The Naturals (The Naturals #1)(40)

“Dyeing the victim’s hair before the kill could be an attempt to create a more ideal target, one who claims to be psychic and has red hair. But dyeing her hair afterward …” I paused, just long enough to see that Briggs was listening, really listening, to every word. “Dyeing her hair after she’s already dead is a message.”

“And what message is that?” Agent Briggs asked sharply, like he was dismissing my words out of hand, when both of us knew that he was not.

“A message for you: hair color matters. The UNSUB wants you to know that there’s a connection between the cases. He doesn’t trust you to come to that conclusion on your own, so he’s helping you get there.”

Briggs was silent for three or four loaded seconds.

“We can’t do this, Cassie. I understand your interest in the case. I understand your wanting to help, but whatever you think you’re doing, it ends now.”

I started to object and he held up a hand, silencing me.

“I’ll tell Locke to let you start working on cold cases. You’re obviously ready. But if you so much as sniff in the direction of this case again, there will be consequences, and I can guarantee that you will find them unpleasant.” He leaned forward, his posture unconsciously mimicking the roaring bear’s. “Have I made myself clear?”

I didn’t respond. If he was looking for a promise that I’d stay out of this, he was going to be disappointed.

“I already have a Natural profiler in this program.” Briggs looked me straight in the eye, his lips set in a thin, forbidding line. “I’d prefer to have two, but not at the risk of my job.”

There it was: the ultimate threat. If I pushed this, Briggs could send me home. Back to Nonna and the aunts and the uncles and the constant awareness that I would never be like them, like anyone outside of these walls.

“You’ve made yourself clear,” I said.

Briggs closed his briefcase. “Give it a couple of years, Cassie. They won’t keep you out of the field forever.”

He waited for my reply, but I said nothing. He stood up and walked to the door.

“If he’s dyeing their hair, the rules are changing,” I called after him, not bothering to turn around to see if he’d stopped to listen or not. “And that means that before things get better, they’re going to get a whole lot worse.”





YOU


You can’t remember the last time you felt this way. All of the others—all of them—were imitations. A copy of a copy of the thing you wanted most. But now—now you’re close.

A smile on your face, you pick up the scissors. The girl on the floor screams, the duct tape stretching tight across her face, but you ignore her. She’s not the real prize here, just a means to an end.

You grab her by the hair and jerk her head back. She struggles, and you tighten your grip and slam her head into the wall.

“Be still,” you whisper. You let her hair fall back down and then lift a single lock of it up.

You raise the scissors. You cut the hair.

And then you cut her.





CHAPTER 25


I went to bed early. So much had happened in the past twenty-four hours that my body physically hurt. I didn’t want to be awake anymore. That plan worked for a few hours, but just after midnight, I awoke to the sound of footsteps outside of my door and the dulcet melody of Sloane snoring next to me.

For a second, I thought I’d imagined the footsteps, but then I saw the hint of a shadow underneath the door.

There’s someone out there.

Whoever it was just stood there. I crept toward the door, my hair stuck to my forehead with sweat and my heartbeat thudding in my ears.

I opened the door.

“Not going for a swim tonight?”

It took a second for Michael’s features to come together in the darkness, but I recognized his voice immediately.

“I don’t feel like swimming.” I lowered my voice, but not as much as I would have if my roommate’s nasal passages hadn’t been threatening to deafen me within the year.

“I got you something.” Michael took a step forward, until his face was mere inches from mine. Slowly, he held up an inch-thick file.

I looked at him, then at the file, then back at him.

“You didn’t,” I said.

“Oh yes,” he replied. “I did.”

“How?” Already, my fingers were itching to snatch the file from his hand.

“Briggs took Sloane’s computer. He didn’t take mine.”

I thought about Briggs’s warning, his threat to send me home. And then, slowly, I closed my fingers around the file. “You copied the files onto your laptop.”

Michael smiled. “You’re welcome.”

— — —

I tucked the file under my mattress. Maybe there was another clue in there. Maybe there wasn’t. First chance I got, I was showing it to Dean. Unfortunately, when I went to find him the next morning, he wasn’t alone.

“Miss me?” Agent Locke didn’t wait for me to answer her question. “Sit.”

I sat. So did Dean.

“Here.” Agent Locke held out a thick legal file, the accordion bottom stretched to capacity and then some.

“What’s this?” I asked.