All In: (The Naturals #3) Read online

  “Not latitude. Not longitude.”

  She uncapped her pen and drew a straight line connecting the first two victims. Then she did the same, connecting the second victim to the third victim and the third to the fourth. Finally, she added five more marks, closely clustered inside the boundaries of the Majesty. She connected them to the rest, one after the other, then turned back to us, her eyes alight.

  “Now do you see?”

  I did.

  “It’s a spiral,” Dean said.

  At his words, Sloane went back over it and sketched an arc over each of the straight lines. The resulting pattern looked like a seashell.

  “Not just a spiral,” Sloane said, stepping back. “A Fibonacci spiral!”

  Lia flopped down on the sofa and stared up at Sloane’s diagram. “I’m going to go out on a limb and guess that has something to do with the Fibonacci sequence.”

  Sloane nodded emphatically. All energy, she looked at the window and, seeing no place left to write, bounded over to the adjacent wall.

  “Let’s try some paper this time,” Judd interjected mildly.

  Sloane stared at him very hard.

  “Paper,” she said, as if it were a word in another language. “Right.”

  Judd handed her a piece. She plopped unceremoniously down on the floor and began to draw. “The first non-zero number in Fibonacci’s sequence is one. So you draw a square,” she said, doing just that, “where each side is one unit long.”

  Beneath that square, she drew a second, identical square. “The next number in the sequence is also one. So now you have one and one….”

  “And one plus one is?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Two.” Another square, this one twice as big as each of the first.

  “Two plus one is three. Three plus two is five. Five plus three is eight….” Sloane kept drawing squares, moving counterclockwise as she drew, until she ran out of space.

  “Now imagine I kept going,” she said, shooting Judd a very pointed look that I interpreted to mean that she thought he’d erred in forbidding her to draw on the wall. “And imagine I did this.…” She started drawing arcs through the diagonal of each square.

  “If I kept going,” she said, “and added two more squares, it would look exactly”—she turned to the spiral on the window—“like that.”

  I looked from Sloane’s drawing to the layout of Vegas she’d drawn onto the window. She was right. Starting with the Apex, the killer was spiraling in. And if Sloane’s calculations were correct—and I had no reason to doubt that they were—our UNSUB was doing so in a precise and predictable fashion.

  Sloane began scrawling the numbers of the Fibonacci sequence across the margins of the page, and I remembered that the first time she’d told us about the sequence, she’d said that it was everywhere. She’d said that it was beautiful.

  She’d said that it was perfection.

  You see that same thing when you look at this pattern. I addressed the UNSUB. Its beauty. Its perfection. Inked into Alexandra Ruiz’s wrist. Burned into the magician’s. Written on the old man’s skin. Carved into Camille’s flesh.

  You’re not just sending a message. You’re creating something. Something beautiful.

  Something holy.

  “Where’s the next location?” Dean asked. “The next kill-point on the spiral—where is it?”

  Sloane turned back to the window and tapped her finger just below the fifth X she’d drawn. “It’s here,” she said. “At the Majesty. All of the remaining kill-points are. The closer you get to the heart of the spiral, the closer they get to each other.”

  “Where at the Majesty?” Dean asked Sloane.

  If the UNSUB continued killing a person a day, we might be minutes away from the next murder—and no more than hours.

  “The Grand Ballroom,” Sloane murmured, staring at the pattern inked onto the window, lost in what she saw. “That’s where it has to be.”

  YOU

  The knife is next.

  Water. Fire. Impaling the old man on an arrow. Strangling Camille. Then comes the knife. That’s the way this is done. That is how it must be.

  You sit on the floor, your back to the wall, the blade carefully balanced on one knee.

  Water.

  Fire.

  Impaling.

  Strangling.

  One, two, three, four…

  Knife will make five. You breathe in the weapon’s numbers: the exact weight of the blade, the speed with which you will slice it across your next target’s throat.

  You breathe out.

