Sloane was currently walking the inside perimeter of the club, looking for points of entry and doing some sort of calculation involving maximum occupancy, the popularity of the band playing, total amount of alcohol consumed, and the line for the bathroom.

Dean, Locke, and I were tracing Genevieve’s last steps.

“Two unisex bathrooms. Dead bolts on each of the doors.” Dean’s dark eyes scanned the area with almost military precision.

“Genevieve was in line with a friend,” Locke told us. “The friend went into Bathroom A, leaving Genevieve next in line. When the friend came out, Genevieve wasn’t in line. The friend assumed she was in the second bathroom and went back to the bar. She never saw Genevieve again.”

I thought of the Genevieve I’d seen in the UNSUB’s picture, the Genevieve with bruises and blood crusted on her scalp. Then I pushed that image out of my head and forced myself to think about the events that had led to her abduction.

“Okay,” I said. “So I’m Genevieve. I’m a little drunk, maybe more than a little. I stumble my way through the crowd, wait in line. My friend goes into one of the bathrooms. The next one opens up.” I weaved on my feet a bit as I walked through the motions the girl would have taken. “I slip into the bathroom. Maybe I remember to throw the dead bolt. Maybe I don’t.”

Mulling that over, I scanned the room: a toilet, a sink, a broken mirror. Had the mirror been that way before Genevieve was taken? Or had it gotten broken when she was abducted? I turned three hundred and sixty degrees, taking it all in and trying to ignore just how disgusting the bathrooms at eighteen-and-over clubs really were. The floor was permanently sticky. I didn’t even want to look at the toilet, and there was graffiti scrawled across every surface of the bathroom walls.

“If you forgot to bolt the door, I might have followed you in.”

It took me a moment to realize that Dean was speaking from the UNSUB’s perspective. He took a step toward me, making the small space feel even smaller. I stumbled backward, but there was nowhere to go.

“Sorry,” he said, holding his hands up. Channeling Genevieve, I felt my lips curl into a loopy smile. After all, this was a club, and he was kind of cute.…

A second later, Dean had his hand over my mouth. “I could have chloroformed you.”

I twisted out of his hold, all too aware of how close my body was to his. “You didn’t.”

“No,” he agreed, his eyes on mine. “I didn’t.”

This time, he wrapped a hand around my waist. I leaned into him.

“Maybe I’m not just a little drunk,” I said. “Maybe I’m drunker than I should be.”

Dean caught on. “Maybe I slipped a little something extra into your drink.”

“It’s five feet from the bathroom door to the nearest emergency exit.” Sloane issued that observation from just outside the bathroom door. Clearly, she had better sense than to join the two of us in already cramped—and disgusting—quarters.

That went double for Agent Locke. “We have a witness who can place Genevieve going into this bathroom,” she said. “But no one remembers seeing her leave.”

Given that Genevieve probably wasn’t the only tipsy person in Club Muse that night, I wasn’t terribly surprised. It was scary to think how easy it might have been to lead a drugged girl out of the bathroom, down the hallway, and out the door.

“Nine seconds,” Sloane said. “Even if you account for a sluggish gait on Genevieve’s part, the distance between the bathroom and the closest exit is small enough that someone could have gotten her out of here in nine seconds.”

You chose Genevieve. You waited for exactly the right moment. You only needed nine seconds.

This UNSUB was meticulous. A planner.

You do everything for a reason, I thought, and the reason you took this girl is me.

“Okay, kiddies, playtime’s over.” Agent Locke had done an admirable job of fading into the background and letting us work, but clearly, she was on a timetable. “For what it’s worth, I reached the same conclusion you did. Two of the previous victims had traces of GHB in their systems. The UNSUB most likely slipped something into Genevieve’s drink and walked her right out the emergency exit with no one the wiser.”

Belatedly, I realized that Dean still had his arm wrapped around my waist. A second later, he must have realized the same thing, because he pulled away from me and took a step back.

“Any sign of the UNSUB outside?” he asked.

It was easy to forget that I wasn’t actually here as a profiler. I was here as bait, and the FBI was hoping I’d bring the killer straight to them.

“Plainclothes agents are canvassing the streets as we speak,” Agent Locke told us, “masquerading as volunteers, handing out flyers, and looking for people who might have information about Genevieve’s disappearance.”

Dean leaned back against the wall. “But you’re really just making a list of the people who approach the agents?”

Locke nodded. “Got it in one. I’m even patching a video feed through to Michael and Lia back at the house so they can analyze anyone who approaches.”

Apparently, Locke wasn’t above taking advantage of the director’s authorization to involve Naturals in this case.

She pushed a strand of stray hair out of her face. “Cassie, we need you to make a few more appearances outside. I’d have you handing out flyers if I thought we could get away with it, but even I’m not willing to push Briggs that far.”

I tried to put myself in the UNSUB’s shoes. He’d wanted me out of the house; I was out of the house. He’d wanted me involved in this case; now I was standing in the middle of the crime scene.

“Have you seen everything you need to see here?” Agent Locke asked me.

I glanced over at Dean, who was still keeping his distance.

You wanted me involved in this case.

You do everything for a reason.

The reason you took this girl is me.

“No.” I didn’t explain myself to Agent Locke. I didn’t have an explanation. But I knew in my gut that we couldn’t leave yet. If this was part of the UNSUB’s plan, if the UNSUB had wanted me to come here …

“We’re missing something.”

Something the UNSUB would have expected me to see. Something I was supposed to find, something that was supposed to hold meaning for me.

Slowly, I turned around, taking in the three-sixty view once more. I looked under the sink. I ran my fingers gingerly along the edges of the broken mirror.

Nothing.

Methodically, I raked my eyes over the graffiti on the walls. Initials and hearts, curse words and slurs, doodles, song lyrics …

“There.” A single line of text caught my eye. At first, I didn’t even read the words. All I saw were the letters: not quite cursive and not quite print, the same hyperstylized handwriting as on the cards that came with each black box.

FOR A GOOD TIME

The sentence cut off there. Frantically, I ran my finger over the wall, sorting through text, looking for that handwriting to pick up again.

CALL 567-3524. GUARANTEED

A phone number. My heart skipped a beat, but I forced myself to keep going: up and down the walls of the bathroom, looking for another line.

Another clue.

I found it near the mirror.

PLUS ONE. KOLA AND THORN.

Kola and Thorn? The more I read, the more the UNSUB’s message sounded like gibberish.

“Cassie?” Agent Locke cleared her throat. I ignored her. There had to be more. I started at the top and went through all of the graffiti again. Once I was sure there was nothing else, I walked out of the bathroom to get some air. Locke, Dean, and Sloane had been joined by Agent Briggs.

“We need you to make another appearance outside, Cassie.” Agent Briggs clearly considered that an order.

“The UNSUB’s not there,” I told them.

The FBI thought that by bringing me here, they’d been laying a trap for my killer, but they were wrong. The UNSUB was the one laying a trap for us.

“I need a pen,” I said.

After several seconds, Briggs gave me a pen.

“Paper?”

He removed a notebook from his lapel pocket and handed it to me.