All In

You can’t tell anyone.

“Cassie—”

“I won’t,” I told Sloane. “I promise.”

Looking at her, I couldn’t keep from wondering how many times Sloane had been told, growing up, that she was a secret. I wondered how many times she’d watched Aaron or his father from afar.

“There’s a high probability that you’re profiling me,” Sloane stated.

“Occupational hazard,” I told her. “And speaking of occupational hazards, the numbers on the victims’ wrists—any thoughts?”

Sloane’s brain worked in ways that were incomprehensible to most people. I wanted to remind her that here, with us, that was a good thing.

Sloane took the bait. “The first two victims were 3213 and 4558.” She caught her bottom lip between her teeth, then plowed on. “One odd number, one even. Four digits. Neither are prime. 4558 has eight divisors: 1, 2, 43, 53, 86, 106, 2279, and, of course, 4558.”

“Of course,” I said.

“In contrast, 3213 has sixteen divisors,” Sloane continued.

Before she could tell me all sixteen of them, I interjected, “And the third victim?”

“Right,” she said, turning to pace the room as she spoke. “The number on the third victim’s wrist was 9144.” Her blue eyes got a faraway look in them that told me not to expect decipherable English any time soon.

The numbers matter to you, I thought, turning my mind to the killer. The numbers are the most important thing.

Very few aspects of this UNSUB’s MO had remained constant. Victimology was a wash. You’ve killed one woman and two men. The first two were in their twenties. The third was almost eighty. Our killer had killed in a different location each time, using a different methodology.

The numbers were the only constant.

“Could they be dates?” I asked Sloane.

Sloane paused in her pacing. “4558. April fifth, 1958. It was a Saturday.” I could see her searching through her encyclopedic store of knowledge for details about that date. “On April fifth, 1951, the Rosenbergs were sentenced to death as Soviet spies. In 1955 on that date, Churchill resigned as England’s prime minister, but in 1958…” Sloane shook her head. “Nothing.”

“Knock, knock.” Lia announced her presence the way she always did, without giving anyone time to object before she sauntered into the room. “I come bearing news.”

Lia slipped personas on and off as easily as most people switched clothes. Since we’d arrived, she’d changed into a red dress. With her hair pulled back into a complicated swirl, she looked sophisticated and a little bit dangerous.

That did not bode well.

“The news,” Lia continued with a slow smile, “involves some fascinating revelations about how our very own Cassandra Hobbes spent her Christmas vacation.”

Lia knew. About my mother. About the body. I felt like there was a vise around my chest, tightening centimeter by centimeter until I couldn’t manage more than shallow breaths.

After a few seconds, Lia snorted. “Honestly, Cassie. You go away for two weeks and it’s like you’ve forgotten everything I taught you.”

She was lying, I realized. When Lia said the news she’d heard was about me, she was lying. For all I knew, there might not even be news.

“Interesting, though,” Lia continued, her eyes eagle sharp, “that you believed me. Because that seems to suggest that something interesting did happen while you were home.”

I said nothing. Better to stay silent in Lia’s presence than to lie.

“So was there news?” Sloane asked Lia curiously. “Or were you just making conversation?”

That’s one term for it.

“There’s definitely news,” Lia declared, turning back toward the door and walking out of the room. I glanced at Sloane, and then we hurried to catch up with her. As we rounded the corner, Lia finally shared.

“We have a visitor,” she said airily. “And the news is that she’s very unhappy.”

Agent Sterling stood in the middle of the Renoir Suite’s sprawling living room, her eyebrows arched so high, they practically disappeared into her hairline. “This is your idea of low-key?” she asked Judd.

Judd walked into the kitchen and started a cup of coffee. He’d known Agent Sterling since she was a kid. “Relax, Ronnie,” he said. “No one is going to connect five spoiled teenagers and an old man in a four-thousand-dollar-a-night suite to the FBI.”

“Given the average yearly salary of an FBI agent,” Sloane interjected before Agent Sterling could say anything, “that seems true.”

Michael strode into the room, dressed in what appeared to be a swimsuit and a fluffy white robe. “Agent Sterling,” he said with a tip of an imaginary hat. “So glad you could join us.” He made quick work of studying her. “You’re annoyed, but also concerned and a bit peckish.” He crossed the room and picked up a bowl of fruit. “Apple?”

Sterling gave him a look.

Michael took the apple for himself and crunched into it. “You don’t have to worry about our cover.” Dean entered the room, and Michael gestured first toward him, then toward the rest of us. “I’m a VIP. They’re my entourage.”

“Four teenagers and a former marine,” Agent Sterling said, folding her arms over her chest. “That’s your entourage.”

“The fine folks at the Majesty don’t know they’re teenagers,” Michael countered. “Dean and Lia could pass for early twenties. And,” Michael added, “I may have led them to believe Judd was my butler.”