“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.”