As the plane took off and the city grew small behind us, I turned around in my chair.
Youre leaving the Porsche in Denver? I asked.
He leaned forward, close enough that his forehead was almost touching mine.
The devils in the details, Cassie. I never said that Porsche was my only car.
YOU
Its been days since the last time, days of reliving your failure, over and over again. Each minute has been torture, and now youre on a schedule. You dont have the luxury of hunting for the perfect girl. The right girl. Theres nothing special about the one youve chosen, except for the color of her hair.It reminds you of someone elses hair, and thats enough. For now .
You kill her in a motel room. No one sees you enter. No one will see you leave. You put duct tape over her mouth. You have to imagine the sound of her screams, but the look in her eyes is worth it.
Its fast, but not too fast .
Its yours .
Youre in charge. You decide. You slide the knife into the flesh under her cheekbone. You carve the heavy makeupand the skinoff of her face.
There. Thats better .
You feel better. More in control. And you know that even though you dont have time for pictures, youll never forget the way the blood looks as it stains her hair.
Some days, you think, it feels like you have been doing this forever. But no matter how many there are, no matter how proficient youve become at showing them what you are, what they are, there is a part of you that knows.
It will never be quite right .
It will never be perfect .
There will never be another one like the first .
PART TWO: LEARNING
CHAPTER 7
I heard a rumor we were getting in around the same time, she called out to Briggs. Thought Id come to greet you in person. Without waiting for a reply, she turned her attention to me. Im Special Agent Lacey Locke. Briggs is my partner, and youre Cassandra Hobbes.
She timed this speech to end just as she closed the space between us. She held out a hand, and I was struck by the fact that she looked somehow impish despite the sunglasses and the suit.
I took her hand. Its nice to meet you,
I said. Most people just call me Cassie.
Cassie it is, then, she replied. Briggs tells me youre one of mine.
One of hers?
Michael filled in the blank. A profiler.
Dont sound so enthusiastic about the science of profiling, Michael, Locke said lightly. Cassie might mistake you for a seventeen-year-old boy without a strong sense of derision for the rest of the world.
Michael held a hand to his chest. Your sarcasm wounds me, Agent Locke.
She snorted.
Youre home early, Briggs cut in, aiming the comment at Agent Locke. Nothing in Boise?
Locke gave a brief jerk of her head. Dead end.
An unspoken communication passed between the two of them, and then Briggs turned to me. As Michael so obligingly pointed out, Agent Locke is a profiler. Shell be in charge of your training.
Lucky you, Locke said with a grin.
Are you I wasnt sure how to ask.
A Natural? she said. No. Theres only one thing Ive ever been a natural at, and sadly, I cant tell you about that until youre twenty-one. But I did go through the FBI Academy and took every class they offered in behavioral analysis. Ive been a part of the behavioral science unit for almost three years.
I wondered if it would be rude to ask how old she was now.
Twenty-nine, she said. And dont worry, youll get used to it.
Used to what?
She grinned again. People answering questions before you ask them.
Living room. Media room. Library. Study. The person that Briggs had found to look after the houseand uswas a retired marine by the name of Judd Hawkins. He was sixty-something, eagle-eyed, and a man of few words. Kitchens through there. Your room is on the second floor. Judd paused for a fraction of a second to look at me. Youll be sharing with one of the other girls. I expect thats not a problem?
I shook my head, and he strode back down the hallway and toward a staircase. Look alive, Ms. Hobbes, he called back. I hurried to catch up and thought I heard a smile in his voice, though there was barely a hint of it on his face.
I fought a smile of my own. Judd Hawkins might not have been gruff and no-nonsense, but my gut was telling me he had more soft spots than most people would have thought.
He caught me studying him and gave a brisk, businesslike nod. Like Briggs, he didnt seem to mind the idea that I might be getting a general picture of his personality from the little details.
Unlike a certain other individual I could think of, whod done his best to thwart me at every turn.
Refusing to glance back at Michael, I noticed a series of framed pictures lining the staircase. A dozen or so men. One woman. Most were in their late twenties or early thirties, but one or two were older. Some were smiling; some were not. A paunchy man with dark eyebrows and thinning hair hung between a handsome heartbreaker and a black-and-white photo from the turn of the century. At the top of the stairs, an elderly couple smiled out from a slightly larger portrait.