Sloane made her best attempt at looking inconspicuous. “There are over one hundred ninety-seven commonly used slang terms for a male’s private parts!” she blurted out. And then, because she just couldn’t help herself, she continued, “Also, Briggs, Sterling, and Judd are not up there debating the merits of taking your father’s case!”
There was a beat of silence.
“As much as it pains me to say this, let’s table the discussion of inappropriate slang for a moment.” Michael’s gaze went from Sloane to Lia, Dean, and me. “And someone can elaborate on this case of my father’s.”
“Director Sterling wasn’t specific.” Dean answered Michael’s query, calm and ready to intervene if Michael tried to do something stupid. “All he said is that there’s some kind of situation with your father’s business partner’s daughter.”
Michael blinked. “Celine?” The name lingered on his lips for a second or two. “What kind of situation?” Michael must have been able to tell just from looking at us that we didn’t know the answer to that question, because the next instant he made for the basement door, every muscle in his body taut.
Dean caught his arm as he passed. “Think, Townsend.”
“I am thinking,” Michael countered, stepping forward to get in Dean’s face. “Specifically, I’m thinking that you have three seconds to remove your hand from my arm before I make you remove it.”
“Michael.” I tried and failed to get him to look at me.
“One,” Michael told Dean.
“I do hope he says two next,” Lia told Sloane wistfully. “Nothing says virility in a man like misplaced anger and counting to the number three.”
That pierced Michael’s bravado enough that he actually paused. “Celine Delacroix is the only person from my life before the program who ever gave a crap about me or bothered to see the kind of person that the great Thatcher Townsend really is,” he told Dean. “If she’s in some kind of trouble, I’m going. If I have to go through you to do it, I will.”
“We’re all going.” Agent Briggs didn’t mince words as he descended the basement stairs. He was the one who had recruited Michael to the program. He knew exactly what kind of man Thatcher Townsend was.
So why would he send Michael back there? Why would Judd agree? The fact that Agent Sterling wasn’t with Briggs made me wonder if she’d fought them on this.
“You’re telling me that we’re just breaking camp and flying to upstate New York?” Lia narrowed her eyes at Briggs. “Out of the goodness of our hearts?”
“Not out of the goodness of our hearts. And not because Director Sterling thinks Townsend Senior could prove useful down the road.” Briggs looked to Michael. “Not even because a nineteen-year-old girl is missing, although we shouldn’t stop caring about things like that, no matter how focused we are on taking the Masters down.”
The word missing hit Michael like a physical blow. “Then why?” he asked.
Why would Director Sterling bring us this case? Why would Briggs and Judd willingly bring Michael back into his abusive father’s sphere? Why would we drop everything to look for one girl?
I knew the answer in the pit of my stomach before Briggs said, “Because the police believe Celine was abducted eight days ago.”
My heart thudded in my chest. Eight days since the last Fibonacci date. Five days until the next one.
“March twenty-first.” Sloane’s voice caught in her throat. “3/21.”
“This girl disappeared on a Fibonacci date.” Lia must have sensed Briggs was holding something back, because she tilted her head to the side. “And?”
There was a long pause.
“This girl disappeared on a Fibonacci date,” Briggs repeated, “and the entire crime scene was soaked in kerosene.”
YOU
The smell of burning flesh never really leaves you. Ash scatters. Skin scars. Pain subsides. But the smell is always there.
Pushing back against it, you concentrate. You know this slow and painful dance. You know the rules. But even as the wheel turns, the music changes. You can hear it. This time, you know something that the others don’t.
You know her.
Maybe Celine Delacroix was still alive. Maybe she hadn’t been doused in kerosene. Maybe the person who had abducted her from her home hadn’t burned her alive on March twenty-first.
But that wasn’t a risk we could take. The entire team—plus Agents Starmans and Vance—were on the jet and flying to upstate New York in under an hour.
Near the front of the plane, Briggs checked his watch. Across the aisle from him, Agent Sterling thumbed through a copy of the case file, like she hadn’t already memorized the entire thing. The lengths the two of them were going to in order to avoid eye contact might have triggered my interest if I hadn’t been more focused on the fact that Celine Delacroix might be victim number one—of nine.
I felt the weight of that pressing down on me, suffocating me. Beside me, Dean’s fingers brushed the tips of mine.
Every time he reaches for your hand, I heard Daniel Redding whisper in my memory, every time you touch his scars…
I jerked my hand back.
“Cassie?”
“I’m fine,” I said, falling back on a childhood habit and focusing on assessing the other occupants of the plane. Michael sat in a row by himself, Sloane and Lia side by side across the aisle. Near the front of the plane, behind Sterling and Briggs, Agent Vance—short, compact, by the book, and pushing forty—and Agent Starmans—recently divorced, unlucky in love, and deeply uncomfortable with teenagers who saw more than they should—awaited orders. They’d been a part of Briggs’s team since before I’d joined the program, but hadn’t started traveling with us until after Vegas.
Until every single one of us became a possible target.
That just left Judd. I could tell by the way he was sitting that he was armed. The plane hit cruising altitude before I could think too hard about why.
Agent Sterling stood and ditched the file in her hand for a digital version displayed on the flat screen at the front of the plane. “Celine Elodie Delacroix, nineteen-year-old daughter of Remy and Elise Delacroix.” Agent Sterling began the briefing like this was any other day—and any other case. “Remy is a hedge fund manager. Elise runs the family’s charitable foundation.”