He failed. “He said, Next time, bring the girl.”

YOU

A mistake.

That’s what this is. Not the fact that Trina Simms is dead—that was part of the plan. But leaving evidence behind?

Sloppy. Stupid. Unworthy.

It won’t happen again. You’ll make sure of that. There won’t be any more mistakes.

Hidden in the shadows, you slide your finger along the flat side of the knife. You cut the perfect length of rope. The brand is heavy in your hand. You swing it once, through the air, like a baseball bat. You imagine the satisfying thunk of metal hitting skull—

No.

That’s not how it’s done. That’s not what you’re going to do in five…four…three…two…

“What are you doing here?”

You take a swing with the brand. Down your quarry goes, and you don’t regret it.

Bind them. Brand them. Cut them. Hang them.

No one said you couldn’t knock them out first.

You toss the brand to the ground and take out the zip ties. Emerson Cole was an assignment, but this—this is going to be fun.

“How does Redding even know there is a girl?” Director Sterling paced the length of the kitchen, past Briggs, past his daughter, past all of us until he came to a stop in front of Dean.

“He asked,” Dean answered flatly. “I told him there was no one.”

From the kitchen table, Judd kept watch over Director Sterling as the director’s weighty gaze settled on Dean.

“So either Redding didn’t believe you, he knows something, or he’s playing the odds.” The director considered those possibilities. “I don’t like the idea of bringing any of the others into an interrogation. If the wrong people got wind of it…” He trailed off.

You already brought Dean into an interrogation, I thought, but if anyone found out you’d used Dean to get information out of his father, you could explain.

“Can’t say I’m too fond of the idea of putting any of you in a room with a serial killer, either,” Judd commented, nursing his coffee. “Not that anyone asked.”

“However,” the director continued, ignoring Judd, “I could put another call into the warden. If we can install our own people as security and clear the cell block of prisoners and guards, I’m willing to entertain the idea of sending one of the girls in.”

“Me,” I said, speaking for the first time since Briggs had told us about Redding’s request. “It has to be me.”

I was the one who’d gone with Dean to Broken Springs. If the UNSUB had managed to communicate that to Redding, I was the one he wanted.

“I could do it.” Lia didn’t bother prefacing those words with anything else. “Daniel said he’d talk if you brought the girl. He never said which one.”

“Lia.” Dean said her name quietly. She turned around in her seat to face him. “If I don’t want Cassie in a room with him, what makes you think I would be any happier putting you on the chopping block?”

“I can take care of myself.” Lia sounded remarkably like Dean—the words were simple and soft, with none of her normal flare.

“And I can’t?” I asked, insulted.

“Maybe I should go,” Sloane said thoughtfully.

“No,” everyone in the room—including the director—said at once.

“I know jujitsu,” Sloane cajoled. “And besides, from what I’ve gathered, this particular witness specializes in mind games and subtle suggestion, and that won’t work on me. I get numbers and facts and the literal meanings of words. Subtle gets lost in translation.”

No one could argue with Sloane’s logic.

“I can probably offend him without even trying to!” Sloane was sounding altogether too enthusiastic now. “If things get too intense, I’ll tell him some statistics about domesticated ferrets.”

“That’s…errr…a very generous offer, Sloane, but I’d prefer you stay behind the scenes.” The director’s voice came out somewhat strangled. “There’s a two-way mirror. Once we’ve secured the area, there’s no reason the rest of you can’t observe.”

“I can think of a few.” Judd set his coffee down.

“With all due respect, Judd,” the director replied tightly, “this is FBI business.” And Judd wasn’t FBI. After a tense moment of silence, our caretaker stood and walked out of the room.

“Cassie, Dean, and Briggs will go in,” the director declared in the resulting silence.

“Why?” Dean took a step toward the director. “Why send anyone in? We haven’t gotten a thing out of him, and we’re not going to. He’s going to play with us, and someone else is going to die. We’re wasting time. We’re doing exactly what he wants.”

“He’s on edge.” Agent Sterling responded before the director could. “He’s a narcissist. If we give him enough rope, he’ll hang himself, Dean.”

“I guess that’s why he was so easy to catch the first time,” Dean retorted.

“I went to see him. I riled him up, and that’s going to work to our advantage.” Agent Sterling took a step toward Dean. “He doesn’t just want to win this game. He wants to win in a way that haunts us—and that means that if he thinks he’s got the upper hand, he will tell us something. There will be clues, because he will want me up at night five years from now, wondering why I didn’t see it.”

“You won’t have to see it,” Michael interjected. He looked at Lia. “If we’re on the other side of that glass, we will.”

“What happened to keeping us out of this case?” Dean appealed to Agent Sterling, his voice hard. “Wasn’t that what you wanted—for us to be normal and safe?”

That was a low blow.

“If I could give you normal, I would.” Agent Sterling’s voice was sharp. “But I can’t, Dean. I can’t erase the things that have happened to you. I can’t make you—any of you—want normal. I tried to keep you out of it. I’ve tried treating you all like kids, and it doesn’t work. So, yes, I’m an enormous hypocrite, but if the five of you can help us stop that man from taking even one more life, I’m not going to fight you on it.” She looked at her father. “I’m done fighting you on it.”

The interrogation room was smaller than it had looked on-screen and more claustrophobic than it had felt from the other side of the mirror. Dean, Briggs, and I arrived first. One of the agents on Briggs’s team, who I recognized as Agent Vance, went to get Dean’s father from the prison officials. Once the director had pointed out that Redding’s involvement in this case had happened under the warden’s nose, the warden had been accommodating—a nice contrast to what Agent Sterling and I had dealt with on our last visit.

I took a seat at the table and waited for Dean and Briggs to sit down beside me.

They stayed standing, hovering over my shoulder like a pair of Secret Service agents flanking the president. The door to the room opened with a creak, and it took everything in me not to turn and track Daniel Redding’s progress from the door to the table. Agent Vance fixed the chains, tested them, and then stepped back.

“So,” Redding said, eyes only for me. “You’re the girl.”

There was a musical quality to his voice that hadn’t come across in the recordings.

“You’re quiet,” Redding commented. “And pretty.” He flashed me a subtle smile.

“Not that pretty,” I said.

He tilted his head to the side. “You know, I think you believe that.” He paused. “Modesty is such a refreshing trait for someone in your generation. In my experience, most young people overestimate their traits and abilities. They get too confident too quickly.”

The DNA under Trina Simms’s nails, I thought. There was no way that Redding could know about that—and yet, I was aware that there were two layers to this conversation: the obvious and what lay underneath.

Agent Briggs put a hand on my shoulder, and I turned my attention to the list of questions in front of me—Agent Sterling’s list.