All In
Page 68
“If you add Michael into the profile,” I said, “then four out of the five victims are under the age of twenty-five.”
Most killers had a type. If you set aside Eugene Lockhart as an outlier, our UNSUB’s type was young. Beautiful. By some definition, privileged.
“A college girl celebrating the new year in Vegas. A stage magician with a show at the Wonderland. An actress who moonlighted playing professional poker.” It hurt me to look at Michael on the screen. “A trust-fund boy.”
“Average age of twenty-two,” Sloane commented.
The spiral ends in the Majesty theater, I thought.
“Alexandra had long dark hair.” The words tumbled out of my mouth, one after the other. “Who would she look like if you looked at her from behind?”
Dean answered first. “Tory,” he said. “She’d look like Tory Howard.” He turned to face me head-on. “Sylvester Wilde was a stage magician.”
Like Tory.
Camille had died after going out for drinks with Tory that night. And Michael?
You saw him at the poker table next to Lia. She’s got long, dark hair. Like Tory. And Michael? He fastens and unfastens the top button on his blazer, perfectly sure of his place in this world.
The pieces began falling into place in my head. I’d thought—multiple times—that we were looking for someone who planned ten steps ahead. Someone who planned as meticulously as this killer, my own thoughts played back on a loop, who was as grandiose as this killer, who prided himself on being better, being more, would have a plan to circumvent suspicion.
I’d asked myself about our UNSUB’s relationships, about why he only chose to kill women when he could kill them cleanly.
The pattern ends in the Majesty theater. The final kill. The greatest sacrifice.
Nightshade’s ninth kill had been Scarlett.
“Yours,” I said out loud, “was always going to be Tory.”
The Majesty. Tory. Planning ten steps ahead—
I knew who the killer was. My fingers scrambled for the phone. My hands shaking, I dialed Agent Sterling.
YOU
You make your way through the crowd toward the stage. Like you’re supposed to be here. Like you own the place.
The knife is concealed by your sleeve.
There are cameras everywhere. Agents everywhere. They think you don’t know. They think you can’t see them, far more easily than they see you.
Your eyes land on your target. He’s wearing a blazer. His fingers play at the top button.
Everything can be counted. The steps until you reach him. The number of seconds it will take your blade to cross his throat. And to think, this almost went differently.
To think, you almost settled for an imitation.
Three.
Three times three.
Three times three times three.
This is your inheritance. This is what you were always meant to be. A man bumps into you. Apologizes. You barely hear him.
1/1.
1/2.
1/3.
1/4.
1/12.
Nine seats at the table. Three seconds until it begins.
Three…two…and—the power goes off. Just like you planned. No lights. Chaos. Just like you planned.
You walk with purpose. You sidle up behind number five. You catch him in a chokehold and press the blade to his throat.
And then you start to slice.
The screens went black. I had the phone pressed to my ear. No answer. No answer. No—
“Cassie.” Agent Sterling came on. “It’s fine. The UNSUB cut the power, but we have Michael secured.”
Something gave inside of me, but I didn’t have time for relief. The UNSUB’s name was on the tip of my tongue. What came out was, “What if it’s not Michael he’s after?”
We’d been going off the assumption that if given a choice, the UNSUB would revert to the original plan, targeting Michael. But if he’d discovered his intended victim had left Las Vegas, if he’d changed the plan, if he’d already found a way of regaining power and control—
“Aaron,” I told Agent Sterling.
Those words were met with silence.
“The UNSUB is Beau Donovan, and he’s targeting Aaron Shaw,” I plowed on. “Michael was only ever a stand-in. Beau saw him with Lia, and it was like looking at Aaron with Tory. If Beau thought, even briefly, that Michael wasn’t an option, he’d compensate by going for the real thing.”
“Briggs.” I heard Sterling call out, even though she was keeping her voice low. “We’re looking for Beau Donovan, targeting Aaron Shaw.”
On-screen, the lights flickered back on. Over the phone, I heard a piercing scream. My eyes darted from one video feed to the next. Beside me, Sloane slipped off the sofa and to her knees in front of the coffee table, her hands on either side of one of the tablets.
The agent wearing the camera ran forward. The image shook. A crowd formed. The camera was jostled, and then the agent knelt.
Next to the body of Aaron Shaw.
A high-pitched wheezing sound filled the air. Lia sank to the floor and wrapped her arms around Sloane.
“I told him,” Sloane whispered. “I told my father. January twelfth. The Grand Ballroom. I told him. I told him. I told him.”
He should have listened. But he hadn’t, and now Aaron was pale and still and covered in blood. Dead.
“Cassie?” Agent Sterling’s voice came back over the phone. I’d forgotten I was even holding it. “How sure are you about the UNSUB’s identity?”
