In most of the cases we’d worked in the past few months, the killers’ assertions of dominance over their victims had been direct. The victims had been overpowered. They’d been chosen, they’d been stalked, and they’d died looking at the faces of their killers.

This UNSUB was different.

“Persons of interest two, three, and four.” Michael drew my attention back to the present as he spread the files out one by one on the coffee table. “Or, as I like to call them,” he continued, glancing at each POI’s picture for less than a second, “Intense, Wide-Eyed, and Planning-Your-Demise.”

The one Michael had referred to as Planning-Your-Demise was the only woman of the three. She had strawberry blond hair with a slight curl to it and eyes that looked several sizes too big for her face. At first glance, she could have passed for a teenager, but the dossier informed me that she was twenty-five.

“Camille Holt.” I paused after reading her name. “Why does that sound familiar?”

“Because she’s not just a professional poker player,” Lia replied. “She’s an actress.”

The dossier confirmed Lia’s words. Camille was classically trained, had an undergraduate degree in Shakespearean literature, and had played small but critically acclaimed roles in several mainstream films.

She didn’t exactly fit the profile of your typical professional poker player.

You don’t like being put in boxes, I thought. According to the file, this was Camille’s second major poker tournament. She’d gone far enough in the first to surpass expectations, but hadn’t won.

I thought about what Michael had said about her facial expression. To the untrained eye, she didn’t look like she was plotting anything. She looked sweet.

You like being underestimated. I rolled that over in my mind as I made my way through the next two files, skimming the information the FBI had gathered on Dr. Daniel de la Cruz (Intense), and the supposedly wide-eyed Beau Donovan, who looked more like he was scowling to me.

De la Cruz was a professor of applied mathematics. True to Michael’s assessment, he seemed to approach both poker and his field of study with laser focus and an intensity unmatched by his peers.

For maximal contrast, Beau Donovan was a twenty-one-year-old dishwasher who’d entered the qualifying tournament here at the Majesty two weeks before. He’d won, giving him the amateur spot in the upcoming poker championship.

“Shall we role-play?” Lia asked. “I’ll be the actress. Dean can be the dishwasher from the wrong side of the tracks. Sloane is the mathematics professor, and Michael is the billionaire playboy.”

“Obviously,” Michael replied.

I picked up the final file, the one that belonged to Tory Howard, the only POI who wasn’t an elite poker player.

The magician.

“I’m bored and approaching really bored,” Lia announced when it became clear that none of us were going to take her up on the role-play suggestion. “And I think we all know that’s not a good thing.” She stood, smoothing one hand over her red dress while the other grabbed for the DVD. “At least on a security video, something might actually happen.”

Lia popped the DVD into a nearby player. Sloane looked up from her spot on the floor just as the security footage began to play. A split screen showed the view from eight cameras. Sloane stood, her eyes moving rapidly back and forth, as she took in the data, tracking hundreds of people, some stationary, some moving from one frame to the next.

“There.” Sloane reached for the remote and paused it. It took me a moment to zero in on what she’d seen.

Eugene Lockhart.

He was sitting in front of a slot machine. Sloane fast-forwarded the footage. I kept my eyes locked on Eugene. He stayed there, playing the same slot again and again.

But then, something shifted. He turned around.

Sloane set the DVD to play in slow motion. I skimmed each of the other cameras’ footage. A blur of motion passed first through one, then through another.

The arrow.

We watched as it buried itself in the old man’s chest. I didn’t let myself look away.

“The angle of entry,” Sloane murmured, “the placement of the cameras…” She rewound the footage and played it again.

“Stop,” Michael said suddenly. When Sloane didn’t pause the footage, he reached for the control himself and toggled back, bit by bit. “See anyone familiar?” he asked.

I scanned the various camera shots.

“Bottom right.” Dean found her first. “Camille Holt.”

We spent the next six hours buried in the evidence. Sloane and Michael went over and over the video. Dean and I made our way through the final dossier, then worked back through all of them in more detail. We found everything we could online about Camille Holt. I watched interview after interview with her. She was a self-professed method actor, who embodied her characters the entire time she was filming a role.

You like trying different people’s skin on for size. You’re fascinated by the way the mind works, the way it breaks, the way people survive things no one should be able to survive.

It was there, in the roles she chose: a mentally ill woman on death row, a single mother weathering the loss of her only child, a homeless teenager turned vigilante after an assault.

So, Camille, I wondered, what role are you playing now? According to our files, she’d been at the party where Alexandra was killed. That meant she was present at a minimum of two of the three murders.