Bad Blood: (The Naturals #4) (Naturals, The) Read online

  “We’re all going.” Agent Briggs didn’t mince words as he descended the basement stairs. He was the one who had recruited Michael to the program. He knew exactly what kind of man Thatcher Townsend was.

  So why would he send Michael back there? Why would Judd agree? The fact that Agent Sterling wasn’t with Briggs made me wonder if she’d fought them on this.

  “You’re telling me that we’re just breaking camp and flying to upstate New York?” Lia narrowed her eyes at Briggs. “Out of the goodness of our hearts?”

  “Not out of the goodness of our hearts. And not because Director Sterling thinks Townsend Senior could prove useful down the road.” Briggs looked to Michael. “Not even because a nineteen-year-old girl is missing, although we shouldn’t stop caring about things like that, no matter how focused we are on taking the Masters down.”

  The word missing hit Michael like a physical blow. “Then why?” he asked.

  Why would Director Sterling bring us this case? Why would Briggs and Judd willingly bring Michael back into his abusive father’s sphere? Why would we drop everything to look for one girl?

  I knew the answer in the pit of my stomach before Briggs said, “Because the police believe Celine was abducted eight days ago.”

  My heart thudded in my chest. Eight days since the last Fibonacci date. Five days until the next one.

  “March twenty-first.” Sloane’s voice caught in her throat. “3/21.”

  “This girl disappeared on a Fibonacci date.” Lia must have sensed Briggs was holding something back, because she tilted her head to the side. “And?”

  There was a long pause.

  “This girl disappeared on a Fibonacci date,” Briggs repeated, “and the entire crime scene was soaked in kerosene.”

  YOU

  The smell of burning flesh never really leaves you. Ash scatters. Skin scars. Pain subsides. But the smell is always there.

  Pushing back against it, you concentrate. You know this slow and painful dance. You know the rules. But even as the wheel turns, the music changes. You can hear it. This time, you know something that the others don’t.

  You know her.

  Maybe Celine Delacroix was still alive. Maybe she hadn’t been doused in kerosene. Maybe the person who had abducted her from her home hadn’t burned her alive on March twenty-first.

  But that wasn’t a risk we could take. The entire team—plus Agents Starmans and Vance—were on the jet and flying to upstate New York in under an hour.

  Near the front of the plane, Briggs checked his watch. Across the aisle from him, Agent Sterling thumbed through a copy of the case file, like she hadn’t already memorized the entire thing. The lengths the two of them were going to in order to avoid eye contact might have triggered my interest if I hadn’t been more focused on the fact that Celine Delacroix might be victim number one—of nine.

  I felt the weight of that pressing down on me, suffocating me. Beside me, Dean’s fingers brushed the tips of mine.

  Every time he reaches for your hand, I heard Daniel Redding whisper in my memory, every time you touch his scars…

  I jerked my hand back.

  “Cassie?”

  “I’m fine,” I said, falling back on a childhood habit and focusing on assessing the other occupants of the plane. Michael sat in a row by himself, Sloane and Lia side by side across the aisle. Near the front of the plane, behind Sterling and Briggs, Agent Vance—short, compact, by the book, and pushing forty—and Agent Starmans—recently divorced, unlucky in love, and deeply uncomfortable with teenagers who saw more than they should—awaited orders. They’d been a part of Briggs’s team since before I’d joined the program, but hadn’t started traveling with us until after Vegas.

  Until every single one of us became a possible target.

  That just left Judd. I could tell by the way he was sitting that he was armed. The plane hit cruising altitude before I could think too hard about why.

  Agent Sterling stood and ditched the file in her hand for a digital version displayed on the flat screen at the front of the plane. “Celine Elodie Delacroix, nineteen-year-old daughter of Remy and Elise Delacroix.” Agent Sterling began the briefing like this was any other day—and any other case. “Remy is a hedge fund manager. Elise runs the family’s charitable foundation.”

