All In: (The Naturals #3) Read online

  You’re the one who came to get Sloane’s father the night Camille was murdered, I thought as the man stared back at us. He was of medium height, with unremarkable features and a poker face that would have done any professional proud. Something in the way he sat and moved screamed power and authority, maybe even a hint of danger.

  “Do you know how much shoplifting costs this casino every year?” he asked us, his tone carefully controlled.

  “Thirteen billion dollars’ worth of merchandise is shoplifted annually.” Sloane couldn’t help herself. “I’d estimate your share of that to be less than point-zero-zero-zero-one percent.”

  Clearly, the man hadn’t expected an actual answer.

  “She wasn’t shoplifting.” Lia made it sound like the very idea of Sloane stealing anything was worthy of an eye roll. “She had a panic attack. She went outside for air. She came back in. End of story.”

  Lia’s lie skated close enough to the truth that even with security footage, they would have trouble arguing her interpretation. Sloane had been agitated from the moment we’d entered the store. Sloane had gone outside. Sloane had come back in. All true.

  “Victor.”

  The head of security looked up. The rest of us turned toward the door of his office. Aaron Shaw stood there, looking every bit as self-possessed and in control as he had the day we met him.

  “Aaron,” Victor greeted him.

  Not Mr. Shaw, I noted. When it came to the hierarchy at the Majesty, it wasn’t entirely clear which one of them came out on top.

  “Can this wait?” Victor’s tone made that sound more like an order than a question.

  “I was just checking in on some of our VIP guests,” Aaron replied. “These girls are staying with Mr. Townsend in the Renoir Suite.”

  The words Renoir Suite had Victor stiffening. Big spenders, leave them be, Aaron might as well have said.

  “Let me do my job,” Victor told Aaron.

  “Your job is harassing teenagers with anxiety issues?” Lia asked, arching an eyebrow at him. “I’m sure a variety of news outlets would find that fascinating.”

  Once Lia had given life to a creative interpretation of the truth, she was fully committed to it.

  “Why don’t we hear from the girl in question?” Victor said, narrowing his eyes at Sloane. “Were you, as your friend claims, having a panic attack?”

  Sloane stared at the front corner of the man’s desk. “Patients with panic disorders are more than ten times more likely to be double-jointed than controls,” she said clearly.

  “Victor.” Aaron’s voice held a note of steel. “I’ll take care of this. You can go.”

  After a tense moment of silence, the head of security walked out of the room without a word. Clearly, Aaron held the upper hand here. I might have breathed a sigh of relief, but when Aaron closed the door behind the man, he turned back to us.

  “Let’s chat.”

  Aaron took a seat on the edge of Victor’s desk instead of behind it. “What’s your name?” he asked Sloane quietly.

  Beside me, Sloane opened her mouth, then closed it again.

  “Her name is Sloane.” Lia’s chin jutted out as she answered on Sloane’s behalf.

  “What’s your last name, Sloane?” Aaron’s voice was gentle. I thought of the way he’d responded to Sloane’s statistics with a smile the day we met him. And then I thought about the brief, heated exchange we’d seen between him and Tory.

  “Tavish,” Sloane whispered. She forced her gaze up, her blue eyes wide. “I meant to steal that shirt.”

  I groaned internally. Sloane had no capacity for deception whatsoever. Then again, I thought, she’s sitting here across from her father’s son, not saying a word.

  “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” Aaron told us, a smile tugging at the edges of his lips. It was hard to reconcile the man in front of us with the one we’d seen in the alleyway.

  You know Tory. She knows you. Emotions were running high—I was struck, suddenly, by a possibility. Maybe you really know Tory. Maybe Camille wasn’t the one you were looking at that night at the sushi restaurant. Attraction, affection, tension—maybe you were watching Tory.

  What if Tory had chosen the Majesty for drinks that night because she wanted to see him? She’d lied to Briggs and Sterling about choosing the restaurant.

  What if she’s not afraid of Aaron? What if she’s afraid he’ll leave her? Or afraid someone will find out they’re involved?

