Killer Instinct
Page 14

I had no intention of replying to that statement, either, but Michael didn’t need verbal replies. He was perfectly capable of carrying on conversations completely on his own, reading my responses in my body language and the tiniest hints of expressions on my face.
“She doesn’t like this program,” I said, just to get him to stop reading me so intently. “She doesn’t like us. And she really doesn’t like me.”
“She doesn’t dislike you as much as you think she does.” Michael’s voice was quiet. I found myself leaning toward him, even though I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear more. “Agent Sterling isn’t fond of me, because I’m not fond of rules. She’s afraid to spend more than a few seconds looking at Dean, but she’s not scared of him. She actually likes Lia, even though Lia’s not any fonder of rules than I am. And Sloane reminds her of someone.”
The difference between Michael’s gift and mine was as obvious as it had been playing poker. He saw so much that Sterling was trying to hide. But why she was hiding it—that was a question for me.
“How’s the studying coming along?”
I glanced up at Judd, who stood in the doorway. He was a Marine, not a den mother. The question sounded completely foreign coming out of his mouth.
“Haven’t started,” Michael replied flippantly at the exact same time that I said, “Almost done.”
Judd arched an eyebrow at Michael, but didn’t push the issue. “You mind giving us a moment?” he asked instead.
Michael cocked his head slightly to one side, taking in the expression on Judd’s face. “Do I have a choice?”
Judd almost smiled. “That would be a no.”
As Michael made his way out of the room, Judd crossed it and lowered himself onto the sofa next to me. He watched Michael go. Something about the way he tracked Michael’s progress made me think he was forcing himself to take in the way Michael favored his injured leg.
“You know why this program is restricted to cold cases?” Judd asked me once Michael was gone.
“Because Dean was twelve when this program was started?” I suggested. “And because Director Sterling wants to minimize the chances of anyone finding out the program exists?” Those were the easy answers. Judd’s silence pushed me into giving the hard one. “Because on active cases,” I said softly, “people get hurt.”
“On active cases, people cross lines.” Judd took his time with the words. “Everything is urgent, everything is life-and-death.” He rubbed his thumb across the pads of his fingers. “In the heat of battle, you do what needs to be done. You make sacrifices.”
Judd was military. He didn’t use the word battle lightly.
“You’re not talking about us crossing the lines,” I said, sorting through what I was hearing—and what I knew. “You’re talking about the FBI.”
“Could be I am,” Judd allowed.
I tried to parse my way through Judd’s logic. Reading interviews, going through witness statements, looking at crime scene photos—those were all things we already did. What did it matter if the files were a year old versus a day? Theoretically, the risks were the same—minimal. But with active cases, the stakes were higher.
This UNSUB that Locke and Briggs were hunting, he was out there now. He might be planning his next kill now. It was easy enough to keep us out of the field on cold cases. But with lives on the line, if bringing us along could make a difference…
“It’s a slippery slope.” Judd rubbed the back of his hand over his jaw. “I trust Briggs. Mostly.”
“You trust Agent Sterling,” I said. He didn’t contradict me. “What about the director?”
Judd met my eyes. “What about him?”
The director was the one who’d caved to political pressure and trotted me out as bait on the Locke case. I’d wanted to help. He was the one who’d let me.
“I heard you and Ronnie butted heads,” Judd said, closing the door on further discussion. He put his palms on his knees, pushed off, and stood. “I think it would do you some good to stay out of the basement.” He let that sink in. “For a few weeks.”
Weeks? It took me a second to figure out what was going on here. Had Agent Sterling tattled on me? “You’re grounding me from the basement?” I said sharply.
“You’re a profiler,” Judd said mildly. “You don’t need to be down there. And,” he added, his voice hardening slightly, “you don’t need to be poking your nose into this case.”
In all the time I’d been here, Judd had never told any of us what we needed to do. This had Agent Sterling’s fingerprints all over it.
“She’s a good agent, Cassie.” Judd seemed to know exactly what I was thinking. “If you let her, there’s a lot she could teach you.”
Locke was my teacher. “Agent Sterling doesn’t have to teach me anything,” I said sharply. “If she can catch whoever killed that girl, we’ll call it even.”
Judd gave me a look. “She’s a good agent,” he repeated. “So is Briggs.” He started for the door. His back to me, he kept talking, his voice so low I almost couldn’t hear him.
For a long time after he left, I wondered over the words I’d barely heard. He’d said that Sterling was a good agent. That Briggs was a good agent. And then, as if he couldn’t stop himself, as if he didn’t even realize he was saying the words out loud, he’d said one last thing.
“There was only ever one case they couldn’t solve.”
YOU
At first, it felt good. Watching the life go out of her eyes. Running your thumb across the bloodstained knife. Standing over her, your heartbeat accelerating, pounding out a glorious rhythm: I did that. I did that. I did that.
But now—now, the doubts are starting to worm their way into your brain. You can feel them, wiggling through your gray matter, whispering to you in a familiar voice.
“You were sloppy,” it says. “Someone could have seen you.”
But they didn’t. They didn’t see you. You’re better than that. You passed this test with flying colors. You bound her. You branded her. You cut her. You hung her.
You did it. You’re done. But it doesn’t feel like enough. You don’t feel like enough.
Good enough.
Strong enough.
Smart enough.
Worthy.
If you’d done it right, you’d still be able to hear her screams. The press would be giving you a name. They’d be talking about you on the news, not her. She was nothing. No one. You made her special.
But no one even knows you’re alive.
“I’ll do it,” you say. “I’ll do it again.”
But the voice tells you to wait. It tells you to be patient. What will be will be—in time.
I woke up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night. I couldn’t remember my nightmare, but knew that I’d had one. My heart was racing. My chest was heavy, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was trapped. I threw off the covers.
My fingers found their way to the Rose Red lipstick of their own accord. On the other side of the room, Sloane turned over in her bed. I held my breath, waiting to see if she’d wake up. She didn’t. As quietly as I could, I slipped out of bed and out of our room.
I needed space. I needed air. I needed to breathe.
The house was silent as I crept downstairs. I wasn’t even sure where I was going until I ended up outside the kitchen door.
“I told you, I’m fine.”
I came to an abrupt halt as the silence in the house gave way to the muted sound of arguing on the other side of the door.
“You’re not fine, Dean. You’re not supposed to be fine with this. I’m not fine with this.”
Agent Sterling and Dean. They’re fighting.
I heard the sound of a chair scraping across tile and prepared to retreat. I listened for footsteps, but none were forthcoming. It sounded like someone had just pushed back from the table—angrily.
“You left.”
“Dean—”
“You left the FBI. I think we both know why.”