That got nothing more than a slight eyebrow raise out of Judd, who poured himself a cup of coffee without responding.

“If anyone asks,” Michael called to him, “your name is Alfred.”

Agent Sterling seemed to realize that she’d lost control of the situation. Rather than argue with Michael, she crossed the room and perched on the arm of the sofa. She nodded to the seats and waited for us to follow the unspoken order. We sat. The position she’d taken up meant she was seated higher than the rest of us, looking down.

I doubted that was an accident.

“Persons of interest.” Agent Sterling laid a thick file folder down on the coffee table in front of her, then reached back into her briefcase. “Schematics of the first two crime scenes.” She passed those to me, and I passed them to Sloane. Finally, she held up a DVD. “The Desert Rose’s security footage from the casino floor for the hour before and the hour after Eugene Lockhart was shot.”

“That’s it?” Lia asked. “That’s all you brought us?” She leaned back in her chair and put her feet up on the mahogany coffee table. “It’s like you want me to entertain myself.”

The evidence Agent Sterling had just handed over gave Sloane plenty to work with. Dean and I could weave through the information they’d collected on the persons of interest. Even Michael could scan the security footage for any emotional outliers.

But Lia needed witness interviews—or at the very least, transcripts.

“We’re working on it,” Agent Sterling told her. “Briggs and I will be conducting interviews of our own. I’ll make sure they’re recorded. If there’s something we need a consult on, you’ll be the first to know. In the meantime”—she stood up and glanced around the massive, sprawling suite—“enjoy your accommodations, and stay out of trouble.”

Lia’s expression was all innocence—and all too convincing.

Sterling headed for the door. She stopped to talk to Judd on the way out. After a quiet exchange, Sterling called back to me. “Cassie?” she said. “A word.”

Hyperaware of the fact that the others were watching, I met Agent Sterling at the door. She pressed a USB drive into my hand. “That’s everything we have on the developments in your mother’s case,” she said softly.

No matter what. I hadn’t let myself think those words in years. And now, they were the only thing I could think. Forever and ever, no matter what.

“You’ve been through the files?” I asked Agent Sterling, my mouth going dry.

“I have.”

My hand closed tighter over the drive, as if part of me was afraid she’d take it away.

“Judd said he told you not to look at the files alone. If you want me with you when you look at them, Cassie, you have my number.” With those words, Sterling slipped out the door, leaving me to face the inquisition alone.

I forced myself to ignore the looks I was getting from Michael and Lia, the look I was getting from Dean. Part of me wanted to walk past them, shut myself in my room, and look at the contents of the drive in my hand, to read it, memorize it, devour it whole.

Part of me wasn’t sure I was ready for what I would find.

Trying my hardest to keep those thoughts from my face, I made my way back to the others and to the files Agent Sterling had brought us on the current case. “Let’s get to work.”

The FBI had collected the local police department’s notes on five persons of interest in the deaths of Alexandra Ruiz and Sylvester Wilde. I started with the first file.

“Thomas Wesley,” I said, hoping the others would follow my lead and focus on the case. I laid a finger on the man’s picture—the same one Agent Briggs had put up on the screen on the plane.

“Self-satisfied,” Michael declared, studying the photo for a moment. “And hyperaware.”

Filing Michael’s observations away for reference, I skimmed the file. Wesley had created and sold no fewer than three internet start-up companies. His net worth was eight figures, nearing nine. He’d been playing poker professionally for about a decade—and in the past three years, he’d ascended the ranks, winning multiple international competitions.

Intelligent. Competitive. I took in the way Wesley was dressed in the picture and processed Michael’s read on the man. You like to win. You like a challenge.

Based on the party he’d thrown on New Year’s Eve, he also liked women, excess, and living the high life.

“What are you thinking?” I asked Dean. He was a warm, steady presence by my side, reading over my shoulder, not asking the questions I knew he had to be thinking about the exchange between Sterling and me.

“I think our UNSUB likes a challenge,” Dean answered quietly.

Just like Thomas Wesley.

“How many of our POIs are here for the poker tournament?” I asked. Picking out potential suspects was significantly easier when there was variation among the people you were profiling. By definition, anyone capable of playing poker at an elite level was highly intelligent, good at masking their own emotions, and amenable to taking calculated risks.

Lia thumbed through the files. “Four of the five,” she said. “And the fifth is Tory Howard, stage magician. Four bluffers and an illusionist.” Lia smiled. “I do like a challenge.”

You’re methodical, I thought, my brain turning back to the UNSUB. You plan six steps ahead. You get a rush out of seeing those plans come to fruition.