Children could be made to do horrible things—Dean was proof enough of that. But slitting someone’s throat from behind? That wasn’t the MO of a child with limited reach.

I went through the rest of the names on my list. Thomas Wesley was thirty-nine, which put him at twenty-seven and serving as the CEO of his first company at the time of the New York murders. The professor was thirty-two, and a quick internet search informed me that he’d done his undergraduate degree at NYU. I hesitated slightly, then added a final name to the list.

Grayson Shaw.

Sloane’s father was in his early fifties. He was clearly a man who thrived on power and being in control. The way he’d treated Sloane told me that he had tendencies toward seeing people as possessions and behaving callously and unemotionally toward them.

I would have bet Michael’s car that, as the owner of the Majesty corporation, Grayson Shaw made frequent trips to New York.

“Far be it from me to suggest that Sloane hack the FBI again,” Michael said, preventing Sloane from dwelling on her father’s name, “but I think Sloane should hack the FBI again.”

Judd appeared in the doorway a moment later. He eyed Michael, eyed the rest of us, and then went to make himself some coffee.

“You missed out on a lot of action this morning,” Lia called after him.

He didn’t so much as turn around. “I don’t miss out on much.”

In other words: Judd knew quite well what we’d spent our morning doing. He just hadn’t interfered—and he wasn’t going to interfere now. Judd’s priority wasn’t solving cases, or making sure the FBI didn’t get hacked. His job was keeping us safe and fed.

No matter what.

As far as he was concerned, most everything else came out in the wash.

“If tertium doesn’t just mean that our killer has a fixation on the number three, if it really does mean that this is the third time our killer has pulled this routine,” Lia was saying beside me, warming up to Michael’s suggestion, “it only makes sense to see if we can dig up the case we’re missing.”

Only Lia could make hacking the FBI sound reasonable.

“I can set up a program,” Sloane volunteered. “Not just for the FBI, but for Interpol, local police databases, anything I already have a back door into. I’ll have it search any available records that fit our parameters. Last time, I did a manual search for a single Fibonacci date. This will take a little more time up front, but the results will be more comprehensive.”

“In the meantime.” Judd came to stand at the edge of the kitchen. “The rest of you miscreants can eat.”

Michael opened his mouth to object, but Judd quelled him with a look.

“Room service?” Michael suggested smoothly.

“Only if you want to rack up a two-hundred-dollar bill,” Judd replied.

Michael made his way over to the nearest phone. He’d been remarkably low-key since the fight at the pool, but I knew before he even started to place his order that he’d try his best to rack up a three-hundred-dollar breakfast bill.

The only thing Judd vetoed was the champagne.

While we waited for the food, I retreated to take a shower. I’d been going a million miles an hour since Sloane had explained the dates to me that morning. A shower would be good for me. Even better, it might quiet my mind enough that I could really think.

When I’d first joined the program, we’d been restricted to cold cases, fed no more than the occasional scrap about whatever case our handlers were currently working. In the three months since the rules had changed, we’d worked a half-dozen active cases. The first one we’d solved in less than three days. The second, even faster than that. The third had taken almost a week, but this one…

So many details. The longer the case dragged on, the more information my brain had to juggle. The UNSUB’s profile evolved with each kill, and now that it looked like we might be dealing with a repeat offender, my brain had kicked into hyperdrive. The files I’d read. The interviews I’d watched. My own first impressions.

I was learning that the hardest thing about being a profiler was figuring out what information to discard. Did it matter that Beau and Tory had both spent time in foster homes? What about the way Aaron both resented and bowed down to his father? The slightly clingy vibe I’d gotten from Thomas Wesley’s assistant? The drink the professor had ordered, but only pretended to drink?

Even now that our suspicions were targeted at suspects over the age of thirty, I couldn’t turn off the part of my brain that arranged and rearranged what I knew about everyone involved, continually looking for meaning.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was missing something. Then again, being a profiler meant that I always felt like I was missing something, right up until the case was closed. Until the killing stopped—and not just for a day or two days or three.

For good.

The sound of the shower spray beating against the tub was rhythmic and soothing. I let it drown out my thoughts as I stepped into the shower and under the spray. Breathe in. Breathe out. I turned, arching my neck and letting the water soak my hair and dribble down the front of my face.

For a few, blissful minutes my mind was quiet—but it never stayed quiet for long.

June twenty-first. That was where my brain went when I wasn’t trying to force it to think about one thing or another. My mother’s dressing room. Blood on my hands. Blood on the walls.

“Dance it off, Cassie.”