Killer Instinct
Page 3
“What about you, Redding? Are you in or are you out?” Michael issued the words as a challenge.
So maybe Lia misread him, I thought, turning that idea over in my head. Maybe he’s not bluffing. I doubted Michael would have challenged Dean unless he was certain he was going to win.
“I’m in,” Dean said. “All in.” He pushed five cookies into the pot and raised an eyebrow at Michael, mimicking the other boy’s facial expression almost exactly.
Michael matched Dean’s bet. Lia matched Michael’s. My turn.
“I’m out of cookies,” I said.
“I’d be open to discussing a modest interest rate,” Sloane told me before returning her attention to divesting an Oreo of its frosting.
“I have an idea,” Lia said in an overly innocent tone that I recognized immediately as trouble. “We could always take things to the next level.” She unknotted the white kerchief around her neck and tossed it to me. Her fingers played with the bottom of her tank top, raising it up just enough to make it crystal clear what the “next level” was.
“It is my understanding that the rules of strip poker specify that only the loser is required to disrobe,” Sloane interjected. “No one has lost yet, ergo—”
“Call it a show of solidarity,” Lia said, inching her shirt up farther. “Cassie’s almost out of chips. I’m just trying to even the playing field.”
“Lia.” Dean was not amused.
“Come on, Dean,” Lia said, her bottom lip jutting out in an exaggerated pout. “Loosen up. We’re all friends here.” With those words, Lia pulled off her tank top. She was wearing a bikini top underneath. Clearly, she’d dressed for the occasion.
“Ante up,” she told me.
I wasn’t wearing a bathing suit under my top, so there was no way it was coming off. Slowly, I took off my belt.
“Sloane?” Lia turned to her next. Sloane stared at Lia, a blush spreading over her cheeks.
“I’m not undressing until we establish a conversion rate,” she informed us tartly, gesturing toward her mountain of chips.
“Sloane,” Michael said.
“Yes?”
“How would you feel about a second cup of coffee?”
Forty-five seconds later, Sloane was in the kitchen, and neither of the boys was wearing a shirt. Dean’s stomach was tanned, a shade or two darker than Michael’s. Michael’s skin was like marble, but for the bullet scar, pink and puckered where his shoulder met his chest. Dean had a scar, too—older, thinner, like someone had drawn the tip of a knife slowly down his torso in a jagged line from the base of his collarbone to his navel.
“I call,” Lia said.
One by one, we flipped over our cards.
Three of a kind.
Flush.
Full house, queens and eights. The last was from Michael.
I knew it, I thought. He wasn’t bluffing.
“Your turn,” Lia told me.
I flipped my own cards over, and my brain cataloged the result. “Full house,” I said, grinning. “Kings and twos. Guess that means I win, huh?”
“How did you…?” Michael sputtered.
“Are you telling me the pity party was an act?” Lia sounded impressed despite herself.
“It wasn’t an act,” I told her. “I fully expected to lose. I just hadn’t actually looked at my final cards yet.”
I’d figured that if I didn’t know what my hand held, there was no way for Michael or Lia to figure it out, either.
Dean was the first one to start laughing.
“Hail Cassie,” Michael said. “Queen of loopholes.”
Lia huffed.
“Does this mean I get to keep your shirts?” I asked, reaching for my belt and snagging an Oreo while I was at it.
“I think it would be best if everyone maintained possession of their own shirts. And put them on. Now.”
I froze. The voice that issued that command was female and crisp. For a split second, I was taken back to my first weeks in the program, to our supervisor, my mentor. Special Agent Lacey Locke. She’d trained me. I’d idolized her. I’d trusted her.
“Who are you?” I forced myself back to the present. I couldn’t let myself think about Agent Locke—once I went down that rabbit hole, it would be hard to fight my way out. Instead, I focused on the person barking out orders. She was tall and thin, but nothing about her seemed slight. Her dark brown hair was pulled into a tight French knot at the nape of her neck, and she held her head with her chin thrust slightly forward. Her eyes were gray, a shade lighter than her suit. Her clothes were expensive; she wore them like they weren’t.
There was a gun holstered to her side.
Gun. This time, I couldn’t cut the memories off at the knees. Locke. The gun. It was all coming back. The knife.
Dean laid a hand on my shoulder. “Cassie.” I felt the warmth of his hand through my shirt. I heard him say my name. “It’s okay. I know her.”
One shot. Two. Michael goes down. Locke—she’s holding a gun—
I concentrated on breathing and fought back the memories. I wasn’t the one who’d gotten shot. This wasn’t my trauma. I was the reason Michael had been there in the first place.
I was the one that, in her own twisted way, the monster had loved.