Most killers had a type. If you set aside Eugene Lockhart as an outlier, our UNSUB’s type was young. Beautiful. By some definition, privileged.
“A college girl celebrating the new year in Vegas. A stage magician with a show at the Wonderland. An actress who moonlighted playing professional poker.” It hurt me to look at Michael on the screen. “A trust-fund boy.”
“Average age of twenty-two,” Sloane commented.
The spiral ends in the Majesty theater, I thought.
“Alexandra had long dark hair.” The words tumbled out of my mouth, one after the other. “Who would she look like if you looked at her from behind?”
Dean answered first. “Tory,” he said. “She’d look like Tory Howard.” He turned to face me head-on. “Sylvester Wilde was a stage magician.”
Like Tory.
Camille had died after going out for drinks with Tory that night. And Michael?
You saw him at the poker table next to Lia. She’s got long, dark hair. Like Tory. And Michael? He fastens and unfastens the top button on his blazer, perfectly sure of his place in this world.
The pieces began falling into place in my head. I’d thought—multiple times—that we were looking for someone who planned ten steps ahead. Someone who planned as meticulously as this killer, my own thoughts played back on a loop, who was as grandiose as this killer, who prided himself on being better, being more, would have a plan to circumvent suspicion.
I’d asked myself about our UNSUB’s relationships, about why he only chose to kill women when he could kill them cleanly.
The pattern ends in the Majesty theater. The final kill. The greatest sacrifice.
Nightshade’s ninth kill had been Scarlett.
“Yours,” I said out loud, “was always going to be Tory.”
The Majesty. Tory. Planning ten steps ahead—
I knew who the killer was. My fingers scrambled for the phone. My hands shaking, I dialed Agent Sterling.
YOU
You make your way through the crowd toward the stage. Like you’re supposed to be here. Like you own the place.
The knife is concealed by your sleeve.
There are cameras everywhere. Agents everywhere. They think you don’t know. They think you can’t see them, far more easily than they see you.
Your eyes land on your target. He’s wearing a blazer. His fingers play at the top button.
Everything can be counted. The steps until you reach him. The number of seconds it will take your blade to cross his throat. And to think, this almost went differently.
To think, you almost settled for an imitation.
Three.
Three times three.
Three times three times three.
This is your inheritance. This is what you were always meant to be. A man bumps into you. Apologizes. You barely hear him.
1/1.
1/2.
1/3.
1/4.
1/12.
Nine seats at the table. Three seconds until it begins.
Three…two…and—the power goes off. Just like you planned. No lights. Chaos. Just like you planned.
You walk with purpose. You sidle up behind number five. You catch him in a chokehold and press the blade to his throat.
And then you start to slice.
The screens went black. I had the phone pressed to my ear. No answer. No answer. No—
“Cassie.” Agent Sterling came on. “It’s fine. The UNSUB cut the power, but we have Michael secured.”
Something gave inside of me, but I didn’t have time for relief. The UNSUB’s name was on the tip of my tongue. What came out was, “What if it’s not Michael he’s after?”
We’d been going off the assumption that if given a choice, the UNSUB would revert to the original plan, targeting Michael. But if he’d discovered his intended victim had left Las Vegas, if he’d changed the plan, if he’d already found a way of regaining power and control—
“Aaron,” I told Agent Sterling.
Those words were met with silence.
“The UNSUB is Beau Donovan, and he’s targeting Aaron Shaw,” I plowed on. “Michael was only ever a stand-in. Beau saw him with Lia, and it was like looking at Aaron with Tory. If Beau thought, even briefly, that Michael wasn’t an option, he’d compensate by going for the real thing.”
“Briggs.” I heard Sterling call out, even though she was keeping her voice low. “We’re looking for Beau Donovan, targeting Aaron Shaw.”
On-screen, the lights flickered back on. Over the phone, I heard a piercing scream. My eyes darted from one video feed to the next. Beside me, Sloane slipped off the sofa and to her knees in front of the coffee table, her hands on either side of one of the tablets.
The agent wearing the camera ran forward. The image shook. A crowd formed. The camera was jostled, and then the agent knelt.
Next to the body of Aaron Shaw.
A high-pitched wheezing sound filled the air. Lia sank to the floor and wrapped her arms around Sloane.
“I told him,” Sloane whispered. “I told my father. January twelfth. The Grand Ballroom. I told him. I told him. I told him.”
He should have listened. But he hadn’t, and now Aaron was pale and still and covered in blood. Dead.
“Cassie?” Agent Sterling’s voice came back over the phone. I’d forgotten I was even holding it. “How sure are you about the UNSUB’s identity?”
