All In
Page 74
“The cessation of abuse,” Dean said with heartrending calm, “would have been as traumatic and formative as what came before.”
“Stop.” Tory whispered the same thing she’d said when she’d answered the phone, but this time, her voice was rough and low and desperate. “Please, just stop.”
“He was killing in a pattern.” Sloane spoke suddenly, her whisper a match for Tory’s. “It was going to end in the Majesty’s theater. February thirteenth, the theater—that was where it was going to end.”
“You matter to our killer, Tory.” Dean bowed his head. “It was always going to be you—just like it had to be one of your biggest rivals, just like it had to be Camille, just like it had to be a young girl with dark hair that first night.”
“Just like it had to be Aaron,” Tory choked out, her voice no longer a whisper.
Michael caught my gaze. He held up a pad of paper. On the verge, it said. I gave a nod to show that I understood. Whatever we said next had the potential to push her one way or the other—to believe or fight back against every word we said, to help us nail Beau or throw up a wall.
I chose my words carefully. “Have you ever seen Beau draw a spiral?”
That was a gamble, but the violence we’d seen these past few days was years in the making. If our profile was right, if Beau had been working toward this for years, if his sick needs and plan could be traced back to an early trauma…You planned and you dreamed and you practiced. You never let yourself forget.
“Oh, God.” Tory broke. I could hear the exact moment she shattered. I could almost see her sinking to the ground, pulling her knees to her chest, the hand holding her phone dropping to her side.
Dean caught my eyes in his. His hand made his way to my shoulder. I closed my eyes and leaned into his touch.
I did this to you, I thought, unable to get the picture of Tory out of my mind. I broke you. I shattered you, because I could. Because I had to.
Because we need you.
“He used to draw them in the dirt.” Tory’s voice was hoarse. I wanted to tell her that I knew how it felt to have your insides carved out. I wanted to tell her I knew what it was like to feel hollow—like there was no grief left to be had. “Beau never drew on paper, but he used to draw spirals in the dirt. No one ever saw them but me—he never let anyone see them but me.”
It was always going to be you. Beau would have killed her. She was his family. He loved her, and he would have killed her. He had to, had to, for reasons I couldn’t quite grasp.
“You need to talk to the FBI,” Dean said gently. “You need to answer their questions.” He gave her a moment to process his words. “I know what I’m asking, Tory. I know what it will cost you.”
From experience. He knows from experience. Dean had testified against his father. We were asking Tory to do the same to Beau.
“I heard our foster mother talking about him once,” Tory said after an extended silence. “I heard her say…” I could hear the effort it took for her to even form the words. “They found Beau half-dead in the desert. He was six years old, and someone just left him there. No food, no water. He’d been out there for days.” Her voice shook slightly. “No one knew where he’d come from or who left him. Beau couldn’t tell them. He didn’t say a word, not to anyone, for two years.”
No one knew where he’d come from. Like dominoes, falling one by one, everything I knew about Beau’s motivation, about the murders, began to shift.
YOU
They think they can arrest you. They think they can charge you with murder. They think they can put you in a box. They have no idea—what you are, what you have become.
They have no proof.
There’s talk of security footage at the Desert Rose, the day you anointed the one who was to become your fifth. The same pawn store that caught Victor McKinney assaulting you on camera has provided footage of you there hours before, loosening the brick. The FBI claims they have a plastic baggie with your fingerprints on it. They claim to be scanning it for Aaron Shaw’s blood.
Tory is talking. About teaching you hypnosis. About what little she knows of your past.
You won’t be in here forever. You’ll finish what you started. You’ll take your seat at the table. The ninth seat.
Nine.
Nine.
Nine.
Four more, and then you will be finished. Four more, and you can go home.
Agent Sterling and Agent Briggs sat in the interrogation room opposite Beau Donovan. He was wearing an orange jumpsuit. His wrists were handcuffed together. A public defender sat beside Beau, continually advising his client not to speak.
Back at the safe house, Lia, Michael, Dean, and I watched. Sloane had tried to watch, too, but she couldn’t.
She’d been wearing the shirt Aaron gave her for three days straight.
We needed a confession. We’d laid out enough evidence to convince the DA to press charges, but to avoid a trial, to be sure that Beau would pay, we needed a confession.
“My client,” the lawyer said forcefully, “is pleading the Fifth.”
“You have nothing,” Beau told Briggs and Sterling, his eyes simultaneously dead of emotion and strangely alight. “This is the second time you’ve tried to put me in this box. It won’t work. Of course it won’t.”
“My client,” the lawyer repeated, “is pleading the Fifth.”
