Bad Blood
Page 14

The implications of that statement hit me like a semitruck. “You knew this case wasn’t related to the Masters?” My voice came out strained. You knew, and you let me believe—
“I knew that a girl was missing,” Agent Sterling said softly.
“And you never thought to share any of this with me?” Briggs’s voice hardened.
An unflinching Sterling met his gaze. “You never asked.” After a moment’s silence, she turned to me. There was a subtle shift in her tone, one that reminded me that once upon a time, she’d told me that when she looked at me, she saw herself. “You can never let yourself become so focused on one possibility—or one case—that you lose your objectivity, Cassie. The moment a case becomes about what you need—revenge, approval, redemption, control…you’ve already lost. There’s a thin line between following your gut and seeing what you want to see, and that’s not a lesson I could teach you.” She glanced back at Briggs. “We all have to learn that one on our own.”
You’re thinking about the Nightshade case. My profiling instinct went into overdrive. Years ago, Briggs and Sterling hadn’t known that the killer they were hunting was one of the Masters. They hadn’t known that when they went after Nightshade, he’d go after one of their own—Scarlett Hawkins. Judd’s daughter. Sterling’s best friend.
“And what the hell kind of lesson were you trying to teach me?” Agent Briggs bit out. “Not to make decisions without discussing them with you first? Not to take your father’s side on anything? Not to ask Judd to trust me?”
“I went above the director’s head on the Naturals program for a reason,” Sterling replied, emotional armor firmly in place. “My father is very good at his job. He’s got a mile-wide Machiavellian streak. And he can be very persuasive.”
“I made a judgment call,” Briggs shot back. “This has nothing to do with your father.”
“He always wanted a son,” Sterling said quietly. “A driven, ambitious, sculpted-in-his-own-image son.”
Briggs’s whole body went taut. “Is this about Scarlett? You still blame—”
“I blame myself.” Sterling dropped those words like a bomb. “This isn’t about you, or my father. This is about not letting any of us get so obsessed with one case, with winning, that we don’t see or care about anything else. Scarlett died on the altar of winning, Tanner. Masters or no Masters, I’ll be damned before we do the same thing to these kids.”
“And what about what this case is doing to Michael?” Briggs shot back. “Sacrificing his psychological well-being on the altar of your self-righteousness, that’s just fine?”
“I hate it when Mommy and Daddy fight.” Lia sidled up beside me. “Do you think they’re going to get a divorce?” Lia had never met a grease fire she didn’t want to throw water onto.
Briggs pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Briggs and Sterling are already divorced,” Sloane said helpfully as she peeled off her latex gloves and joined the melee.
Dean intervened before the situation could escalate. “We still have a missing person.”
That was why Agent Sterling hadn’t fought Briggs’s decision to come here. I thought of Celine, thought of the insidious emotion that had risen up inside of me when I’d realized what this case was—and what it wasn’t.
You don’t wish this girl had been burned alive, Cassie. Dean’s words echoed in my mind. You don’t wish she’d died screaming. You’re not capable of it.
I wanted that to be true.
“We have to find out who took Celine.” My throat tightening, I wove my fingers through Dean’s, Daniel Redding and his mind games be damned. “If she’s alive, we have to find her. And if she’s dead, we’re going to find out who killed her.”
I’d spent the past two and a half months in the basement, staring at the Masters’ handiwork. I’d sat down across from the devil and offered him a deal. But no matter what I did, no matter what we did, the reality of the situation was that I might never find my mother. Even if we caught one of the Masters—or two or three—the endless cycle of serial murder might never stop.
There was so much that wasn’t in my control. But this was.
“Where’s Michael?” Sloane asked suddenly. “Ninety-three percent of the time when there is an emotional or physical altercation, Michael is within a four-foot radius of the action.”
There was a beat of silence, and then Agent Briggs reiterated Sloane’s question. “Where is Michael?”
“I left him in Celine’s room,” I said. What I didn’t say—what I should have realized much earlier—was that I was willing to bet a lot of money that he hadn’t stayed in that room for long.
 
 
It didn’t take long to figure out where Michael had gone. If he suspected his father had something to do with Celine’s disappearance, he’d almost certainly gone to confront the threat head-on.
“You take the kids back to the safe house,” Briggs told Sterling. “I’ll go after Michael.”
“Because the one person Michael will listen to when he’s spiraling out of control is an authority figure,” Lia chirped. “There is no possible way this could go badly, especially if you start issuing orders. Heaven knows people who’ve spent their lives as punching bags do best when they have absolutely no control over a situation and someone else dominates them completely.”
Lia’s finely honed sense of sarcasm was all the more effective when she made the words sound completely sincere.
“And what do you suggest?” Briggs asked sharply.
“That the four of us go,” Lia retorted. “Obviously. Unless you really think that Thatcher Townsend is going to lose it and physically attack us all?”
“He won’t,” Dean cut in. “He cares about appearances.” He paused. “If I’m Thatcher Townsend, if I did have something to do with the disappearance of Celine Delacroix? I’d put on an even better show than usual.”
“And if Michael does his best to push his father over the edge?” Agent Sterling shot back. “If he goes on the offensive and his father snaps?”
Something dark and dangerous flashed in Dean’s eyes. “Then Thatcher Townsend will have to go through me.”