Instead of an answer, my brain latched on to the fact that sometime before she’d left, she’d met Dean. He couldn’t have been more than twelve when you met him. That set off an alarm in my head. The only way an FBI agent would have interacted with Dean that long ago was if she was part of the team that took down his father.
Agent Briggs had led that team. Shortly thereafter, he’d started using Dean—the son of a notorious serial killer—to get inside the head of other killers. Eventually, the FBI had discovered what Briggs was doing and, instead of firing him, they’d made it official. Dean had been moved into an old house in the town outside of Marine Corps Base Quantico. Briggs had hired a man named Judd to act as Dean’s guardian. Over time, Briggs had begun recruiting other teenagers with savant-like skills. First Lia, with her uncanny ability to lie and to spot lies when they exited the mouths of others. Then Sloane and Michael, and finally me.
You used to work with Agent Briggs, I thought, picturing Veronica Sterling in my mind. You were on his team. Maybe you were even his partner. When I’d joined the program, Agent Locke had been Briggs’s partner. Maybe she’d been Agent Sterling’s replacement, before the situation was reversed.
You don’t like being replaceable, and you don’t like being replaced. You’re not just here as a favor to your father, I told Agent Sterling silently. You know Briggs. You didn’t like Locke. And once upon a time, you cared about Dean. This is personal.
“Did you know that the average life span of the hairy-nosed wombat is ten to twelve years?” Apparently, Sloane had decided that when I said I was fine, I was lying. The more coffee my roommate ingested, the lower her threshold for keeping random statistics to herself—especially if she thought someone needed a distraction.
“The longest-living wombat in captivity lived thirty-four years,” Sloane continued, propping herself up on her elbows to look at me. Given that we shared a bedroom, I probably should have objected more strenuously to cup of coffee number two. Tonight, though, I found Sloane’s high-speed statistical babbling to be strangely soothing. Profiling Sterling hadn’t kept me from thinking about Locke.
Maybe this would.
“Tell me more about wombats,” I said.
With the look of a small child awaking to a miracle on Christmas morning, Sloane beamed at me and complied.
YOU
You were nervous the first time you saw her, standing beside the big oak tree, long hair shining to halfway down her back. You asked what her name was. You memorized everything about her.
But none of that matters now. Not her name. Not the tree. Not your nerves.
You’ve come too far. You’ve waited too long.
“She’ll fight you if you let her,” a voice whispers from somewhere in your mind.
“I won’t let her,” you whisper back. Your throat is dry. You’re ready. You’ve been ready. “I’ll tie her up.”
“Bind her,” the voice whispers.
Bind her. Brand her. Cut her. Hang her.
That’s the way this has to be done. That’s what awaits this girl. She shouldn’t have parked so far away from the man’s building. She shouldn’t have slept with him in the first place.
Shouldn’t.
Shouldn’t.
Shouldn’t.
You’re waiting for her in the car when she climbs in. You’re prepared. She has a test today, but so do you.
She shuts the car door. Her eyes flit toward the rearview mirror, and for a split second, they meet yours.
She sees you.
You lunge forward. Her mouth opens to scream, but you slam the damp cloth over her mouth, her nose. “She’ll fight you if you let her,” you say, whispering the words like sweet nothings in her ear.
Her body goes slack. You pull her into the backseat and reach for the ties.
Bind them. Brand them. Cut them. Hang them.
It has begun.
I slept until noon and woke up feeling like I hadn’t slept at all. My head ached. I needed food. And caffeine. And possibly some Tylenol.
“Rough night?” Judd asked the second I stepped foot in the kitchen. He had a sharpened number two pencil in his hand and filled in a line on his crossword puzzle without ever looking up at me.
“You could say that,” I replied. “Have you met Agent Sterling?”
Judd’s lips twitched slightly. “You could say that,” he said, parroting my own words back at me.
Judd Hawkins was in his sixties. His official job description involved both looking after the house and looking after us. The house was in excellent condition. As for the five teenagers who lived here…well, other than making sure we were fed and our limbs were kept relatively intact, Judd was pretty hands-off.
“Agent Sterling seems to think she’s moving in,” I commented. Judd filled in another line on his crossword. If he was bothered by the fact that an FBI agent had shown up, more or less unannounced, he didn’t show it. “Can she even do that?” I asked.
Judd finally looked up from his puzzle. “If she were anyone else,” he said, “the answer would be no.”
Given that Agent Sterling had come here at her father’s request, I understood that there probably wasn’t anything Judd could do about it. What I didn’t understand was why Judd didn’t seem to want to do anything about it. She was here to write an evaluation of the program. She’d called it damage control, but from where I was sitting, it seemed more like an invasion.
“Good. You’re up.”
Speak of the devil, and she appears, I thought. Then I stopped myself. I wasn’t being objective—or fair. I was judging Agent Sterling based more on what I thought she would do than anything she’d done already. Deep down, I knew that no matter who they’d sent to replace Locke, I wouldn’t have been ready. Every similarity was salt in an open wound. Every difference was, too.
“Do you always make it a practice to sleep until noon?” Agent Sterling asked, cocking her head to the side and giving me the once-over. Since I couldn’t make her stop studying me, I returned the favor. She was wearing makeup, but didn’t look made up. Like the clear coat of polish on her nails, the colors she’d chosen for her eyes and lips looked almost natural.
I wondered how much effort it took her to look that effortlessly perfect.
If you want to get close to an UNSUB, I could practically hear Locke telling me, don’t say she or her. Say you.