“Who are you?” I asked again, clawing my way back to the here and now, my voice crisp and pointed. “And what are you doing in our house?”
The woman in gray raked her eyes over my face, leaving me with the uncomfortable feeling that she knew exactly what was going on in my head, exactly where I’d been a moment before.
“My name is Special Agent Veronica Sterling,” she said finally. “And as of right now, I live here.”
“Well, she’s not lying.” Lia broke the silence. “She’s really a special agent, her name really is Veronica Sterling, and for some reason, she’s operating under the misguided belief that she resides under our roof.”
“Lia, I presume?” Agent Sterling said. “The one who specializes in lies.”
“Telling them, spotting them—it’s all the same.” Lia executed a graceful little shrug, but her eyes were hard.
“And yet,” Agent Sterling continued, ignoring both the shrug and the intensity of Lia’s gaze, “you interacted on a daily basis with an FBI agent who was moonlighting as a serial killer. She was one of your supervisors, a constant presence in this house for years, and no alarm bells went off.” Agent Sterling’s tone was clinical—just stating the facts.
Locke had fooled us all.
“And you,” Agent Sterling said, her eyes lighting on mine, “must be Cassandra Hobbes. I hadn’t pegged you for the type to play strip poker. And no, you don’t get credit for being the only person in this room besides me who’s still wearing a shirt.”
Agent Sterling pointedly turned her attention from me to the pile of clothes on the coffee table. She folded her arms over her chest and waited. Dean reached for his shirt and tossed Lia’s to her. Michael didn’t appear overly bothered by the crossed arms, nor did he seem at all compelled to get dressed. Agent Sterling stared down the length of her nose at him, her gaze settling on the bullet scar on his chest.
“I take it you’re Michael,” she said. “The emotion reader with the attitude problem who’s continually doing stupid things for girls.”
“That’s hardly a fair assessment,” Michael replied. “I do plenty of stupid things that aren’t for girls, too.”
Special Agent Veronica Sterling didn’t show even the slightest inclination to smile. Turning back to the rest of us, she finished her introduction. “This program has a vacancy for a supervisor. I’m here to fill it.”
“True,” Lia said, drawing out the word, “but not the whole story.” When Agent Sterling didn’t rise to the bait, Lia continued. “It’s been six weeks since Locke went off the deep end. We were starting to wonder if the FBI would ever send a replacement.” She raked her eyes over Agent Sterling. “Where did they find you, central casting? One young female agent swapped in for another?”
So maybe Lia misread him, I thought, turning that idea over in my head. Maybe he’s not bluffing. I doubted Michael would have challenged Dean unless he was certain he was going to win.
“I’m in,” Dean said. “All in.” He pushed five cookies into the pot and raised an eyebrow at Michael, mimicking the other boy’s facial expression almost exactly.
Michael matched Dean’s bet. Lia matched Michael’s. My turn.
“I’m out of cookies,” I said.
“I’d be open to discussing a modest interest rate,” Sloane told me before returning her attention to divesting an Oreo of its frosting.
“I have an idea,” Lia said in an overly innocent tone that I recognized immediately as trouble. “We could always take things to the next level.” She unknotted the white kerchief around her neck and tossed it to me. Her fingers played with the bottom of her tank top, raising it up just enough to make it crystal clear what the “next level” was.
“It is my understanding that the rules of strip poker specify that only the loser is required to disrobe,” Sloane interjected. “No one has lost yet, ergo—”
“Call it a show of solidarity,” Lia said, inching her shirt up farther. “Cassie’s almost out of chips. I’m just trying to even the playing field.”
“Lia.” Dean was not amused.
“Come on, Dean,” Lia said, her bottom lip jutting out in an exaggerated pout. “Loosen up. We’re all friends here.” With those words, Lia pulled off her tank top. She was wearing a bikini top underneath. Clearly, she’d dressed for the occasion.
“Ante up,” she told me.
I wasn’t wearing a bathing suit under my top, so there was no way it was coming off. Slowly, I took off my belt.
“Sloane?” Lia turned to her next. Sloane stared at Lia, a blush spreading over her cheeks.
“I’m not undressing until we establish a conversion rate,” she informed us tartly, gesturing toward her mountain of chips.
“Sloane,” Michael said.
“Yes?”
“How would you feel about a second cup of coffee?”
Forty-five seconds later, Sloane was in the kitchen, and neither of the boys was wearing a shirt. Dean’s stomach was tanned, a shade or two darker than Michael’s. Michael’s skin was like marble, but for the bullet scar, pink and puckered where his shoulder met his chest. Dean had a scar, too—older, thinner, like someone had drawn the tip of a knife slowly down his torso in a jagged line from the base of his collarbone to his navel.
“I call,” Lia said.
