All In (The Naturals, #3)(58)

She loved him, but right now, she didn’t want him. She didn’t want anyone.

Lia rarely showed us her true self. But what we’d just seen was more than that. The flat voice, the words she’d said—that wasn’t just the real Lia. That was the girl she’d spent years running from.

That was Sadie.

“Parting gift,” Lia said on her way out, twirling a finger through her jet-black hair, no sign of that girl in her now, “for those of you who might be a little slow on the uptake. Whoever our killer is, I’d bet a lot of money that he’s not a part of this group. If he were, the cult would be monitoring him. And if they were monitoring him and they found out that he’d shared even one of their secrets?” Lia shrugged, the very picture of careless indifference. “He wouldn’t be our problem. He’d already be dead.”





YOU

You step out into the fresh air. Inside, you’re smiling. Outside, you show a different face to the world. People have their expectations, after all, and you would hate to disappoint.

Drowning, fire, the old man impaled on the arrow, strangling Camille.

The knife is next.

Then beating a man to death with your bare hands.

Poison will be easy. Eloquent.

And then the last two—dealer’s choice. There should be nine ways. If you were in charge, there would be.

Three times three times three.

Nine is the number of victims. Three is the number of years between.

Nine seats at the table.

You pause at the doors to the Desert Rose. Not your preferred hunting grounds, of course. But a fine place to visit. A fine place to look at what you have made.

A fine place to anoint number five.

Everything is going according to plan. Word of your kills is spreading. You know they monitor others with similar proclivities. Looking for talent. For threats.

The Masters will finally see you for what you really are.

What you have become.





Michael announced he was going after Lia less than a minute after she left.

“She doesn’t want you there, Townsend,” Dean said tersely. Lia didn’t want Dean there, either. It was killing him not to go after her, but as protective as he was, Dean would only push Lia so far.

“Luckily for us,” Michael replied airily, “I’ve never met a bad idea I did not immediately embrace like the dearest of friends.” He went into his room, and when he came out, he was putting on a casual blazer, looking every inch the trust-fund kid. “I believe Lia when she says that she will make me regret going after her,” he told Dean. “But it just so happens regrets are a specialty of mine.”

Michael buttoned the top button on his jacket and waltzed out the door.

“Michael and Lia have been physically involved no fewer than seven times.” Sloane seemed to think volunteering that information might prove helpful.

Dean’s jaw tightened slightly.

“Don’t,” I told him. “She’s safer with him than she is alone.”

Whatever Lia had been feeling when she walked out the door, Michael would have seen it. And my gut was telling me that he’d felt it, too. Of all of us, Michael and Lia were the most similar to each other. It was why they’d been drawn together when he’d first come to the program, and why, as a couple, they’d never worked long-term.

“Would you feel better if you knew where they were going?” Sloane asked. Dean didn’t reply, but Sloane texted Lia anyway. I wasn’t surprised when she got a reply. Lia was the one who’d told me we were at issue capacity. She wouldn’t ignore Sloane—not in a city where Sloane had spent most of her life being ignored by her own flesh and blood.

“So?” Dean said. “Where are they going?”

Sloane walked over to the window and stared out—through the spiral. “The Desert Rose.”


It was forty-five minutes between the time Michael walked out the door and the time Judd walked in. Agent Sterling followed. Briggs entered last. He came to stand in the middle of the suite, staring at the papers covering the floor.

“Explain.” Briggs resorting to one-word commands was never a good thing.

“Based on Sloane’s projections, we’re looking at nine victims every three years for a period of at least sixty years, with a different signature underlying each set.” Dean kept it brief, his voice remarkably dispassionate, given the content of what he was saying. “The cases are spread out geographically, no repeating jurisdictions. The methods of killing go in a predictable order, and that order mirrors our UNSUB’s first four kills. We believe we’re dealing with a fairly large group, most likely one with a cult-like mentality.”

“Our UNSUB isn’t a part of the cult,” I continued. “This isn’t a group that advertises its existence, and that’s exactly what the additional elements of our UNSUB’s signature—the numbers on the wrists, the fact that the Fibonacci sequence determines not only the dates on which he kills but also the exact location—effectively do.”

“He’s better than they are.” Sloane wasn’t profiling. She was stating what was, to her mind, a fact. “Anyone can kill on certain dates. This…” She gestured to the papers carefully arranged on the floor. “It’s simplistic. That?” She turned toward the map on the window, the spiral. “The calculations, the planning, making sure the right thing happens in the right place at the right time.” Sloane sounded almost apologetic as she continued, “That’s perfection.”