“Nine bodies.” Agent Briggs leaned forward. “Every three years. On dates derived from the Fibonacci sequence.”
“Stop.” Tory whispered the same thing she’d said when she’d answered the phone, but this time, her voice was rough and low and desperate. “Please, just stop.”
“He was killing in a pattern.” Sloane spoke suddenly, her whisper a match for Tory’s. “It was going to end in the Majesty’s theater. February thirteenth, the theater—that was where it was going to end.”
“You matter to our killer, Tory.” Dean bowed his head. “It was always going to be you—just like it had to be one of your biggest rivals, just like it had to be Camille, just like it had to be a young girl with dark hair that first night.”
“Just like it had to be Aaron,” Tory choked out, her voice no longer a whisper.
Michael caught my gaze. He held up a pad of paper. On the verge, it said. I gave a nod to show that I understood. Whatever we said next had the potential to push her one way or the other—to believe or fight back against every word we said, to help us nail Beau or throw up a wall.
I chose my words carefully. “Have you ever seen Beau draw a spiral?”
That was a gamble, but the violence we’d seen these past few days was years in the making. If our profile was right, if Beau had been working toward this for years, if his sick needs and plan could be traced back to an early trauma…You planned and you dreamed and you practiced. You never let yourself forget.
“Oh, God.” Tory broke. I could hear the exact moment she shattered. I could almost see her sinking to the ground, pulling her knees to her chest, the hand holding her phone dropping to her side.
Dean caught my eyes in his. His hand made his way to my shoulder. I closed my eyes and leaned into his touch.
I did this to you, I thought, unable to get the picture of Tory out of my mind. I broke you. I shattered you, because I could. Because I had to.
Because we need you.
“He used to draw them in the dirt.” Tory’s voice was hoarse. I wanted to tell her that I knew how it felt to have your insides carved out. I wanted to tell her I knew what it was like to feel hollow—like there was no grief left to be had. “Beau never drew on paper, but he used to draw spirals in the dirt. No one ever saw them but me—he never let anyone see them but me.”
It was always going to be you. Beau would have killed her. She was his family. He loved her, and he would have killed her. He had to, had to, for reasons I couldn’t quite grasp.
“You need to talk to the FBI,” Dean said gently. “You need to answer their questions.” He gave her a moment to process his words. “I know what I’m asking, Tory. I know what it will cost you.”
From experience. He knows from experience. Dean had testified against his father. We were asking Tory to do the same to Beau.
“I heard our foster mother talking about him once,” Tory said after an extended silence. “I heard her say…” I could hear the effort it took for her to even form the words. “They found Beau half-dead in the desert. He was six years old, and someone just left him there. No food, no water. He’d been out there for days.” Her voice shook slightly. “No one knew where he’d come from or who left him. Beau couldn’t tell them. He didn’t say a word, not to anyone, for two years.”
No one knew where he’d come from. Like dominoes, falling one by one, everything I knew about Beau’s motivation, about the murders, began to shift.
YOU
They think they can arrest you. They think they can charge you with murder. They think they can put you in a box. They have no idea—what you are, what you have become.
They have no proof.
There’s talk of security footage at the Desert Rose, the day you anointed the one who was to become your fifth. The same pawn store that caught Victor McKinney assaulting you on camera has provided footage of you there hours before, loosening the brick. The FBI claims they have a plastic baggie with your fingerprints on it. They claim to be scanning it for Aaron Shaw’s blood.
Tory is talking. About teaching you hypnosis. About what little she knows of your past.
You won’t be in here forever. You’ll finish what you started. You’ll take your seat at the table. The ninth seat.
Nine.
Nine.
Nine.
Four more, and then you will be finished. Four more, and you can go home.
Agent Sterling and Agent Briggs sat in the interrogation room opposite Beau Donovan. He was wearing an orange jumpsuit. His wrists were handcuffed together. A public defender sat beside Beau, continually advising his client not to speak.
Back at the safe house, Lia, Michael, Dean, and I watched. Sloane had tried to watch, too, but she couldn’t.
She’d been wearing the shirt Aaron gave her for three days straight.
We needed a confession. We’d laid out enough evidence to convince the DA to press charges, but to avoid a trial, to be sure that Beau would pay, we needed a confession.
“My client,” the lawyer said forcefully, “is pleading the Fifth.”
“You have nothing,” Beau told Briggs and Sterling, his eyes simultaneously dead of emotion and strangely alight. “This is the second time you’ve tried to put me in this box. It won’t work. Of course it won’t.”
“My client,” the lawyer repeated, “is pleading the Fifth.”
“Nine bodies.” Agent Briggs leaned forward. “Every three years. On dates derived from the Fibonacci sequence.”
