The Naturals
Page 18
“The other day, when Locke said she couldn’t take Lia to the crime scene, you said that wasn’t what the program was anymore.” I paused. “What did you mean?”
Dean nodded, as if that were a perfectly reasonable question to ask after you’d kissed a person. “I was the first one,” he said. “Before there was a program, before they started using the term Naturals, it was just Briggs and me. I didn’t live with Judd. The FBI brass didn’t know about me. Briggs brought me questions. I gave him answers.”
“Questions about killers.” I wasn’t allowed a follow-up question, so I phrased it as a statement. Dean nodded. Lia cut in, breaking off all conversation.
“He was twelve,” she said, clipping the words. “Your turn, Dean.”
“Cassie,” Dean said. That was it—no “truth or dare.” Just my name.
Beside me, Michael’s jaw clenched. Lia’s payback had hit its target—and then some.
“Truth,” I said, trying not to dwell on Michael’s reaction or what it might mean.
“Why did you come here?” Dean asked, looking at Lia, at his own hands, at anything but me. “Why join this program at all?”
There were a lot of answers to that question that would have been technically true. I could have said that I wanted to help people. I could have said that I’d always known that I’d never quite fit in the regular world. But I didn’t.
“My mother was murdered.” I cleared my throat, trying to say the words like they were just any other words. “Five years ago. Based on the blood spatter, they think she was stabbed. Repeatedly. The police never found her body, but there was enough blood that they don’t think she could have survived. I used to think that maybe she had. I don’t anymore.”
Dean didn’t react visibly to that confession—but Lia went unnaturally still, and Sloane’s mouth dropped open as she averted her eyes. Michael had known about my mother, but I’d never said a word to any of the others.
Truth or dare, Dean. I wanted to say the words, but I couldn’t keep asking Dean questions. Already, we’d kept this game between the two of us for too long. “Truth or dare, Lia?”
“Truth.” Lia said the word like a challenge. I asked her whether she was messy or neat. She lowered her chin, raised her eyebrows, and stared at me.
“Seriously,” she said. “That’s your question?”
“That’s my question,” I confirmed.
“I’m a mess,” she said. “By every sense of the word.” She didn’t give me time to meditate on the fact that I’d pegged her right before she targeted Michael for the next round. I expected him to pick dare again, but he didn’t.
“Truth.”
Lia ran dainty hands over her dress. She gave him her most wide-eyed, innocent look. Then she asked him if he was jealous when I kissed Dean. Michael didn’t bat an eye, but I thought Dean might actually throttle Lia.
“I don’t get jealous,” Michael said. “I get even.”
No one was surprised when Michael aimed the next round at Dean.
“Truth or dare, Dean?”
“Truth.” Dean’s eyes narrowed, and I remembered Lia saying that if Dean had a temper, Michael would have been dead by now. I waited, my stomach heavy and my throat dry, for Michael to ask Dean something horrible.
But he didn’t.
“Have you ever seen The Bad Seed?” he inquired politely. “The movie.”
A muscle in Dean’s jaw twitched. “No.”
Michael grinned. “I have.”
Dean stood up. “I’m done here.”
“Dean—” Lia’s tone was halfway between mulish and wheedling, but he silenced her with a look. Two seconds later, he was stalking out of the room, and a few seconds after that, I heard the front door open, then slam.
Dean was gone—and a person didn’t have to be an emotion reader to see the look of satisfaction on Michael’s face.
YOU
Every hour, every day, you think about The Girl. But it’s not time for the grand finale. Not yet. Instead, you find another toy at a little shop in Dupont Circle. You’ve had your eye on her for a while, but resisted the urge to add her to your collection. She was too close to home, in an area that was too densely populated.
But right now, the so-called Madame Selene is just what you need. Bodies are bodies, but a palm reader—there’s a certain poetry to that. A message you want—need—have to send. It would be simpler to kill her in the shop, to drive a knife through each palm and leave her body on display, but you’ve worked so hard this week.
You deserve a little treat.
Taking her is easy. You’re a ghost. A stranger with candy. A sympathetic ear. When Madame Selene wakes up in the warehouse, she won’t believe that you’re the one who’s done this to her.
Not at first.
But eventually, she’ll see.
You smile, thinking about the inevitability of it all. You touch the tips of her brown hair and pick up the handy box of Red Dye Number 12. You hum under your breath, a children’s song that takes you back to the beginning, back to the first.
The palm reader’s eyes flicker open. Her hands are bound. She sees you. Then she sees the hair dye, the knife in your left hand, and she realizes.—
You are the monster.
And this time, you deserve to take things slow.