  Someone, I thought, like Aaron’s father.

  “Tavish.” Aaron repeated Sloane’s last name back to her, then paused, like his mouth had gone dry. “My father had a friend once,” he continued softly. “Her name was Margot Tavish.”

  “I have to go.” Sloane bolted to her feet. She was trembling. “I have to go now.”

  “Please,” Aaron said. “Sloane. Don’t go.”

  “I have to,” Sloane whispered. “I’m not supposed to be here. I’m not supposed to tell.”

  She wanted him to like her. Even panicked, even trying to get away from him, she wanted him to like her so badly that I could feel it.

  “We have the same eyes,” Aaron told her. “They call them Shaw blue, did you know that?”

  “A chameleon’s tongue is longer than its body! And a blue whale’s weighs two-point-seven tons!”

  “I’m sorry,” Aaron said, holding up his hands and taking a step back. “I didn’t mean to scare you or to spring this on you or to put you on the spot. It’s just that I found out about your mother right after I graduated high school. I went to see her. She said there was a child, but by the time I’d confronted my father, your mother had overdosed and you were gone.”

  Gone. It took me a second to do the math. Aaron would have graduated high school around the same time that Sloane was recruited to the Naturals program.

  “You can’t know about me,” Sloane told Aaron softly. “That’s the rule.”

  “It’s not my rule.” Aaron stood up and walked around to her side of the desk. “I’m not like my father. If I’d known about you sooner, I promise I would have—”

  “You would have what?” Lia cut in protectively. Sloane was our family, more than she would ever be his, and right now, she was vulnerable and raw and bleeding. Lia didn’t trust strangers, and she especially didn’t trust this stranger—who we’d seen fighting with Tory Howard—with Sloane.

  Before Aaron could reply, the door to the office opened. Judd was standing there. And so was Aaron’s father.

  “Aaron,” Mr. Shaw said. “If you could be so kind as to give us a moment.”

  Aaron didn’t seem inclined to leave Sloane in a room with his father, and that told me volumes about them both.

  “Aaron,” Mr. Shaw said again, his voice perfectly pleasant. The older man had a powerful aura. I knew, before Aaron did, that he would give in to his father’s demand.

  You can’t fight him, I thought, watching Aaron go. No one can.

  Once Aaron was gone, Mr. Shaw turned the full force of his presence on the rest of us. “I’d like a moment with Sloane alone,” he said.

  “And I’d like a dress made of rainbows and a bed full of puppies who never grow old,” Lia shot back. “Not happening.”

  “Lia,” Judd said mildly. “Don’t antagonize the casino mogul.”

  I took Judd’s tone to mean that he wasn’t planning on leaving Sloane alone with her father, either.

  “Mr. Hawkins.” The mogul in question surprised me by knowing Judd’s last name. “If I wish to speak to my daughter, I will speak to my daughter.”

  Sloane’s expression was painfully transparent when he said the word daughter. He meant it as an expression of ownership. She couldn’t help hoping—desperately hoping—that it might be one of care.

  “Sloane,” Judd said, ignoring Shaw’s display of dominance, “would you like to go back to the room?”

  “She’d like,” Shaw said, his words very precise, “to speak with me. And unless you would like me to
let it slip to interested parties that your agent friends have been visiting teenagers in the Renoir Suite, you’ll let Sloane do as she pleases.”

  We should have set our base of operations up off the Strip, I realized. Off the radar, out of the way—

  “Cassie and Lia stay.” Sloane’s voice came out tiny. She cleared her throat and tried again. “You can go,” she told Judd, her chin held high. “But I want Cassie and Lia to stay.”

  For the first time since he’d entered the room, Sloane’s father actually looked at his daughter. “The redhead can stay,” he said finally. “The lie detector goes.”

  I realized then—Sloane’s father knows what Lia can do. He doesn’t just know that there’s a connection between us and the FBI. He knows everything. How could he possibly know everything?

  “Sloane.” Judd’s voice was as calm as if he were sitting at the kitchen table, doing his morning crossword. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

  “It’s fine,” Sloane said, her fingers tapping nervously against her thigh. “I’ll be fine. Just go.”

