“It’s not a ridiculous idea.” Sloane stood up. Her voice trembled. “You just can’t see it. You don’t understand it. But just because you don’t understand something doesn’t mean you get to ignore it. You can’t just pretend the pattern doesn’t exist and hope it goes away.”

The way he pretends you don’t exist, my brain translated. The way he ignores you.

“That’s enough, Sloane.”

“It’s not ridiculous.” Sloane swallowed and turned toward the door. “You’ll see.”

YOU

Waiting is harder than you’d anticipated.

Every night, you sit with the knife balanced on one knee. Every night, you run through each iteration, each possibility, each second leading up to the moment when you will step up behind your target and use the knife to slit their throat.

Just another calculation. Another number. Another step closer to what you will become.

You want it. So badly you can taste it. You want it now.

But you are at the mercy of the numbers, and the numbers say to wait. So you wait, and you watch, and you listen.

You’re told the FBI suspects that the next murder will take place in the Grand Ballroom. You’re told they’re watching it. Waiting, just like you. You take that to mean that someone has seen the pattern—just a fraction of it, just a piece. In your quietest moments, when you’re staring at the blade, you wonder who at the FBI figured it out.

You wonder if that person truly appreciates what you have done, what you are doing, what you will become. But how could they? Whoever they are, whatever they think they know, it’s only a fraction of the truth.

They know only what you’ve allowed them to know. You set them on the path to discovery.

It’s not their attention you want.

Slowly, contemplatively, you take off your shirt. You pick up the knife. You turn to face the mirror, and you press the tip of the blade to your skin and begin to draw. Blood beads up. You welcome the pain. Soon, you won’t even feel it.

Let the FBI come at you. Let them do their worst. And as for the rest of it, perhaps it’s time to send a message. You are at the mercy of the numbers.

Let the world be at their mercy, too.

When we got back to the suite, there were two packages waiting for us. The first contained footage of Sterling and Briggs’s most recent interview with Tory Howard. The second was from Aaron Shaw.

Sloane wordlessly opened the second package. Inside were six tickets to tonight’s performance of Tory Howard’s Imagine. The advertisement included with them promised a “bewitching evening of mind-warping entertainment.” On the bottom, Aaron had written, in a slanted, cursive scrawl, On the house. He’d signed his name.

“I have to go do something that isn’t cry now,” Sloane said. “And I’d like to do it alone.” She bolted before any of us could say anything.

Lia and I exchanged a look. When Michael and Dean joined us, we brought them up to speed. Lia flipped her hair over her shoulder and did her best impression of someone who wasn’t concerned about Sloane—or anyone other than herself.

“So,” she said, picking up the footage the FBI had sent, “who wants to watch Sterling and Briggs cross-examine Aaron Shaw’s girlfriend?”

On-screen, Agent Briggs, Agent Sterling, and Tory were in what appeared to be some kind of interrogation room, as was a man I assumed to be Tory’s lawyer.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with us again.” Briggs sat across from Tory. Sterling was to his left. Tory’s lawyer sat beside her.

“My client was glad to come down and clear up any lack of clarity that may exist in her prior statements.” The lawyer’s voice was smooth and baritone. Even from a distance, his watch looked expensive.

Tory didn’t hire him. I didn’t second-guess the intuition. Tory was tough, she was a straight talker, and she was a survivor. At one point in time, she’d been in the foster system. She’d fought for everything she had. She would unquestionably hire the best lawyer she could afford to keep the FBI from strong-arming her—but her preference would lean toward someone more aggressive, with less of a fondness for designer suits.

“Ms. Howard, when we last spoke to you, you indicated that Camille Holt was the one who chose the Majesty’s restaurant as your destination that night.”

“Did I?” Tory didn’t bat an eye. “That’s not right. I was the one who suggested we go there.”

I flashed back to seeing Tory in the alleyway with Aaron. Had they been discussing this interview? Had he told her what to say?

“Were you aware that the location of Camille’s murder was set in advance?” Agent Briggs asked.

“No,” Michael answered on her behalf. “She wasn’t. Look at that.” He gestured in the direction of the screen, though I couldn’t tell what part of Tory’s expression had tipped him off. “She’s gut-punched.”

Agent Sterling took advantage of the moment. “What is your relationship with Aaron Shaw?”

Tory was still absorbed enough in the revelation about Camille’s murder that she might have actually answered, but her lawyer leaned forward. “My client will not be answering any questions about Aaron Shaw.”

“Check out the nostril flare on the lawyer on that one,” Michael said. “Closest thing to emotion the guy’s shown so far.”

In other words: “He’s more concerned with protecting Aaron than protecting Tory,” I said. She didn’t hire him, I thought again. The Shaws did.