“It’s a slippery slope.” Judd rubbed the back of his hand over his jaw. “I trust Briggs. Mostly.”
“You trust Agent Sterling,” I said. He didn’t contradict me. “What about the director?”
Judd met my eyes. “What about him?”
The director was the one who’d caved to political pressure and trotted me out as bait on the Locke case. I’d wanted to help. He was the one who’d let me.
“I heard you and Ronnie butted heads,” Judd said, closing the door on further discussion. He put his palms on his knees, pushed off, and stood. “I think it would do you some good to stay out of the basement.” He let that sink in. “For a few weeks.”
Weeks? It took me a second to figure out what was going on here. Had Agent Sterling tattled on me? “You’re grounding me from the basement?” I said sharply.
“You’re a profiler,” Judd said mildly. “You don’t need to be down there. And,” he added, his voice hardening slightly, “you don’t need to be poking your nose into this case.”
In all the time I’d been here, Judd had never told any of us what we needed to do. This had Agent Sterling’s fingerprints all over it.
“She’s a good agent, Cassie.” Judd seemed to know exactly what I was thinking. “If you let her, there’s a lot she could teach you.”
Locke was my teacher. “Agent Sterling doesn’t have to teach me anything,” I said sharply. “If she can catch whoever killed that girl, we’ll call it even.”
Judd gave me a look. “She’s a good agent,” he repeated. “So is Briggs.” He started for the door. His back to me, he kept talking, his voice so low I almost couldn’t hear him.
For a long time after he left, I wondered over the words I’d barely heard. He’d said that Sterling was a good agent. That Briggs was a good agent. And then, as if he couldn’t stop himself, as if he didn’t even realize he was saying the words out loud, he’d said one last thing.
“There was only ever one case they couldn’t solve.”
YOU
At first, it felt good. Watching the life go out of her eyes. Running your thumb across the bloodstained knife. Standing over her, your heartbeat accelerating, pounding out a glorious rhythm: I did that. I did that. I did that.
But now—now, the doubts are starting to worm their way into your brain. You can feel them, wiggling through your gray matter, whispering to you in a familiar voice.
“You were sloppy,” it says. “Someone could have seen you.”
But they didn’t. They didn’t see you. You’re better than that. You passed this test with flying colors. You bound her. You branded her. You cut her. You hung her.
You did it. You’re done. But it doesn’t feel like enough. You don’t feel like enough.
Good enough.
Strong enough.
Smart enough.
Worthy.
If you’d done it right, you’d still be able to hear her screams. The press would be giving you a name. They’d be talking about you on the news, not her. She was nothing. No one. You made her special.
But no one even knows you’re alive.
“I’ll do it,” you say. “I’ll do it again.”
But the voice tells you to wait. It tells you to be patient. What will be will be—in time.
I woke up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night. I couldn’t remember my nightmare, but knew that I’d had one. My heart was racing. My chest was heavy, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was trapped. I threw off the covers.
My fingers found their way to the Rose Red lipstick of their own accord. On the other side of the room, Sloane turned over in her bed. I held my breath, waiting to see if she’d wake up. She didn’t. As quietly as I could, I slipped out of bed and out of our room.
I needed space. I needed air. I needed to breathe.
The house was silent as I crept downstairs. I wasn’t even sure where I was going until I ended up outside the kitchen door.
“I told you, I’m fine.”
I came to an abrupt halt as the silence in the house gave way to the muted sound of arguing on the other side of the door.
“You’re not fine, Dean. You’re not supposed to be fine with this. I’m not fine with this.”
Agent Sterling and Dean. They’re fighting.
I heard the sound of a chair scraping across tile and prepared to retreat. I listened for footsteps, but none were forthcoming. It sounded like someone had just pushed back from the table—angrily.
“You left.”
“Dean—”
“You left the FBI. I think we both know why.”
“I left because I wasn’t doing my job, Dean. I was angry. I needed to prove that I wasn’t scared, and I got someone killed. Because I couldn’t follow the rules. Because Tanner couldn’t let even one case go.”
Tanner was Briggs’s first name. The fact that Agent Sterling was using it in a conversation with Dean made me wonder just how much history the two of them shared. This wasn’t a conversation you had with a kid you’d met once when you arrested his father.
“What was the girl’s name?” Dean’s voice was lower-pitched than Agent Sterling’s. I struggled to make out his words as he spoke.
“I can’t tell you that, Dean.”
“What was her name?”
“You’re not authorized to work on active cases. Leave it alone.”
“You tell me her name. I’ll leave it alone.”
“No, you won’t.” Agent Sterling’s voice was getting harder to decipher. I wondered if she was speaking more softly because the alternative was starting to yell.
“I made you a promise once.” Dean’s voice was controlled—too controlled. “I kept it. Tell me this girl’s name, and I’ll promise to leave it alone.”
My fingers tightened around the tube of lipstick in my hand. Briggs had let me read through Locke’s file. I’d memorized the names of every one of her victims.
“Isn’t it enough that I swore we would take care of this?” Agent Sterling said sharply. “We’ve got some solid leads. I can’t tell you what they are, but I can promise you we have them. It’s a copycat, Dean. Paint by numbers. That’s all. Daniel Redding is in jail. He’s going to be in jail for the rest of his miserable life.”
“What’s her name?”
“Why do you need to know?” This time, Agent Sterling’s voice got loud enough that I would have heard it even if I hadn’t been standing right outside the door. “You tell me that, and I’ll answer your question.”