  Agent Sterling didn’t say a word about the Masters—or the Delacroix family’s connection to Michael. I took my cue from her, setting aside conjecture in favor of focusing on the pictures on the screen. My first impression was that Celine Delacroix was the kind of girl who could make anything look elegant while giving off the general impression that she thought elegance was overrated. In the first picture, she wore her black hair wavy and chopped in artistic layers, the longest reaching past her chest and the shortest barely brushing the bottom of her chin. Her black cocktail dress was formfitting, and a gold medallion—most likely vintage—brought out the rich undertone of her brown skin. In the second picture, Celine’s dark hair spiraled out around her head in seemingly endless curls. Black pants. White blouse. Red heels. My mind cataloged the details, even as I turned my attention to the final picture. Celine’s tight curls were pulled into a loose bun on the top of her head, and her white T-shirt hung purposefully off both shoulders, revealing a white tank underneath.

  You wear solid colors, not prints. You’re always aware of the camera.

  Agent Sterling continued, “Celine was reported missing by her college roommate when she didn’t return to campus after spring break.”

  “Which campus?” Michael asked. I wondered why he was asking. I wondered why, if he and Celine had been at all close, he didn’t already know.

  “Yale.” Agent Briggs was the one who answered Michael’s question. “According to police interviews, Celine’s friends were under the impression that she was joining them for a spring break trip to Saint Lucia, but she canceled at the last minute and went home instead.”

  Why? I wondered. Did someone ask you to? Did something happen?

  “Our victim was reported missing by her college roommate.” Sloane brought her feet up onto her seat and rested her chin on her knees. “It’s statistically unlikely that such a report would be made immediately. The percentage of college students who return late from breaks increases in a curvilinear fashion as the school year proceeds to its close.”

  Agent Sterling recognized the question inherent in Sloane’s statistic. “The report was made yesterday morning, after Celine’s roommate had been unable to get ahold of her for three days straight and Mr. and Mrs. Delacroix confirmed that they hadn’t heard from their daughter in several weeks.”

  A muscle ticked in Michael’s jaw. “They didn’t even know she went home, did they?”

  “No,” Agent Briggs replied evenly. “It appears Celine’s parents were abroad at the time.”

  I integrated that into what I knew about our victim’s last-minute trip home. Did you know no one would be there? Did your parents even bother to tell you they would be gone?

  “If she wasn’t reported missing until the twenty-eighth…” Sloane did the math and zeroed in on the money question. “How do we know she disappeared on the twenty-first?”

  Agent Sterling clicked forward to the next slide in her presentation. “Security footage,” she clarified as a split-screen video began to play.

  “Twelve cameras.” Sloane cataloged them instantly. “Based on the coverage and the length of the hallways, I’d estimate the house is a minimum of nine thousand square feet.”

  Sterling enlarged footage of what appeared to be an in-home art studio. Celine Delacroix was visible, smack-dab in the middle of the frame. The date on the footage was March 21.

  You were painting something. As I watched Celine, I tried to sink further and further into her perspective. For you, painting is a whole-body endeavor. You move like you’re dancing. You paint like it’s a combat sport. The footage on the screen was black-and-white, but the resolution was excellent. You wipe the sweat from your brow wi
th the back of your hand. There’s paint on your arms, your face. You take a step back and—

  Without warning, the footage jumped. One second, Celine was on-screen, painting, and the next there was shattered glass everywhere. A broken easel lay on the floor. The entire studio had been ransacked.

  And Celine was gone.

  Sterling and Briggs spent the remainder of the flight showing us crime scene photos and briefing us on the facts of the case. One thing was clear: our victim had fought.

  She was stronger than you expected. I shifted my focus from Celine to the UNSUB. You either lost control or you never had it. You weren’t ready. Weren’t worthy.

  That was guesswork as much as profiling. I needed to see the actual crime scene. I needed to stand where Celine had been standing. I needed to know her—to see her bedroom, examine her paintings, sort out exactly what kind of fighter she was.