One by one, we flipped over our cards.
Three of a kind.
Flush.
Full house, queens and eights. The last was from Michael.
I knew it, I thought. He wasn’t bluffing.
“Your turn,” Lia told me.
I flipped my own cards over, and my brain cataloged the result. “Full house,” I said, grinning. “Kings and twos. Guess that means I win, huh?”
“How did you…?” Michael sputtered.
“Are you telling me the pity party was an act?” Lia sounded impressed despite herself.
“It wasn’t an act,” I told her. “I fully expected to lose. I just hadn’t actually looked at my final cards yet.”
I’d figured that if I didn’t know what my hand held, there was no way for Michael or Lia to figure it out, either.
Dean was the first one to start laughing.
“Hail Cassie,” Michael said. “Queen of loopholes.”
Lia huffed.
“Does this mean I get to keep your shirts?” I asked, reaching for my belt and snagging an Oreo while I was at it.
“I think it would be best if everyone maintained possession of their own shirts. And put them on. Now.”
I froze. The voice that issued that command was female and crisp. For a split second, I was taken back to my first weeks in the program, to our supervisor, my mentor. Special Agent Lacey Locke. She’d trained me. I’d idolized her. I’d trusted her.
“Who are you?” I forced myself back to the present. I couldn’t let myself think about Agent Locke—once I went down that rabbit hole, it would be hard to fight my way out. Instead, I focused on the person barking out orders. She was tall and thin, but nothing about her seemed slight. Her dark brown hair was pulled into a tight French knot at the nape of her neck, and she held her head with her chin thrust slightly forward. Her eyes were gray, a shade lighter than her suit. Her clothes were expensive; she wore them like they weren’t.
There was a gun holstered to her side.
Gun. This time, I couldn’t cut the memories off at the knees. Locke. The gun. It was all coming back. The knife.
Dean laid a hand on my shoulder. “Cassie.” I felt the warmth of his hand through my shirt. I heard him say my name. “It’s okay. I know her.”
One shot. Two. Michael goes down. Locke—she’s holding a gun—
I concentrated on breathing and fought back the memories. I wasn’t the one who’d gotten shot. This wasn’t my trauma. I was the reason Michael had been there in the first place.
I was the one that, in her own twisted way, the monster had loved.
“Who are you?” I asked again, clawing my way back to the here and now, my voice crisp and pointed. “And what are you doing in our house?”
The woman in gray raked her eyes over my face, leaving me with the uncomfortable feeling that she knew exactly what was going on in my head, exactly where I’d been a moment before.
“My name is Special Agent Veronica Sterling,” she said finally. “And as of right now, I live here.”
“Well, she’s not lying.” Lia broke the silence. “She’s really a special agent, her name really is Veronica Sterling, and for some reason, she’s operating under the misguided belief that she resides under our roof.”
“Lia, I presume?” Agent Sterling said. “The one who specializes in lies.”
“Telling them, spotting them—it’s all the same.” Lia executed a graceful little shrug, but her eyes were hard.
“And yet,” Agent Sterling continued, ignoring both the shrug and the intensity of Lia’s gaze, “you interacted on a daily basis with an FBI agent who was moonlighting as a serial killer. She was one of your supervisors, a constant presence in this house for years, and no alarm bells went off.” Agent Sterling’s tone was clinical—just stating the facts.
Locke had fooled us all.
“And you,” Agent Sterling said, her eyes lighting on mine, “must be Cassandra Hobbes. I hadn’t pegged you for the type to play strip poker. And no, you don’t get credit for being the only person in this room besides me who’s still wearing a shirt.”
Agent Sterling pointedly turned her attention from me to the pile of clothes on the coffee table. She folded her arms over her chest and waited. Dean reached for his shirt and tossed Lia’s to her. Michael didn’t appear overly bothered by the crossed arms, nor did he seem at all compelled to get dressed. Agent Sterling stared down the length of her nose at him, her gaze settling on the bullet scar on his chest.
“I take it you’re Michael,” she said. “The emotion reader with the attitude problem who’s continually doing stupid things for girls.”
“That’s hardly a fair assessment,” Michael replied. “I do plenty of stupid things that aren’t for girls, too.”
Special Agent Veronica Sterling didn’t show even the slightest inclination to smile. Turning back to the rest of us, she finished her introduction. “This program has a vacancy for a supervisor. I’m here to fill it.”
“True,” Lia said, drawing out the word, “but not the whole story.” When Agent Sterling didn’t rise to the bait, Lia continued. “It’s been six weeks since Locke went off the deep end. We were starting to wonder if the FBI would ever send a replacement.” She raked her eyes over Agent Sterling. “Where did they find you, central casting? One young female agent swapped in for another?”
