“The Masters had the apprentice kill Bryce and Tory because of us.” I swallowed, but I couldn’t stop the words from pouring out of my mouth. “I’m not sure if it’s revenge or an attempt to lure us away from Gaither, but if we weren’t here…”

On the other side of the room, Michael had his cell phone pressed to his ear. He said nothing, ending the call and trying a second time.

“Michael—” Lia started to say.

He slammed his fist into the wall. “Female,” he said, like it was a curse word. “Under twenty-five. With a connection to one of our previous cases.”

For the first time since I’d known him, Michael’s expression was transparent. Terrified. Nauseated.

And that was when I realized…

“Celine,” I said. Female. College-aged. Bile rose in my throat. “She was the ‘victim’ in our most recent case. If they’ve been watching us…” A heavy feeling settled over my limbs. “She helped us identify Nightshade. And we just pulled her back into the case.”

Not we, I thought, horrified. Me. I was the one who suggested we call Celine—just like I went to see Laurel.

“If she was there, she’d answer.” Michael slammed his fist into the wall again and again, until Dean forcibly hauled him back. “With everything that’s going on, she’d answer.” Michael struggled violently against Dean’s hold before stilling abruptly. “My call went to voice mail. Twice.”

 

 

No matter how many times we called Celine, her phone went straight to voice mail. Briggs sent a local field agent to her dorm to check on her, but she wasn’t there.

No one had seen or talked to Celine Delacroix since we’d sent her the photos hours earlier.

“First they went after your sister, Colorado,” Michael said dully, his eyes empty of emotion. “And now they’ve taken mine.”

Lia crossed the room to stand in front of him. For no apparent reason, her hand snaked out to slap him across the face, and a moment later, she pressed her lips to his, kissing him hard. As far as distractions went, that was a one-two punch.

“Celine is fine,” Lia said when she pulled back. “She’s going to be fine, Michael.” Lia could make anything sound true. Her breath was ragged as she continued. “I promise.”

Lia didn’t make promises.

“She’s only been missing a few hours,” Sloane added. “And given that she has a history of kidnapping herself, statistically speaking…” Our numbers expert paused, her blond hair falling into her face. “She’s going to be okay.” Sloane didn’t offer up a single number or percentage. Whatever numbers were flying through her head, she fought back against them for Michael and echoed Lia’s words. “I promise.”

Dean clapped a hand onto Michael’s shoulder. Michael’s eyes found their way to mine.

“She’s going to be okay,” I said softly. After everything we’d been through, everything we’d lost, I had to believe that. But I didn’t promise. I couldn’t.

Michael, taking one look at my face, would have known why.

A knock at the hotel room door broke the silence that had fallen over us. Judd stepped forward to prevent me from answering it. Looking through the peephole, he let his hand drop from the gun at his side and opened the door.

“You have a bad habit of disappearing, young lady.”

I processed Judd’s words before I registered the identity of the girl on the other side of the door.

“Celine?”

Celine Delacroix stood, designer suitcase in hand, her hair swept gently back from her face. “Two-dimensional skull photos blow,” she declared in lieu of a greeting. “Take me to the bodies.”

 

 

It hadn’t occurred to Celine to tell anyone she was going on an impromptu trip to Oklahoma. She’d turned her phone off on the plane.

“I told you.” Lia smirked at Michael. “Say that I was right.”

“You were right.” Michael rolled his eyes. His voice softened slightly. “You promised.”

“In the interest of ultimate honesty,” Celine cut in, “I’m pretty sure that everyone present would appreciate it if you two got a room.”

“I wouldn’t,” Dean grumbled.

“I am unbothered by displays of physical and emotional intimacy,” Sloane volunteered. “The nuances and statistics underlying courtship behavior are quite fascinating.”

The edges of Celine’s lips quirked upward as she met Sloane’s gaze. “You don’t say.”

Sloane frowned. “I just did.”

“I could use some mathematical expertise for these facial reconstructions.” Celine cocked her head to the side. “You in, Blondie?”

Remembering Sloane’s reaction to the bodies in the basement, I expected her to decline, but instead, she took a step toward Celine. “I’m in.”

Agent Sterling, Celine, and Sloane left before the sun came up the next morning. I ended up along for the ride. In all my time in the Naturals program, this was my first visit to one of the FBI labs—in this case, a secure facility a two-hour drive from Gaither. After the medical examiner had finished her analysis of both bodies and a forensics team had gathered trace evidence from the clothing and skin, what little had remained of our victims’ flesh had been stripped from the bones. The two skeletons lay side by side.

Agent Sterling cleared the room before allowing us in.

Celine stood in the doorway, taking in the long view before advancing on the skeletons, circling them slowly. I knew, just from her posture, that her eyes missed nothing. Her gaze latched on to the smaller skeleton—our female victim.

You see more than bones. You see contours. A cheek, a jaw, eyes…

“Can I touch her?” Celine asked, turning to Agent Sterling.

Sterling inclined her head slightly, and Sloane handed Celine a pair of gloves. Celine slipped them on and ran her fingertips gently over the woman’s skull, feeling the way the bones curved and met up with each other. For Celine, painting was a whole-body endeavor, but this—this was sacred.

“Two-point-three-nine inches between her orbital cavities,” Sloane said softly. “An estimated two and a half inches between her pupils and mouth.”