“Other people aren’t worthy of empathy to the organized killer, because other people are less. To them, being average is the same as being disposable.”
I absorbed Dean’s words, memorized them.
“What’s the life of one more person when the world is full of so many?” Dean’s voice went flat as he posed the question, and I knew he was somewhere else. “Organized killers feel no remorse.”
Dean’s father was an organized killer, I thought. I reached across the table and placed my hand over Dean’s. He bowed his head, but kept talking. “Organized killers plan things,” he said, his voice low. “Disorganized killers, they’re the ones who would do things on the spur of the moment.”
“They snap,” I said softly, “or they give in to their impulses.”
Dean leaned forward, his fingers curving around mine. “They’re more likely than organized killers to attack from behind.”
“Weapon choice?” I asked, my hand still intertwined with his.
“Whatever they have in reach,” Dean replied. “Blunt force trauma, a nearby kitchen knife, their own hands. The entire crime scene reflects a loss of control.”
“But for organized killers,” I said, my eyes on him, “it’s all about control.”
Dean held my gaze. “Organized killers stalk their victims. They often target strangers. Every move they make is calculated, premeditated, and in service of a particular goal. They’re methodical.”
“Harder to catch,” I supplied.
“They like that they’re harder to catch,” Dean returned. “Killing is only part of the pleasure. Getting away with it is the rest.”
Everything Dean said made sense to me—incredible, intuitive sense, like he was reminding me of something I’d always known, rather than teaching me something new.
“You okay?” he asked me.
I nodded. “I’m fine.” I glanced over at the kitchen counter, where Michael had been making his sandwich. He was gone. At some point during my back-and-forth with Dean, Michael had taken off.
I glanced down at the table. Dean slowly unfurled his hand from mine.
“Dean?” I said. My voice was soft, but cut through the room. I could still feel the exact place where his skin had touched mine. “Organized killers, they’re the ones who take trophies, aren’t they?”
Dean nodded. “Trophies help them relive their kills. It’s how they sate their desire to kill in between victims.”
“Locke took a tube of lipstick from every woman she killed.” I couldn’t keep from saying those words out loud. Narcissistic. Controlled. It fit.
“My father was an organized killer.” There was an intensity to Dean when he spoke about his father. This was the second time he’d opened up to me, tit for tat. “He said that as a child, people knew there was something wrong with him, but for as long as I could remember, he was well-liked. He planned things meticulously. He never deviated from the script. He dominated the women he targeted. He controlled them.” Dean paused. “He’s never once showed remorse.”
I heard the front door open and shut. I thought it might be Michael, getting out of the house and away from us, but then I heard footsteps coming our way—two sets, one heavier than the other.
Sterling and Briggs were back.
They appeared in the doorway just as Dean closed the textbook on the table in front of us.
“Cassie, can we talk to Dean alone for a minute?” Agent Briggs straightened his tie. This particular gesture, from this particular man, set off alarm bells in my mind. The tie was something Briggs only wore when he was on duty. Straightening it was an affirmation of sorts. Whatever he wanted to talk to Dean about, it was just business.
I trusted Briggs less when business was involved.
“She can stay,” Dean told Briggs. His words fell on the room like a thunderclap. For as long as I’d known Dean, he’d been pushing me away. Alone was the name of his game.
I caught his eye. Are you sure? I asked him silently.
Dean ran the heels of his hands over the fronts of his jean-clad thighs. “Stay,” he told me. Dean wants me here. He turned back to Briggs. “What do you need?”
Agent Sterling stiffened, her lips pressed into a grim line.
“The person who killed Emerson Cole is obsessed with your father,” Briggs said, ignoring the expression on his ex-wife’s face. “There’s a very real chance the UNSUB has written to him.”
“And let me guess,” Dean interjected. “Dear old dad destroys the letters once he gets them. They’re all up here.” Dean tapped a finger to the side of his head.
“He’s agreed to assist us,” Briggs said. “But only on one condition.”
The tension was back in Dean’s shoulders, his neck. Every muscle in his body was strung tight.
“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” Agent Sterling cut in.
“I know what the condition is.” Dean’s eyes burned with an emotion I couldn’t identify: not quite hatred, not quite fear. “My father won’t tell you anything. The only person he’ll talk to is me.”
YOU
Daniel Redding is one of the greats. Infamous. Ingenious. Immortal. You chose him for a reason. When a man like Redding speaks, people listen. When Redding wants someone dead, they die. He is everything you want to be. Powerful. Sure of himself. And always, always in control.
“You were sloppy. Stupid. Lucky.” You banish the voice and run your fingers along the edges of a photograph of Emerson Cole standing next to a tree. Proof that for a moment, you were powerful. Sure of yourself. In control.
Just. Like. Him.
Daniel Redding is not your hero. He’s your god. And if you keep going down this path, you will slowly remake yourself in his image. The rest of the world will be as insignificant and powerless as ants. The police. The FBI. You’ll crush them under steel-toed boots.
What will be will be—in time.
Stone walls. Barbed wire. My impression of the maximum security prison that housed Dean’s father was fleeting. Dean and I were ensconced in the backseat of an FBI-issued black SUV. Agent Briggs was driving. Agent Sterling sat shotgun. From my position directly behind her, I couldn’t see anything but her forearm, resting on the armrest. At first glance, she seemed relaxed, but the pads of her fingertips were pressed flat and digging into the leather.
Beside me, Dean stared fixedly out the window. I laid my hand on the seat between us, palm up. He tore his gaze from the window and looked over, not at me, but at my hand. He laid his hand palm-down on the seat, inches away from mine.