CHAPTER 17
When Agent Locke showed up Monday morning, she had dark circles under her eyes. Belatedly, I remembered that while we’d been watching TV and playing Truth or Dare, she and Briggs had been out working a case. A real case, with real stakes.
A real killer.
For a long time, Locke didn’t say anything. “Briggs and I hit a brick wall this weekend,” she said finally. “We’ve got three bodies, and the killer is escalating.” She ran a hand through hair that looked like it had been only haphazardly brushed. “That’s not your problem. It’s mine, but this case has reminded me that the UNSUB is only half the story. Dean, what can you tell Cassie about victimology?”
Dean stared holes in the countertop. I hadn’t seen him since Truth or Dare, but it was like nothing had changed between us, like we’d never kissed.
“Most killers have a type,” he said. “Sometimes, it’s a physical type. For others, it may be a matter of convenience—maybe you focus on hikers, because no one reports them missing for a few days, or students, because it’s easy to get ahold of their class schedules.”
Agent Locke nodded. “Occasionally the victims may be serving as a substitute for someone in the UNSUB’s life. Some killers kill their first girlfriend or their wife or their mother, over and over again.”
“The other thing victimology tells us,” Dean continued, flicking his eyes over to Agent Locke, “is how the victim would have reacted to being abducted or attacked. If you’re a killer …” He paused, searching for the right words. “There’s a give-and-take between you and the people you kill. You choose them. You trap them. Maybe they fight. Maybe they run. Some try to reason with you, some say things that set you off. Either way, you react.”
“We don’t have the luxury of knowing every last detail about the UNSUB’s personality,” Agent Locke cut in, “but the victim’s personality and behavior account for half of the crime scene.”
The moment I heard the phrase crime scene, I flashed back to opening the door to my mother’s dressing room. I’d always thought that I knew so little about what had happened that day. By the time I’d gotten back to the dressing room, the killer was gone. My mother was gone. There was so much blood.…
Victimology, I reminded myself. I knew my mother. She would have fought—nail-scratching, breaking-lamps-over-his-head, struggling-for-the-knife fought. And there were only two things that could have stopped her: dying or the realization that I was due back in the room at any second.
What if she went with him? The police had assumed she was dead—or at the very least unconscious—when the UNSUB had removed her from the room. But my mother wasn’t a small woman, and the dressing room was on the second floor of the theater. Under normal circumstance, my mother wouldn’t have just let a killer waltz her out the door—but she might have done anything to keep her assailant away from me.
Dean nodded, as if that were a perfectly reasonable question to ask after you’d kissed a person. “I was the first one,” he said. “Before there was a program, before they started using the term Naturals, it was just Briggs and me. I didn’t live with Judd. The FBI brass didn’t know about me. Briggs brought me questions. I gave him answers.”
“Questions about killers.” I wasn’t allowed a follow-up question, so I phrased it as a statement. Dean nodded. Lia cut in, breaking off all conversation.
“He was twelve,” she said, clipping the words. “Your turn, Dean.”
“Cassie,” Dean said. That was it—no “truth or dare.” Just my name.
Beside me, Michael’s jaw clenched. Lia’s payback had hit its target—and then some.
“Truth,” I said, trying not to dwell on Michael’s reaction or what it might mean.
“Why did you come here?” Dean asked, looking at Lia, at his own hands, at anything but me. “Why join this program at all?”
There were a lot of answers to that question that would have been technically true. I could have said that I wanted to help people. I could have said that I’d always known that I’d never quite fit in the regular world. But I didn’t.
“My mother was murdered.” I cleared my throat, trying to say the words like they were just any other words. “Five years ago. Based on the blood spatter, they think she was stabbed. Repeatedly. The police never found her body, but there was enough blood that they don’t think she could have survived. I used to think that maybe she had. I don’t anymore.”
Dean didn’t react visibly to that confession—but Lia went unnaturally still, and Sloane’s mouth dropped open as she averted her eyes. Michael had known about my mother, but I’d never said a word to any of the others.
Truth or dare, Dean. I wanted to say the words, but I couldn’t keep asking Dean questions. Already, we’d kept this game between the two of us for too long. “Truth or dare, Lia?”
“Truth.” Lia said the word like a challenge. I asked her whether she was messy or neat. She lowered her chin, raised her eyebrows, and stared at me.
“Seriously,” she said. “That’s your question?”
“That’s my question,” I confirmed.
“I’m a mess,” she said. “By every sense of the word.” She didn’t give me time to meditate on the fact that I’d pegged her right before she targeted Michael for the next round. I expected him to pick dare again, but he didn’t.
“Truth.”