  Water. Fire. Impaling. Strangling. The knife is next. And then—and then—

  You know how this will end. You are the bard telling this tale. You are the alchemist, pulling the pattern apart.

  But for now, all that matters is the blade and the steady rise and fall of your chest and the knowledge that everything you’ve worked for will come to pass.

  Starting with number five.

  The FBI staked out the Grand Ballroom. For those of us who weren’t licensed to participate in stakeouts, the day quickly devolved into a waiting game. The afternoon bled slowly into evening. The darker it got, the brighter the lights outside our marked-red window seemed to grow, and the harder my heart beat in my chest.

  January first. January second. January third. January fourth. I kept thinking, over and over again, that today was the fifth. Four bodies in four days. Next comes number five. That’s how you think of them, isn’t it? Not as people. As numbers. Things to be quantified. A part of your equation.

  My mind went to the photo I’d seen in my mother’s file of a skeleton wrapped carefully in a royal blue shawl. Dean had read remorse into the way the body had been buried. I couldn’t help seeing the contrast.

  You don’t feel remorse. I made myself focus on the Vegas killer. That, I could handle. That, I could do. Why would you? There are billions of people in the world, and you’ve killed such a very small percentage of them. One, two, three, four—

  “Okay, that’s it.” Lia exited her bedroom, took one look at the rest of us, and flounced into the kitchen. I heard her bang open the freezer. A few seconds later, she was back. She tossed something at Michael. “Frozen washcloth,” she told him. “Put it on your eye and stop with the brooding, because I think we all know that Dean has that market cornered.”

  Lia didn’t wait to see if Michael followed her instructions before she turned to her next target. “Dean,” she said, her voice wavering slightly. “I’m pregnant.”

  Dean’s eyelid twitched. “No, you’re not.”

  “Who’s to say, really?” Lia countered. “The point is that sitting here waiting for the phone to ring and mentally going over worst-case scenarios isn’t helping anybody.”

  “So what do you suggest we do?” I asked.

  Lia hit a switch and a blackout screen slowly covered the wall of windows—and Sloane’s writing. Sloane let out an indignant squeak, but Lia preempted any actual complaint.

  “What I suggest,” Lia said, “is that we spend the next three hours and twenty-seven minutes doing our best impressions of actual teenagers.” She flopped down on the couch between Dean and me. “Who wants to play Two Truths and a Lie?”

  “I have been kicked out of no fewer than four boarding schools.” Michael wiggled his eyebrows, his tone giving no hint whatsoever as to whether or not what he was saying was true. “My favorite movie is Homeward Bound.”

  Isn’t that the one with the lost pets trying to find their way home? I thought.

  “And,” Michael finished elaborately, “I’m thoroughly considering going into Redding’s room tonight while he’s sleeping and shaving my initials into his head.”

  Three statements. Two of them were true. One was a lie.

  “Number three,” Dean said darkly. “The lie is number three.”

  Michael couldn’t quite manage a roguish smile with a fat lip, but he made his best attempt.

  Lia, who was sprawled on her stomach on the car
pet, propped herself up on her elbows. “How many boarding schools have you gotten kicked out of?” she asked.

  Michael gave Dean a moment to process the fact that the deception detector had zeroed in on his first statement as the lie. “Three,” he told Lia.

  “Slacker,” she opined.

  “It’s not my fault Sterling and Briggs haven’t kicked me out yet.” Michael ran a thumb along the edge of his split lip, an odd sheen in his eyes. “Clearly, I’m a liability. They’re smart people. Expulsion number four is only a matter of time.”

  Better to make someone reject you, I thought, understanding more than I wanted to, than to let them do it on their own.

  “Homeward Bound?” Dean gave Michael a look. “Really?”

  “What can I say?” Michael replied. “I’m a sucker for warmhearted puppies and kitties.”

  “That seems statistically unlikely,” Sloane said. She stared at Michael for several seconds, then shrugged. “My turn.” She caught her bottom lip between her teeth. “The average litter size for a beagle is seven puppies.” Sloane paused, then offered up a second statement. “The word spatula is derived from the Greek word spathe, meaning broad, flat blade.”

