I closed my eyes and willed the tangled mass of thoughts in my mind to sort themselves out. “If the UNSUB is doing this because he identifies with Daniel Redding,” I said, working through the logic as I spoke, “it makes sense that he would seek out someone who actually knows Redding for victim number two.”

“Victim number three,” Sloane reminded me. “You forgot the professor.”

She was right. I’d left out the professor, because even though Briggs and Sterling hadn’t said a single thing about how he’d died, my gut didn’t believe that the UNSUB had tortured the professor the way he’d tortured the females. Daniel Redding’s original victims had all been female. Binding the women, branding them—that was about ownership. An UNSUB who identified with the method and brutality of this particular MO wouldn’t relish the death of an older male the same way. The women were the main event; Fogle was just in the way.

Some things you do because you want to, I thought, and some things you do because you need to.

Dean didn’t say anything about my omission of the professor from the victim list. He had tunnel vision of his own. “Emerson was twenty years old, blond, friendly, and well-liked by her classmates. Trina was in her late forties, brunette, neurotic, and based on her reaction to having visitors, socially isolated, except for two people: my father and her son.”

Most killers had a type. What did Trina Simms and Emerson Cole have in common?

“Emerson’s young. She’s pretty.” Dean’s voice took on an odd hum. “She’s sleeping with a man who fancies himself an expert on Daniel Redding. Maybe that’s why I chose her.”

When I profiled an UNSUB, I used the word you. When Dean profiled killers, he said I.

“Or maybe,” Dean said, his lids heavy, his eyes nearly closed, “I chose a girl who wouldn’t sleep with me, and then one who was sleeping with the man I’m emulating.” Dean’s voice was eerily reflective. I could feel him sinking deeper and deeper into the possibilities. “If Redding weren’t in prison, he would have killed Trina Simms himself. He would have sliced her up and strung her up and laughed every time she screamed.”

Dean opened his eyes. For a few seconds, I wasn’t sure if he was seeing us—any of us. I had no idea what he was thinking, but I knew somehow that something had changed—the air in the room, the look on his face.

“Dean?” I said.

He reached for the phone.

“Who are you calling?” Lia asked.

Dean barely looked up. “Briggs.”

By the time Briggs answered the phone, Dean was pacing. “It’s me,” he said. Briggs started to say something back, but Dean cut him off. “I know you’re at a crime scene. That’s why I’m calling. I need you to look for something. I don’t know what, not exactly.” Dean sat down. It was the only way he could stop pacing. “Yell at me later, Briggs. Right now, I need to know if there’s anything other than doilies and porcelain figures on the end tables or the coffee table at the Simms house.” Dean rested his forearm on his knees and pressed his head into his arm. “Just look and tell me what you see.”

Silence fell over the room for a minute, maybe more. Lia sent me a questioning look, but I shook my head. I was just as clueless about what was going on as she was. One second, he was profiling our UNSUB, and the next, he was on the phone, barking out orders.

“Nothing?” Dean said. He exhaled and sat up. “No baseball cards or Matchbox cars or fishing lures.” Dean seemed to be trying to convince himself, more than anything else. “No books. No games.” Dean nodded in response to some query the rest of us couldn’t hear, then seemed to realize that Briggs wouldn’t be able to see the nod. “No. I’m fine. I just had a thought. It’s nothing. I’m sure it’s nothing.” I could see Dean trying to stop there, trying not to say anything else. He failed. “Can you look in her pockets?”

Another long silence. But this time, I saw the exact moment when Briggs replied. Dean’s body went rigid. No more nervous energy. No more questions.

“Well, that’s not good,” Michael murmured beside me.

“We have a problem.” Dean’s voice was stiff, his posture the same. “I don’t think our UNSUB is a copycat.” He paused, then forced out a clarification. “I think my father has a partner.”

Briggs and Sterling arrived back at the house late that night. None of us were asleep. We’d gathered in the kitchen, first to eat and then to wait. Around midnight, Judd had come in to chase us all to bed, but he’d ended up putting on a pot of coffee instead. By the time Agents Briggs and Sterling pushed open the door to the kitchen to see us crowded around the table, Sloane was just starting to wind down. The rest of us were silent—and had been for most of the night.

“Contents of Trina Simms’s pockets.” Briggs threw a clear plastic bag lightly down onto the table in front of us. Inside the bag was a single playing card—the king of spades.

“I wanted to be wrong.” That was all Dean said at first. He slid the evidence bag to the edge of the table, but didn’t pick it up. “I should have been wrong.”

“What put the idea in your head?” Agent Sterling sounded hoarse. I wondered if she and Briggs had spent the evening yelling orders at people, or if finding out that the man who had kidnapped and tortured her now had a partner on the outside had taken a toll.

“I was profiling our UNSUB.” Dean wasn’t hoarse. He spoke in slow, even tones, his fingers playing with the edge of the card through the plastic. “I thought our guy might have targeted Trina Simms because if my father weren’t in prison, he would have killed her himself. It made sense, the UNSUB’s believing that killing Trina was a step toward becoming my father. But then”—Dean pulled his hand back from the card—”I thought about the fact that we’d gone to see her, Cassie and Michael and me.”

I wasn’t sure why that made a difference, why our visit had taken Dean from thinking that this was a copycat to thinking his father was involved, but he spelled it out for us, in brutal, uncompromising terms.

“I met her. I didn’t like her. She died.”

Like Gloria, the woman that Daniel Redding had introduced to his young son. I told him I didn’t want a new mother. And he looked at Gloria and said, “That’s a shame.”

“I wanted that to be a coincidence,” Dean continued. His hands folded themselves into fists in his lap, his fingernails digging into the palms of his hands. “But then I thought about the fact that when I was in the interrogation room with my father, he knew where to look for the professor.” Dean shrugged. “That made sense. The professor had interviewed him multiple times. He was writing a book. Of course he might have mentioned his writing cabin.” Dean turned to address the next words to Agent Briggs. “We should have known.”

Lia picked up Dean’s train of thought. “He told you the truth about the professor’s location, but not the whole truth. That’s what he does. He deals in technicalities and half-truths and seemingly white lies.”

Dean didn’t turn to look at Lia, but underneath the table, I saw his hand find its way briefly to hers. She grabbed hold of his and squeezed, hard enough that I wasn’t sure she’d ever let go.

“I always knew that he was messing with our minds,” Dean said. “I knew that he was manipulating us, but I should have at least considered the possibility that he was pulling our UNSUB’s strings as well. People are just puppets to him, players on his stage.”

“You told Briggs to look in the victim’s pocket.” I tried to get Dean to focus on specifics. Talking about concrete details was the only thing I could think of to help him keep the big picture at bay. “How did you know there would be something there?”

“I didn’t.” Dean lifted his eyes to mine. “But I did know that if my father was involved, if Trina died because I went to see her, he’d want me to know.”

He’d want to send a message. That Dean was his. That Dean had always been his. He wasn’t his mother’s. He didn’t belong to the FBI. He didn’t even belong to himself. That was the message that Daniel Redding had sent his son, all with one little card.