Lia ran dainty hands over her dress. She gave him her most wide-eyed, innocent look. Then she asked him if he was jealous when I kissed Dean. Michael didn’t bat an eye, but I thought Dean might actually throttle Lia.
“I don’t get jealous,” Michael said. “I get even.”
No one was surprised when Michael aimed the next round at Dean.
“Truth or dare, Dean?”
“Truth.” Dean’s eyes narrowed, and I remembered Lia saying that if Dean had a temper, Michael would have been dead by now. I waited, my stomach heavy and my throat dry, for Michael to ask Dean something horrible.
But he didn’t.
“Have you ever seen The Bad Seed?” he inquired politely. “The movie.”
A muscle in Dean’s jaw twitched. “No.”
Michael grinned. “I have.”
Dean stood up. “I’m done here.”
“Dean—” Lia’s tone was halfway between mulish and wheedling, but he silenced her with a look. Two seconds later, he was stalking out of the room, and a few seconds after that, I heard the front door open, then slam.
Dean was gone—and a person didn’t have to be an emotion reader to see the look of satisfaction on Michael’s face.
YOU
Every hour, every day, you think about The Girl. But it’s not time for the grand finale. Not yet. Instead, you find another toy at a little shop in Dupont Circle. You’ve had your eye on her for a while, but resisted the urge to add her to your collection. She was too close to home, in an area that was too densely populated.
But right now, the so-called Madame Selene is just what you need. Bodies are bodies, but a palm reader—there’s a certain poetry to that. A message you want—need—have to send. It would be simpler to kill her in the shop, to drive a knife through each palm and leave her body on display, but you’ve worked so hard this week.
You deserve a little treat.
Taking her is easy. You’re a ghost. A stranger with candy. A sympathetic ear. When Madame Selene wakes up in the warehouse, she won’t believe that you’re the one who’s done this to her.
Not at first.
But eventually, she’ll see.
You smile, thinking about the inevitability of it all. You touch the tips of her brown hair and pick up the handy box of Red Dye Number 12. You hum under your breath, a children’s song that takes you back to the beginning, back to the first.
The palm reader’s eyes flicker open. Her hands are bound. She sees you. Then she sees the hair dye, the knife in your left hand, and she realizes.—
You are the monster.
And this time, you deserve to take things slow.
CHAPTER 17
When Agent Locke showed up Monday morning, she had dark circles under her eyes. Belatedly, I remembered that while we’d been watching TV and playing Truth or Dare, she and Briggs had been out working a case. A real case, with real stakes.
A real killer.
For a long time, Locke didn’t say anything. “Briggs and I hit a brick wall this weekend,” she said finally. “We’ve got three bodies, and the killer is escalating.” She ran a hand through hair that looked like it had been only haphazardly brushed. “That’s not your problem. It’s mine, but this case has reminded me that the UNSUB is only half the story. Dean, what can you tell Cassie about victimology?”
Dean stared holes in the countertop. I hadn’t seen him since Truth or Dare, but it was like nothing had changed between us, like we’d never kissed.
“Most killers have a type,” he said. “Sometimes, it’s a physical type. For others, it may be a matter of convenience—maybe you focus on hikers, because no one reports them missing for a few days, or students, because it’s easy to get ahold of their class schedules.”
Agent Locke nodded. “Occasionally the victims may be serving as a substitute for someone in the UNSUB’s life. Some killers kill their first girlfriend or their wife or their mother, over and over again.”
“The other thing victimology tells us,” Dean continued, flicking his eyes over to Agent Locke, “is how the victim would have reacted to being abducted or attacked. If you’re a killer …” He paused, searching for the right words. “There’s a give-and-take between you and the people you kill. You choose them. You trap them. Maybe they fight. Maybe they run. Some try to reason with you, some say things that set you off. Either way, you react.”
“We don’t have the luxury of knowing every last detail about the UNSUB’s personality,” Agent Locke cut in, “but the victim’s personality and behavior account for half of the crime scene.”
The moment I heard the phrase crime scene, I flashed back to opening the door to my mother’s dressing room. I’d always thought that I knew so little about what had happened that day. By the time I’d gotten back to the dressing room, the killer was gone. My mother was gone. There was so much blood.…
Victimology, I reminded myself. I knew my mother. She would have fought—nail-scratching, breaking-lamps-over-his-head, struggling-for-the-knife fought. And there were only two things that could have stopped her: dying or the realization that I was due back in the room at any second.
What if she went with him? The police had assumed she was dead—or at the very least unconscious—when the UNSUB had removed her from the room. But my mother wasn’t a small woman, and the dressing room was on the second floor of the theater. Under normal circumstance, my mother wouldn’t have just let a killer waltz her out the door—but she might have done anything to keep her assailant away from me.
