Written on it was a four-digit number.

“Nine-zero-nine-five,” Sloane read. She walked forward until she was almost blocking the screen. “It’s the wrong number. Seven-seven-six-one.” She punctuated each number by tapping the middle finger on her right hand against her thumb. “That’s what’s next. That number”—she gestured toward the screen—“doesn’t appear anywhere in the first hundred digits of the Fibonacci sequence.”

On-screen, Agent Briggs wielded silence like a weapon. He was waiting for Beau to crack.

“I don’t have to say anything to you.”

Michael raised an eyebrow at Beau’s tone, but this time, I didn’t need a translation. Bravado. The kind born of being kicked too hard for too long.

Agent Sterling walked around to Beau’s side of the table. For a moment, I thought he might lunge at her, but instead, he stiffened as she moved to unlock his cuffs.

“You don’t have to say anything,” she agreed. “But I think you want to. I think there’s something you want us to know.”

Michael took in Beau’s nonverbal response, then made a finger-gunning motion at the screen. “Point to the lady,” he said.

“You told us that Camille Holt was nice to you.” Agent Sterling retreated back to her side of the table, never breaking eye contact with Beau. “Right now, it’s looking an awful lot like you killed her.”

“Even if I told you I didn’t,” Beau grunted, “you wouldn’t believe me.”

“Try me.”

For a moment, I actually thought he might. Instead, he settled back in his seat again. “I don’t feel much like talking,” he said.

“During our last interview, you told us you were with Tory Howard when Camille was murdered.” Agent Briggs leaned forward. “But we’ve recently come to believe that Tory was with Aaron Shaw that night.”

“Maybe I was trying to protect her,” Beau spat. “From you assholes.”

“Or maybe,” Briggs suggested, “you were really trying to protect yourself. Tory and Aaron have been keeping things on the down low. She didn’t want to give his name as her alibi. She must have thought she was pretty lucky when you volunteered yourself for that role.” He leaned forward. “She just didn’t realize that when she allowed you to do so, she became your alibi for that night, too.”

Smart, I thought. Looking at Beau on paper, it was easy to underestimate him. High school dropout. Working a crappy job. He made no effort whatsoever to give the impression that he was anything more—but his success at the poker tournament told a very different story.

He’s used to being dismissed and ignored, but has a very high IQ, I thought.

“Tory lied to us.” Briggs lowered his voice. “Maybe we should be looking at charging her as an accessory.”

“Briggs,” Sterling said sharply—good cop until the end.

Agent Briggs leaned across the table, getting in Beau’s face and going in for the kill. “Tell me, Beau, has Tory ever taught you how to hypnotize someone?”

Briggs and Sterling kept at it, but Beau didn’t say a word. Eventually, they left him to stew and put in a call to us.

“Thoughts?” Briggs asked on speaker.

“It’s not him.” Sloane was practically vibrating with intensity. “You have to see that. The numbers? Wrong. The location? Wrong. The timing?” Sloane turned her back on the phone. “It’s all wrong.”

Silence descended. Dean filled the void. “He’s got the potential for violence.” The way Dean phrased that observation made me wonder if he saw any of himself in Beau. “He’s been living at the bottom of a hierarchy that favors those with money and power, and he has neither. Given the opportunity, he’d enjoy playing a game where he came out on top.” Dean leaned on the counter, his head bowed. “He’s angry, and I’m guessing he’s spent a lot of his life being tossed aside like garbage. If the Majesty’s head of security does die, Beau won’t feel bad about it. Given the choice, he’d probably pick up that brick again.”

“But—” Sloane started to say.

“But,” Dean said, “Sloane’s right. The numbers on the victims’ wrists aren’t just a part of this UNSUB’s MO. They’re a part of his signature. He needs to mark his victims. And I’m not convinced we’re dealing with an UNSUB who, after four meticulously planned kills, gets caught writing numbers onto the wrist of the fifth before the man is even dead.”

“The wrong numbers,” Sloane put in emphatically.

Sterling cleared her throat. “I tend to agree with Sloane and Dean. Our UNSUB’s MO has changed with each kill. And so has the method with which the victims were marked. Until now.”

Eugene Lockhart had numbers written on his wrist in a permanent marker, too, I realized.

“Say you’d killed someone.” Lia instantly had the room’s attention. “Or, in Beau’s case, say that you thought the person you’d hit with a brick was about to die.” She leaned back on the heels of her hands, and my mind went back to Two Truths and a Lie.

I killed a man when I was nine.

“Maybe you had a choice. Maybe you didn’t. And afterward,” Lia continued, her voice light and airy, “say you didn’t want to get caught. What do you do?”

Seconds ticked by in silence. Dean was the one who provided the answer. He knew Lia better than any of us. “You lie.”