“Scarlett,” I said, thinking back to my realization outside the prison that Agent Sterling had lost someone and that she blamed herself.
Lia turned the corner. I couldn’t see her anymore, but I had no trouble hearing her. “Not just Scarlett,” she countered. “Scarlett Hawkins.”
The person Agent Sterling had lost because she cared too much, because she was willing to do whatever it took to save lives, shared Judd’s last name.
His daughter, I guessed. Judd was about the same age as the director, and the way he treated Agent Sterling wasn’t just familiar—it was fatherly. Now Judd’s feelings about the director made total sense. Judd had lost a child, and Director Sterling’s primary concern had been morale.
I pieced together what I knew. Scarlett Hawkins and Agent Sterling were friends. They both worked at the FBI. Scarlett was killed. Briggs started going to Dean for help on cases. Agent Sterling left the FBI…and her husband.
When the director had discovered what Briggs was doing, he’d made it official. Dean had moved into this house. With Judd.
I was so caught up in thought that I almost didn’t see the figure creeping across the front lawn. The sun had fully set, so it took me a moment to recognize the way the person moved, hands stuffed into his pockets, shoulders rounded and hunched. The hoodie the figure was wearing almost masked his face. His hair—in desperate need of a trim—finished the job.
Dean. Sneaking out of the house. I was halfway back to Lia’s window before I’d even registered the fact that I was moving. I forced myself not to look down and finished the journey. Thankful that Lia had left the window open, I climbed back into her room and raced down the stairs.
For once, I didn’t run into anyone. By the time I made out it the front door, Dean was already halfway down the block. I ran to catch up to him.
“Dean!”
He ignored me and kept walking.
“I’m sorry,” I called after him. My words hung in the night air, insufficient, but dear. “Lia and I should have told you we were going to that party. We thought we might pick up on something the FBI missed. We just wanted this case over.”
“For me.” Dean didn’t turn around, but he stopped walking. “You wanted this case over for me.”
“Is that so bad?” I asked, coming to a standstill behind him. “People are allowed to care about you, and don’t tell me that when people care about you, they get hurt. That’s not you talking. That’s something you were told. It’s something your father wants you to believe, because he doesn’t want you to be close to anyone else. He’s always wanted you all to himself, and every time you push us away, you’re giving him exactly what he wants.”
Dean still didn’t turn around, so I took three steps, until I was standing in front of him. The tip of his hood hung in his face. I pushed the hood back. He didn’t move. I put a hand on each side of his face and tilted it up.
The same way that Michael had tilted my face up to his.
What are you doing, Cassie?
I couldn’t pull back from Dean, not now. No matter what it might mean. Dean needed this—physical contact. He needed to know that I wasn’t afraid of him, that he wasn’t alone.
I brushed the hair off his cheekbones, and dark eyes met mine.
“Anyone ever tell you that you see too much?” he asked me.
I managed a small smile. “I’ve been told that I should keep some of it to myself.”
“You can’t.” Dean’s lips curved almost imperceptibly upward. “You didn’t plan on saying any of those things. I’m not sure you even knew them until they came out of your mouth.”
He was right. Now that I’d said it, I could see that it was true—Dean’s father didn’t want to share him. I made him, he’d said in that interview with Briggs. He wanted Dean to blame himself for each and every woman Redding had killed, because if Dean blamed himself, if he thought he didn’t deserve to be loved, he’d keep the rest of the world at arm’s length. He’d be his father’s son—and nothing else.
“Where are you going?” I asked Dean. My voice came out as a whisper. I dropped my hands from his face, but they only made it as far as his neck.
This is a mistake.
This is right.
Those thoughts came on the heels of each other, playing in stereo. Any second, Dean was going to pull back from my touch.
But he didn’t.
And I didn’t.
“I can’t just sit here and wait for the next body to show up. The director thinks that he can just put me in a drawer and pull me out when I’m useful. Agent Sterling tried to cover for her father, but I know what he’s thinking.”
He’s thinking that you owe him this, I thought, feeling Dean’s pulse jump in his throat under my touch. He’s thinking that he’s doing the world a favor by making you his tool.
“Where are you going?” I repeated the question.
“Agent Sterling showed me a list.” Dean put his hands on my wrists and pulled my hands away from his neck. He didn’t let go, just stood there on the sidewalk, his fingers working their way from my wrists to my fingers, until our hands were interwoven. “She wanted to know if I recognized any of my father’s visitors, if anything jumped out to me.”
“And did anything jump out to you?”
Dean nodded curtly, but didn’t release my hands. “One of the visitors was a woman from my hometown.”
I waited him to elaborate.
“Daniel killed people in that town, Cassie. My fourth-grade teacher. Travelers just passing through. The people in that town, our friends, our neighbors—they couldn’t even stand to look at me after the truth came out. Why would anyone there go to visit him?”
Those weren’t rhetorical questions. They were questions Dean was set on answering himself. “You’re going home,” I said. I knew it was true, long before Dean confirmed it for me.
“Broken Springs hasn’t been home for a very long time.” Dean took a step backward and dropped my hands. He pulled his hood back up. “I know the type of women who visit men like my father in jail. They’re fascinated. Obsessed.”
“Obsessed enough to re-create his crimes?”
“Obsessed enough that they won’t cooperate with the FBI,” Dean said. “Obsessed enough that they’d love to talk to me.”
I didn’t tell Dean that everyone from Briggs to Judd would kill him for doing this. I did, however, take issue with his timing. “How late is it going to be when you get there? And for that matter, how are you going to get there?”