  Sloane didn’t quite grasp the intricacies of the game, but she knew that she was supposed to say two true statements and one false one. She twisted one hand into the other in her lap. Even if her truths hadn’t been obvious, it was clear she was preparing to lie. “The man who owns this casino,” she said, the words coming out in a rush, “is not my father.”

  Sloane had spent her entire life keeping this secret. She’d told me. She couldn’t bring herself to tell the others—but she could lie. Badly, obviously, in a game devoted to spotting lies.

  I could feel the others brimming with questions, but no one said a single word.

  “You have to guess.” Sloane swallowed, then looked up from her lap. “You have to. Those are the rules.”

  Michael poked Sloane’s foot with his. “Is it the one about the beagles?”

  “No,” Sloane said. “No, it is not.”

  “We know.” Dean’s voice was as gentle as I’d ever heard it. “We know which one the lie is, Sloane.”

  Sloane let out a long breath. “Based on my calculations, now would be an appropriate time for someone to hug me.”

  Beside her, Dean opened his arms, and Sloane melted into them.

  “Raise your hand if you didn’t realize Dean was a hugger,” Michael said, raising his own hand. Lia snorted.

  “This hug is now completed.” Sloane pulled back from Dean. “Two Truths and a Lie. Someone else go,” she said fiercely.

  I obliged. “I’ve never been hypnotized.” True. “I’m double-jointed.” Lie. I thought of Sloane, baring her heart. “The authorities found a body they think is my mother.”

  Sloane had come clean with the others. I owed them the same—even if Dean and Lia already knew.

  “I’ve never seen any physical indication that you possess hypermobility,” Sloane said. Her hands stilled in her lap. “Oh.” The realization that I’d been telling the truth about the body washed over her, and she hesitated. “Based on my calculations…” she started to say, and then she just launched herself at me.

  We might as well start calling this game Two Truths, a Lie, and a Hug, I thought, but something about the physical contact threatened the wall I’d put up in my mind, the one that stood between me and the dark place.

  “My turn again.” Michael met my eyes. I waited for him to say something—something true, something real. “I’m sorry about your mother,” he told me. True. He turned to Sloane. “I’d be happy to punch your father, should the occasion arise.” True. Then he leaned back on the heels of his hands. “And I’ve magnanimously decided against shaving my initials into Dean’s head.”

  Dean glowered at Michael. “I swear to God, Townsend, if you—”

  “Your turn, Lia,” I cut in. Given Lia’s uncanny ability to make anything sound true, her rounds were by far the most challenging.

  Lia tapped her fingertips along the edge of the coffee table, thinking. The steady rhythm of her tapping had my eyes drifting back toward the clock on the wall. We’d been playing for hours. Midnight was drawing closer and closer.

  “I killed a man when I was nine years old.” Lia did what she did best—provided a distraction. “I’m currently considering shaving Michael’s head while he sleeps. And,” she finished, her tone never changing, “I grew up in a cult.”

  Two truths and a lie. Lia’s distraction took hold. By the age of thirteen, just before she’d come to the program, Lia had been on the streets. I knew that the ability to lie tended to be honed in certain kinds of environments—and none of them good.

  I killed a man when I was nine years old.

  I grew up in a cult.

  Judd came into the room. I was so caught up in what Lia had just said—and trying to figure out which of those statements was true—that it took me several seconds to process the grim look on Judd’s face.

  I looked at the clock—a minute past midnight. January sixth.

  Sterling called, I thought. My heart beat in my throat, my palms suddenly sticky with sweat.

  “What have we got?” Dean asked the older man quietly.

  Judd cut a brief glance at Sloane, then answered Dean’s question. “Nothing.”

  The FBI continued to monitor the Majesty’s Grand Ballroom. Nothing on January sixth. Nothing on January seventh. On the eighth, Agent Sterling was in our suite when I woke up. She and Dean were sitting in the kitchen talking softly. Judd was at the stove making pancakes. For a moment, I felt like I was back at our house in Quantico.

