Bad Blood

Agent Sterling didn’t say a word about the Masters—or the Delacroix family’s connection to Michael. I took my cue from her, setting aside conjecture in favor of focusing on the pictures on the screen. My first impression was that Celine Delacroix was the kind of girl who could make anything look elegant while giving off the general impression that she thought elegance was overrated. In the first picture, she wore her black hair wavy and chopped in artistic layers, the longest reaching past her chest and the shortest barely brushing the bottom of her chin. Her black cocktail dress was formfitting, and a gold medallion—most likely vintage—brought out the rich undertone of her brown skin. In the second picture, Celine’s dark hair spiraled out around her head in seemingly endless curls. Black pants. White blouse. Red heels. My mind cataloged the details, even as I turned my attention to the final picture. Celine’s tight curls were pulled into a loose bun on the top of her head, and her white T-shirt hung purposefully off both shoulders, revealing a white tank underneath.

You wear solid colors, not prints. You’re always aware of the camera.

Agent Sterling continued, “Celine was reported missing by her college roommate when she didn’t return to campus after spring break.”

“Which campus?” Michael asked. I wondered why he was asking. I wondered why, if he and Celine had been at all close, he didn’t already know.

“Yale.” Agent Briggs was the one who answered Michael’s question. “According to police interviews, Celine’s friends were under the impression that she was joining them for a spring break trip to Saint Lucia, but she canceled at the last minute and went home instead.”

Why? I wondered. Did someone ask you to? Did something happen?

“Our victim was reported missing by her college roommate.” Sloane brought her feet up onto her seat and rested her chin on her knees. “It’s statistically unlikely that such a report would be made immediately. The percentage of college students who return late from breaks increases in a curvilinear fashion as the school year proceeds to its close.”

Agent Sterling recognized the question inherent in Sloane’s statistic. “The report was made yesterday morning, after Celine’s roommate had been unable to get ahold of her for three days straight and Mr. and Mrs. Delacroix confirmed that they hadn’t heard from their daughter in several weeks.”

A muscle ticked in Michael’s jaw. “They didn’t even know she went home, did they?”

“No,” Agent Briggs replied evenly. “It appears Celine’s parents were abroad at the time.”

I integrated that into what I knew about our victim’s last-minute trip home. Did you know no one would be there? Did your parents even bother to tell you they would be gone?

“If she wasn’t reported missing until the twenty-eighth…” Sloane did the math and zeroed in on the money question. “How do we know she disappeared on the twenty-first?”

Agent Sterling clicked forward to the next slide in her presentation. “Security footage,” she clarified as a split-screen video began to play.

“Twelve cameras.” Sloane cataloged them instantly. “Based on the coverage and the length of the hallways, I’d estimate the house is a minimum of nine thousand square feet.”

Sterling enlarged footage of what appeared to be an in-home art studio. Celine Delacroix was visible, smack-dab in the middle of the frame. The date on the footage was March 21.

You were painting something. As I watched Celine, I tried to sink further and further into her perspective. For you, painting is a whole-body endeavor. You move like you’re dancing. You paint like it’s a combat sport. The footage on the screen was black-and-white, but the resolution was excellent. You wipe the sweat from your brow with the back of your hand. There’s paint on your arms, your face. You take a step back and—

Without warning, the footage jumped. One second, Celine was on-screen, painting, and the next there was shattered glass everywhere. A broken easel lay on the floor. The entire studio had been ransacked.

And Celine was gone.

Sterling and Briggs spent the remainder of the flight showing us crime scene photos and briefing us on the facts of the case. One thing was clear: our victim had fought.

She was stronger than you expected. I shifted my focus from Celine to the UNSUB. You either lost control or you never had it. You weren’t ready. Weren’t worthy.

That was guesswork as much as profiling. I needed to see the actual crime scene. I needed to stand where Celine had been standing. I needed to know her—to see her bedroom, examine her paintings, sort out exactly what kind of fighter she was.

“We’ll set up our base of operations at a nearby safe house.” As the plane began its descent, Agent Briggs laid out the plan. “Agent Starmans and Judd will accompany the Naturals to the safe house. Agent Vance, you’re with us.”

Us as in Briggs and Sterling. They’d scout out the scene and major players before we were allowed anywhere near the case.

“Is this a bad time to point out that I’m on the verge of turning eighteen?” Michael asked. It was the first time he’d spoken since Agent Sterling had concluded her briefing. For Michael, that might have been a record. “Redding’s eighteen. God knows when Lia’s birthday actually is, but I think we can all agree that she doesn’t need kid gloves.”

“I cannot help noticing that you did not mention Cassie or me,” Sloane told Michael, frowning. “I do not care for gloves of the kid or adult variety. Mittens conserve up to twenty-three percent more heat.”

“None of you are coming with us.” Agent Briggs was used to issuing orders. “The five of you are going to the safe house. We will deal you in on a need-to-know basis once the crime scene has been secured.”

“So what I’m hearing,” Michael replied as the plane touched down, “is that this is a good time to remind you that I am the only person here who knows Celine, the Delacroix family, or the local police department?”

“One guess as to how Townsend knows the local police department,” Dean murmured beside me.

The debate continued as we de-planed, until Briggs snapped, “Michael, what are the chances that I’m going to change my mind?”

“Slim to none?” Michael guessed flippantly.

“Infinitesimal to none,” Sloane corrected.