All In (The Naturals, #3)(46)

Three. Three times three times three.

“It was just a theory,” Sloane said. “But then I hacked the FBI’s server.”

“You what?”

“I did a search over the past fifteen years,” Sloane clarified helpfully. “For murders committed on January first.”

“You hacked the FBI?” I said incredulously.

“And Interpol,” Sloane replied brightly. “And you’ll never guess what I found.”

Security holes that the world’s most elite crime-solving agencies seriously need to patch?

“Eleven years ago there was a serial killer in upstate New York.” Sloane walked over to the next wall, years’ worth of calendars papering it from ceiling to floor. She knelt and pressed her fingers to one of the calendar pages.

“The first victim—a prostitute—turned up dead on August first of that year.” She moved her hand down the page. “Second victim on August ninth, third victim on August thirteenth.” She moved on to the next page. “September first, September fourteenth.” She bypassed October. “November second, November twenty-third.” She slowed as she brought her hand to rest on the date marked in December. “December third.”

She looked up at me, and I did the mental count. Eight, I thought. That’s eight.

I looked for the next date. January first.

“It’s the same pattern,” Sloane said. “Just with a different start date.” She turned to the last wall. There was a single piece of paper on it. The first thirteen numbers of the Fibonacci sequence.

1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34, 55, 89, 144, 233

“1/1,” Sloane said, “January first. In the first iteration I tried, the second date generated was 1/2. But that method limits you to dates in the first third of the month. Hardly efficient. Instead…” She drew a square around the second 1 and the 2 that followed it. “Voila. 1/12. Split in a different spot, that’s 11/2, so we add both of those dates to the list. Tack on the next digit in the sequence, and you’ve got 11/23. Once we’ve made all the dates we possibly can including the first integer in the sequence, we move on to the second. That gives us 1/2 and 1/23. And if you split 1/23 after the two instead of the one, that gives us 12/3. Then on to the third integer, 2/3. February only has twenty-eight days, so 2/35 is just filler. We go on to 3/5, then 5/8, 8/1, 8/13, 1/3, 3/2, 3/21, 2/1, 2/13, 1/3—you see how January third just repeated?”

My brain raced as I tried to keep up.

“If you end the sequence after it’s produced twenty-seven dates—three times three times three—you’ve generated exactly three repeated dates: January third, February third, and May eighth.”

I tried to parse what Sloane was saying. If you generated a total of twenty-seven dates based on the Fibonacci sequence, you ended up with a pattern that was consistent not only with our killer’s pattern, but also with a series of nine murders committed over a decade ago.

I need nine.

“The case from eleven years ago,” I said, commanding Sloane’s attention. “Did they ever catch the killer?”

Sloane tilted her head to the side. “I’m not sure. I was just looking at the dates. Give me a second.” Sloane’s eidetic memory meant that she automatically memorized anything she read. After going back over the files in her head, she answered the question. “The case is still open. The killer was never caught.”

Most serial killers don’t just stop, I thought, Agent Sterling’s words echoing in my mind. Not unless someone stops them.

“Sloane,” I said, trying to keep my mind from racing too fast. “The killer who ended his run on January first—how did he kill his victims?”

This time, it took Sloane a fraction of a second to pull the information to the front of her mind. “He slit their throats,” she said. “With a knife.”





I tried Sterling’s cell, then Briggs’s. Neither of them answered. They were probably up all night, I thought, talking to witnesses, trying to figure out who, if anyone, hypnotized Aaron’s “friend” to deliver that message.

“I’m going to talk to Dean,” I told Sloane. “Catch him up on what you just told me.” I took in the dark circles under Sloane’s eyes. “You should try getting some sleep.”

Sloane frowned. “Giraffes only sleep four and a half hours a day.”

Knowing a losing battle when I saw one, I let her be. Making my way quietly across the suite, I stopped outside Dean’s room. The door was cracked open. I placed my hand flat on the wood.

“Dean?” I called. When he didn’t respond, I knocked lightly. The door drifted inward, and I caught sight of Dean sleeping. He’d pushed his bed to one side of the room and slept with his back to the wall. His blond hair fell gently into his eyes. His face was free of tension.

He looked peaceful.

I began backing out of the doorway. The floor creaked, and Dean bolted up in bed, his eyes unseeing, his hand thrust out in front of him. His fingers were curved, like he’d caught a ghost by the neck.

“It’s me,” I said quickly. When he still didn’t register my presence, I turned on the light. “It’s me, Dean.” I stepped toward the bed. It’s just me.

Dean’s head swiveled. He stared through me. And then a moment later, he was back. His eyes focused on mine. “Cassie.” He said my name the way another person might rattle off a prayer.