  Sloane’s father waited until the door was closed before turning his attention back to his daughter—and to me. Clearly, I hadn’t rated as a threat. Or maybe he’d just realized that Judd was never going to leave Sloane in here alone, and I was the lesser evil.

  The fact that he’d kicked Lia out made me wonder what lies he was planning to tell.

  “You look well, Sloane.” Shaw took a seat behind the desk.

  “I’m twelve percent taller than I was the last time you came to see me.”

  Shaw frowned. “Had I known you were going to be in Vegas, I would have made alternative arrangements for your little…group.”

  Alternative arrangements as in farther away from him and his.

  I replied so that Sloane didn’t have to. “You know what our group does. How?”

  “I have friends in the FBI. I’m the one who suggested Sloane for your Agent Briggs’s little program.”

  Sloane blinked rapidly, like he’d just tossed a bucket of water in her face. Michael’s father had traded him to the FBI for immunity on white-collar crimes. Sloane’s, apparently, had just wanted her out of town and away from his son.

  “You need to stay away from my family.” Shaw’s voice was deceptively gentle as he refocused on Sloane. He sounded like Aaron had, his voice calm and soothing, but there was no mistaking his words. “I have Aaron’s mother to think about.”

  “And the little girl.” The words escaped Sloane’s mouth.

  “Yes,” Shaw said. “We have to think about Cara. She’s just a child. None of this is her fault, is it?” he asked, his tone still so gentle, I wanted to hit him as hard as Michael had punched the man at the pool.

  None of this is Sloane’s fault, either.

  “Tell me you understand, Sloane.”

  Sloane nodded.

  “I need to hear you say it.”

  “I understand,” Sloane whispered.

  Shaw stood. “You’ll stay away from Aaron,” he reiterated. “It would behoove you to encourage your FBI friends to do the same.”

  “This is a serial murder investigation,” I said, breaking my silence. “You don’t get to dictate who the investigators do and do not talk to.”

  Shaw turned his eyes—the same blue as Aaron’s, the same blue as Sloane’s—on me. “My son knows nothing that could be of use. The FBI is wasting their time with him as much as they’re wasting their time on this ridiculous idea that a killer who’s managed to evade arrest thus far would hog-tie himself to committing his next murder in the Majesty’s Grand Ballroom, come hell or high water.”

  “It’s not a ridiculous idea.” Sloane stood up. Her voice trembled. “You just can’t see it. You don’t understand it. But just because you don’t understand something doesn’t mean you get to ignore it. You can’t just pretend the pattern doesn’t exist and hope it goes away.”

  The way he pretends you don’t exist, my brain translated. The way he ignores you.

  “That’s enough, Sloane.”

  “It’s not ridiculous.” Sloane swallowed and turned toward the door. “You’ll see.”

  YOU

  Waiting is harder than you’d anticipated.

  Every night, you sit with the knife balanced on one knee. Every night, you run through each iteration, each possibility, each second leading up to the moment when you will step up behind your target and use the knife to slit their throat.

  Just another calculation. Another number. Another step closer to what you will become.

  You want it. So badly you can taste it. You want it now.

  But you are at the mercy of the numbers, and the numbers say to wait. So you wait, and you watch, and you listen.

  You’re told the FBI suspects that the next murder will take place in the Grand Ballroom. You’re told they’re watching it. Waiting, just like you. You take that to mean that someone has seen the pattern—just a fraction of it, just a piece. In your quietest moments, when you’re staring at the blade, you wonder who at the FBI figured it out.

  You wonder if that person truly appreciates what you have done, what you are doing, what you will become. But how could they? Whoever they are, whatever they think they know, it’s only a fraction of the truth.

  They know only what you’ve allowed them to know. You set them on the path to discovery.

  It’s not their attention you want.

  Slowly, contemplatively, you take off your shirt. You pick up the knife. You turn to face the mirror, and you press the tip of the blade to your skin and begin to draw. Blood beads up. You welcome the pain. Soon, you won’t even feel it.

