couldn’t stop. I opened the door. I stepped into the darkness. I reached for the light switch on the wall. I felt something warm and sticky on my hands.

Blood.

I flipped the switch. Everything went white. All I could do was blink until the scene settled in front of me.

A spotlight.

A crowd.

I was onstage, wearing the royal blue dress I’d tried on in the store. My gaze traveled over the audience, picking out the ones I’d marked in advance for readings. The woman in the white vest, clutching her purse like it might sprout legs and run away. The teenager whose eyes were already tearing up. The older gentleman in the pale blue suit, sitting dead center in the front row.

This isn’t right, I thought frantically. I don’t want to do this. I turned, and in the wings, I saw myself. Younger. Watching. Waiting.

I woke with a start. My hands were wound tightly in the sheets. My chest heaved up and down. I was alone in the room. No Sloane. Processing that, I rolled over to look at the clock and froze.

The walls were completely covered. Sheet after sheet of paper, marked in red. This must have taken Sloane all night, I thought. She hadn’t said a word when we’d gotten back to the room—not about the message from our killer, not about Aaron and the accusations Beau had flung at him.

Rolling out of bed, I went to examine Sloane’s work more closely. Twelve sheets of printer paper had been affixed to the wall in four rows of three.

January, February, March…

I was looking at a handwritten calendar. Dates had been circled at seemingly random intervals. Six in January, three in February, four in March. I scanned the next row. A handful in April, only two in May.

“Nothing in June or July,” I murmured out loud. My hand lifted. I pressed my fingers to the day that would always jump out at me in any calendar. June 21st. That was the day my mother had disappeared. Like the rest of the days in June, it was unmarked on Sloane’s calendar.

I scanned the remainder of the months, then moved on to the rest of the walls in our room. More calendars. More dates. Taking a step back, I took in the full scope of what Sloane had done. There were years’ worth of calendars on these walls, with the same dates marked on every one.

“Sloane?” I called toward the bathroom. The door was closed, but a moment later, I got a reply.

“I’m not naked!”

In Sloane-speak, that was as good as an invitation to come in. “Did you sleep at all last night?” I asked as I opened the door.

“Negative,” Sloane replied. She was wrapped in a towel and staring at the mirror. Her hair was wet. On the mirror’s surface she’d drawn a Fibonacci spiral. It covered her face in the reflection.

Sloane stared at herself through the spiral. “My mother was a dancer,” she said suddenly. “A showgirl. She was very beautiful.”

That was the first time I’d ever heard Sloane mention her mother. I knew, then, that she’d been awake all night for a reason beyond the papers on the walls.

“My biological father likes beautiful things.” Sloane turned to look at me. “Tory is aesthetically appealing, don’t you think? And the other girl with Aaron was very symmetrical.”

You’re wondering if Aaron takes after your father. You’re wondering if Tory is his secret, the way your mother was his father’s.

“Sloane—” I started to say, but she cut me off.

“It doesn’t matter,” Sloane said, in the tone of someone to whom it mattered very much. “January twelfth,” she said fiercely. “That’s what matters. Today’s the ninth. We have three days.”

“Three days?” I repeated.

Sloane nodded. “Until he kills again.”


“Tertium. Tertium. Tertium.” Sloane stood in the middle of our suite, gesturing to the paper-covered walls. “Three times three is nine.”

I need nine.

“And three times three times three,” Sloane continued, “is twenty-seven.”

Tertium. Tertium. Tertium. Three times three times three.

“Remember what I said yesterday about the dates and how I think they’re derived from the Fibonacci sequence?” Sloane said. “I spent all night going through the different possible methods of derivation. But this one”—she pointed to the first wall I’d investigated—“is the only version where, if you end the sequence twenty-seven dates in, you also end up with exactly three repetitions within the sequence.”