  “We’ll set up our base of operations at a nearby safe house.” As the plane began its descent, Agent Briggs laid out the plan. “Agent Starmans and Judd will accompany the Naturals to the safe house. Agent Vance, you’re with us.”

  Us as in Briggs and Sterling. They’d scout out the scene and major players before we were allowed anywhere near the case.

  “Is this a bad time to point out that I’m on the verge of turning eighteen?” Michael asked. It was the first time he’d spoken since Agent Sterling had concluded her briefing. For Michael, that might have been a record. “Redding’s eighteen. God knows when Lia’s birthday actually is, but I think we can all agree that she doesn’t need kid gloves.”

  “I cannot help noticing that you did not mention Cassie or me,” Sloane told Michael, frowning. “I do not care for gloves of the kid or adult variety. Mittens conserve up to twenty-three percent more heat.”

  “None of you are coming with us.” Agent Briggs was used to issuing orders. “The five of you are going to the safe house. We will deal you in on a need-to-know basis once the crime scene has been secured.”

  “So what I’m hearing,” Michael replied as the plane touched down, “is that this is a good time to remind you that I am the only person here who knows Celine, the Delacroix family, or the local police department?”

  “One guess as to how Townsend knows the local police department,” Dean murmured beside me.

  The debate continued as we de-planed, until Briggs snapped, “Michael, what are the chances that I’m going to change my mind?”

  “Slim to none?” Michael guessed flippantly.

  “Infinitesimal to none,” Sloane corrected.

  Michael shrugged as he descended the stairs to stand on the runway. “What are the chances that I’ll do something stupid if you don’t let me come, Agent Tightpants?”

  Briggs didn’t reply, which told me that Michael’s threat had landed. Agent Sterling stepped in front of Michael before he could say anything else. “Briggs understands more than you think,” she told him softly. She didn’t provide any context for that statement, but I found myself wondering how Briggs had grown up, if he had firsthand experience with Thatcher Townsend’s brand of parenting.

  There was a long silence as Michael tried to ignore whatever emotions he saw on Sterling’s face.

  Agent Starmans, who’d been on our protection detail more than once in the last ten weeks, cleared his throat. “I’d really prefer you didn’t make me spend my afternoon forcing you to stay put,” he told Michael.

  Michael offered him a dazzling smile. “And I’d prefer if you didn’t peruse online dating profiles on your work phone.” He winked at the mortified agent. “Dilated pupils, slight smile, followed by visible agonizing about how to compose just the right message? It’s a dead giveaway every time.”

  Starmans clamped his mouth shut and strode to stand next to Agent Vance.

  “Now that was just mean,” Lia commented.

  “Who?” Michael countered. “Me?”

  I knew him well enough to know that if he decided to do something stupid, Starmans wouldn’t be able to stop him. When you’re hurting, you hurt yourself. I wanted to stop there but couldn’t, because I knew exactly where Michael’s love affair with self-destruction came from. If you can’t keep someone from hitting you, you make them hit you, because at least then you know it’s coming. At least then you know what to expect.

  Turning away from Michael before he could read the expression on my face, I saw a row of gleaming black Mercedes SUVs parked at the edge of the private airstrip. Four of them. A closer inspection revealed that the keys were in the ignitions and that each of the four had been stocked with sparkling soda and fresh fruit.

  “No warm nuts?” Lia commented, her voice dry. “And they call this hospitality.”

  Michael offered her his most careless smile. “I’m sure my father will remedy any disappointment. We Townsends pride ourselves on hospitality.”

  Your father arranged for transportation. Four SUVs, when two would do. I tried not to read too much into the way Michael had grouped himself in with his father, like Townsend men were Townsends first and anything else was a distant second—no matter how far they’d run.

  “We’re not visiting dignitaries,” Briggs said flatly. “We’re not clients Thatcher Townsend needs to woo. This is a federal investigation. The local field office is perfectly capable of supplying us with a car.”

  Sloane raised her hand. “Will that car have three rows of air bags, a seven-speed automatic transmission, and a five hundred fifty horsepower engine?”