  Let the FBI come at you. Let them do their worst. And as for the rest of it, perhaps it’s time to send a message. You are at the mercy of the numbers.

  Let the world be at their mercy, too.

  When we got back to the suite, there were two packages waiting for us. The first contained footage of Sterling and Briggs’s most recent interview with Tory Howard. The second was from Aaron Shaw.

  Sloane wordlessly opened the second package. Inside were six tickets to tonight’s performance of Tory Howard’s Imagine. The advertisement included with them promised a “bewitching evening of mind-warping entertainment.” On the bottom, Aaron had written, in a slanted, cursive scrawl, On the house. He’d signed his name.

  “I have to go do something that isn’t cry now,” Sloane said. “And I’d like to do it alone.” She bolted before any of us could say anything.

  Lia and I exchanged a look. When Michael and Dean joined us, we brought them up to speed. Lia flipped her hair over her shoulder and did her best impression of someone who wasn’t concerned about Sloane—or anyone other than herself.

  “So,” she said, picking up the footage the FBI had sent, “who wants to watch Sterling and Briggs cross-examine Aaron Shaw’s girlfriend?”

  On-screen, Agent Briggs, Agent Sterling, and Tory were in what appeared to be some kind of interrogation room, as was a man I assumed to be Tory’s lawyer.

  “Thank you for agreeing to meet with us again.” Briggs sat across from Tory. Sterling was to his left. Tory’s lawyer sat beside her.

  “My client was glad to come down and clear up any lack of clarity that may exist in her prior statements.” The lawyer’s voice was smooth and baritone. Even from a distance, his watch looked expensive.

  Tory didn’t hire him. I didn’t second-guess the intuition. Tory was tough, she was a straight talker, and she was a survivor. At one point in time, she’d been in the foster system. She’d fought for everything she had. She would unquestionably hire the best lawyer she could afford to keep the FBI from strong-arming her—but her preference would lean toward someone more aggressive, with less of a fondness for designer suits.

  “Ms. Howard, when we last spoke to you, you indicated that Camille Holt was the one who chose the Majesty’s restaurant as your destination that night.”

  “Did I?” Tory didn�
�t bat an eye. “That’s not right. I was the one who suggested we go there.”

  I flashed back to seeing Tory in the alleyway with Aaron. Had they been discussing this interview? Had he told her what to say?

  “Were you aware that the location of Camille’s murder was set in advance?” Agent Briggs asked.

  “No,” Michael answered on her behalf. “She wasn’t. Look at that.” He gestured in the direction of the screen, though I couldn’t tell what part of Tory’s expression had tipped him off. “She’s gut-punched.”

  Agent Sterling took advantage of the moment. “What is your relationship with Aaron Shaw?”

  Tory was still absorbed enough in the revelation about Camille’s murder that she might have actually answered, but her lawyer leaned forward. “My client will not be answering any questions about Aaron Shaw.”

  “Check out the nostril flare on the lawyer on that one,” Michael said. “Closest thing to emotion the guy’s shown so far.”

  In other words: “He’s more concerned with protecting Aaron than protecting Tory,” I said. She didn’t hire him, I thought again. The Shaws did.

  On-screen, Sterling and Briggs exchanged a meaningful glance. Clearly, they’d picked up on that, too.

  “Understood,” Agent Briggs told the lawyer. “Moving along, Ms. Howard, we were hoping you could lend us your expertise on hypnosis.”

  Tory glanced at the lawyer. No objections.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Can you describe the process through which you hypnotize someone?” Briggs asked. He was keeping the questions general.

  Treat her like an expert, not a suspect, I thought. Smart.

  “I generally start with having volunteers count backward from one hundred. If I want a bigger impact, I might use a technique that gets a quicker result.”

  “Such as?”

  “It’s possible to shock someone into a hypnotic state,” Tory said. “Or you can start some kind of automatic sequence—like a handshake—and then interrupt it.”

  “And once someone is under,” Briggs said, “you can implant certain suggestions, cause them to act in certain ways?”