Dean stared down at the page. His hair fell into his face. I kept reading, falling into a steady rhythm, my voice the only sound in the room.

“‘Chapter Four: Organized vs. Disorganized Offenders.’”

Dean and I had taken a lengthy break for lunch, but my voice was still getting hoarse.

“My turn,” Dean said, taking the textbook from me. “If you read another chapter, you’re going to be miming things by the end.”

“That could get ugly,” I replied. “I’ve never been very good at charades.”

“Why do I get the feeling there’s a story there?” Dean’s lips twisted into a subtle smile.

I shuddered. “Let’s just say that family game night is a competitive affair, and I’m also pretty dismal at Pictionary.”

“From where I’m sitting, that’s not exactly a character flaw.” Dean leaned back in his chair. For the first time since we’d seen the body on the news, he looked almost relaxed. His arms dangled loosely by his sides. His chest rose and fell slightly with each breath. His hair still fell into his face, but there was almost no visible tension in his shoulders, his neck.

“Did someone say character flaw?” Michael sauntered into the room. “I believe that might be one of my middle names.”

I glanced back down at the textbook, trying to pretend that I hadn’t just been staring at Dean.

“Middle names, plural?” I asked.

Michael inclined his head slightly. “Michael Alexander Thomas Character Flaw Townsend.” He shot me a lazy smile. “It has a certain ring to it, don’t you think?”

“We’re working,” Dean told him flatly.

“Don’t mind me,” Michael said, waving a hand in our general direction. “I’m just making a sandwich.”

Michael was never “just” anything. He might have wanted a sandwich, but he was also enjoying irritating Dean. And, I thought, he doesn’t want to leave the two of us in here alone.

“So,” I said, turning back to Dean and trying to pretend this wasn’t awkward. “Chapter four. You want to take over reading?”

Dean glanced over at Michael, who seemed amused by the entire situation. “What if we didn’t read it?” Dean asked me.

“But it’s our homework,” I said, adopting a scandalized expression.

“Yeah, I know—I’m the one who talked you into reading it in the first place.” Dean ran his fingertip along the edge of the book. “But I can tell you what it’s going to say.”

Dean had been here five years, and this textbook was Profiling 101.

“Okay,” I said. “Why don’t you give me the abbreviated version? Teach me.”

There was a time when Dean would have refused.

“Okay,” he said, staring at me from across the table. “Disorganized killers are loners. They’re the ones who never quite fit in. Poor social skills, a lot of pent-up anger.”

At the word anger, my eyes darted involuntarily toward Michael’s. Never fit in. Poor social skills. I could tell from the look on Michael’s face that I wasn’t the only one thinking that sounded like a bare-bones description of Clark.

Dean paused. I forced my eyes forward and willed Dean not to think too hard about why it was that hearing a few words about disorganized killers had led to something unspoken passing between Michael and me.

“In their day-to-day lives, disorganized killers are generally seen as antisocial and inept,” Dean continued after a long moment. “People don’t like them, but they’re not scared of them, either. If the disorganized killer has a job, it’s likely to be low-paying and low on respect. Disorganized killers may behave like adolescents well into adulthood; it’s statistically likely that they still live with one or more of their parents.”

“So what’s the difference between a disorganized killer and a loser?” Michael didn’t even bother to pretend he wasn’t eavesdropping.

“If you were like Cassie and me”—Dean stared Michael down—”you wouldn’t have to ask.”

Dead silence.

Dean had never admitted that the two of us were the same before. He’d never believed it. He’d certainly never said it to Michael.

“Is that so?” Michael’s eyes narrowed, a sharp contrast to the seemingly unruffled smile on his lips. I looked down at the table. Michael didn’t need to see the expression on my face—the one that said that Dean was right. I didn’t have to ask Michael’s question, because I did instinctively know the answer. Being antisocial and angry and inept didn’t make someone a killer. Traits like those couldn’t tell us whether Clark had the potential for violence, or how much. The only thing they could tell us was what kind of killer someone like Clark would be, if he ever crossed that line.

If Clark were a killer, he’d be a disorganized killer.

“Organized killers can be charming.” Dean swung his attention from Michael back to me. “They’re articulate, confident, and comfortable in most social situations.” His hair fell into his face, but his gaze never moved from mine. “They tend to be intelligent, but narcissistic. They may be incapable of feeling fear.”

I thought of Geoffrey with a G, who’d lectured me on the meaning of modus operandi and mentioned Emerson without a whiff of grief.

“Other people aren’t worthy of empathy to the organized killer, because other people are less. To them, being average is the same as being disposable.”

I absorbed Dean’s words, memorized them.

“What’s the life of one more person when the world is full of so many?” Dean’s voice went flat as he posed the question, and I knew he was somewhere else. “Organized killers feel no remorse.”

Dean’s father was an organized killer, I thought. I reached across the table and placed my hand over Dean’s. He bowed his head, but kept talking. “Organized killers plan things,” he said, his voice low. “Disorganized killers, they’re the ones who would do things on the spur of the moment.”

“They snap,” I said softly, “or they give in to their impulses.”

Dean leaned forward, his fingers curving around mine. “They’re more likely than organized killers to attack from behind.”

“Weapon choice?” I asked, my hand still intertwined with his.

“Whatever they have in reach,” Dean replied. “Blunt force trauma, a nearby kitchen knife, their own hands. The entire crime scene reflects a loss of control.”

“But for organized killers,” I said, my eyes on him, “it’s all about control.”

Dean held my gaze. “Organized killers stalk their victims. They often target strangers. Every move they make is calculated, premeditated, and in service of a particular goal. They’re methodical.”

“Harder to catch,” I supplied.

“They like that they’re harder to catch,” Dean returned. “Killing is only part of the pleasure. Getting away with it is the rest.”

Everything Dean said made sense to me—incredible, intuitive sense, like he was reminding me of something I’d always known, rather than teaching me something new.

“You okay?” he asked me.

I nodded. “I’m fine.” I glanced over at the kitchen counter, where Michael had been making his sandwich. He was gone. At some point during my back-and-forth with Dean, Michael had taken off.

I glanced down at the table. Dean slowly unfurled his hand from mine.

“Dean?” I said. My voice was soft, but cut through the room. I could still feel the exact place where his skin had touched mine. “Organized killers, they’re the ones who take trophies, aren’t they?”

Dean nodded. “Trophies help them relive their kills. It’s how they sate their desire to kill in between victims.”

“Locke took a tube of lipstick from every woman she killed.” I couldn’t keep from saying those words out loud. Narcissistic. Controlled. It fit.

“My father was an organized killer.” There was an intensity to Dean when he spoke about his father. This was the second time he’d opened up to me, tit for tat. “He said that as a child, people knew there was something wrong with him, but for as long as I could remember, he was well-liked. He planned things meticulously. He never deviated from the script. He dominated the women he targeted. He controlled them.” Dean paused. “He’s never once showed remorse.”