  Lia raised her hand. “Will that car have warm nuts?”

  “Enough,” Sterling declared. She turned toward Michael. “I think I speak for everyone here when I say that I don’t care about your father’s hospitality, except insofar as it tells me that he’s grandiose, prone to unnecessary gestures, and seems to have conveniently forgotten the fact that we’ve already seen behind the man behind the curtain. We know exactly what he is.”

  “Behind the curtain?” Michael said loftily, striding toward the farthest SUV. “What curtain? My father would be the first to tell you: with Townsends, what you see is what you get.” He pulled the keys out of the ignition and tossed them in the air, catching them lazily in one hand. “Based on the set of Agent Sterling’s mouth, not to mention those impressively deep brow ridges Agent Briggs is working, I have inferred that the FBI won’t be accepting dear old Dad’s gesture of goodwill.” Michael gave the keys another toss. “But I will.”

  His tone dared Sterling and Briggs to argue with him.

  “I call shotgun.” Judd knew how to pick his battles. My gut said that, on some level, he knew that Michael saw accepting his father’s gifts as akin to taking punches.

  You take whatever he dishes out. You take and you take and you take—because you can. Because people would expect you to turn down his gifts out of spite. Because anything you could take from him, you would.

  Michael caught my gaze. He always knew when I was profiling him. After a long moment, he spoke. “It appears we’re going to the safe house. Judd’s got shotgun. Lia?” He tossed her the keys. “You’re driving.”

  Riding with Lia was a bit like playing Russian roulette. She had a need for speed and a liar’s disregard for limitations. We barely made it to the safe house in one piece.

  Michael shuddered. “I think I speak for all of us when I say that I am in dire need of either an adult beverage or a live feed on Sterling and Briggs as they dig into this case.”

  Agent Starmans opened his mouth to reply, but Judd gave a quick shake of his head. We were here. We were under armed guard. We were safe. Judd knew as well as I did that, left to his own devices, Michael wouldn’t be any of those things for long.

  The last time you went home, you came back covered in bruises and spiraling out of control. I couldn’t keep my mind from going there as Judd set up the video and audio feeds. And now, a girl you know is missing. One of the so-called Masters might have burned her alive.

  Within minutes, the view from Briggs’s lapel pin came i
nto focus on Judd’s tablet. We saw what Briggs saw, and all I could think, as Briggs and Sterling climbed out of their FBI-issued SUV, was that if this case was anything other than open-and-shut, none of us would be able to keep Michael from spiraling for long.

  The Delacroix house was modern and vast. It was also, we soon learned, unoccupied. Celine’s parents had apparently decided to meet with the FBI on more neutral ground.

  “Home, sweet home.” A sardonic edge crept into Michael’s voice a few minutes later as the house next door to the Delacroix’s came into view on the camera.

  Large, I thought. Traditional. Ornate.

  “Most people call it Townsend House,” Michael said lightly, “but I prefer to think of it as Townsend Manor.”

  The more Michael joked, the more my heart thudded in my throat on his behalf. You were supposed to be done with this place. You were supposed to be free.

  “Is that a turret?” Lia asked. “I love a man with a turret.”

  If Michael was going to crack jokes about his own personal hell, Lia would find a way to one-up him. They’d both had plenty of practice over the years at making the things that mattered most matter least.

  On-screen, Briggs and Sterling made their way to the front porch. Briggs rang the bell. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. The massive mahogany front door opened.

  “Agent Briggs.” The man who’d answered the door had thick charcoal-brown hair and a voice that commanded attention: rich and baritone and warm. He reached out and clapped a hand on Agent Briggs’s shoulder. “I know you can’t have appreciated the lengths I went to in order to get you here, but if I didn’t do everything possible to help Remy and Elise at a time like this, I would never forgive myself.” He turned from Briggs to Sterling. “Ma’am,” he said, holding out a hand. “Thatcher Townsend. The pleasure is mine.”