  “Cassie,” Agent Sterling said when she saw me hovering in the doorway. “Good. Have a seat.”

  Glancing from Sterling to Dean, I did as I was told. Part of me expected news, but the rest of me took in the way Agent Sterling had greeted me, her posture, the fact that Judd slid a plate of pancakes in front of her, as well as Dean and me.

  You didn’t come here because you have news. You came here because you don’t.

  “Still nothing?” I said. “I don’t get it. Even if Sloane was wrong about the location, there still should have been…”

  Another body. Possibly multiple bodies.

  “Maybe I saw the FBI and pulled back,” Dean said, easing himself into the UNSUB’s perspective. “Or maybe I’ve just taken to hiding the bodies.”

  “No.” My gut reply came before I’d thought through the reasons. “You’re not hiding the results of your work. You wanted the police to see the numbers. You wanted them to know those accidents weren’t accidents.”

  You wanted us to see the beauty in what you’re doing. The pattern. The elegance.

  “This isn’t just murder,” Dean murmured. “This is a performance. This is art.”

  I thought of Alexandra Ruiz, her hair spread out around her on the pavement; of the stage magician, burned beyond all recognition; of the old man with an arrow through his heart. I thought of Camille Holt, her skin gray, her bloodshot eyes impossibly wide.

  “Based on the nature of the crimes”—Agent Sterling’s voice broke through my thoughts—“it’s fairly clear we’re dealing with an organized killer. These attacks were planned. Meticulously, down to the avoidance of surveillance cameras. We have no witnesses. The physical evidence is going nowhere. All we have is the story these bodies are telling about the person who killed them—and how that story is evolving over time.”

  She laid four pictures on the table.

  “Tell me what you see,” she said. I took her words to mean that class was in session.

  I looked at the first picture. Alexandra Ruiz was a pretty girl, not that much older than me. You thought she was pretty, too. You watched her drown, but you didn’t hold her under. You didn’t leave any marks on her skin.

  “It’s not about violence,” Dean said. “I never laid a hand on her. I never had to.”

  I picked up where Dean left off. “I
t’s about power.”

  “The power to predict what she would do,” he continued.

  I concentrated. “The power to influence her. To knock over the first domino and watch the rest fall.”

  “To do the math,” Dean filled in.

  “What about the second victim?” Sterling asked. “Was it just math with him, too?”

  I turned my attention to the second picture, the body burned beyond all recognition.

  “I didn’t kill him,” Dean murmured. “I made it happen, but I didn’t strike the match. I watched.”

  You spend a lot of time watching, I thought. You know how people operate, and you despise them for it. For thinking, even for a second, that they’re your equals.

  “It’s not about overpowering people,” I said out loud, my eyes locking onto Dean’s. “It’s about outsmarting them.”

  Dean bowed his head slightly, his eyes fixed on something none of us could see. “No one knows what I really am. They think they do, but they don’t.”

  “It’s important,” I countered, “to show them. The numbers, the pattern, the planning—you want them to see.”

  “Who?” Agent Sterling prompted. “Whose attention is the UNSUB trying to get?” I could tell by the tone in her voice that she’d asked herself that question. The fact that she was also asking us told me something about the answer.

  “Not just the FBI,” I said slowly. “Not just the police.”

  Sterling tilted her head to the side. “Are you telling me what you think I want to hear, or are you telling me what your gut is saying?”

  The numbers mattered to the UNSUB. They matter to you, because they matter to someone else. I’d thought that the UNSUB was performing. For who?

  I answered Sterling’s question. “Both.”

  Sterling gave a brief nod and then tapped her fingers against the third photo.

  “The arrow,” Dean said. “No more dominoes. I pulled the trigger myself.”

  “Why?” Sterling pushed us. “Power, influence, manipulation—and then blunt force? How does a killer make that transition? Why does a killer make that transition?”