“I left because I wasn’t doing my job, Dean. I was angry. I needed to prove that I wasn’t scared, and I got someone killed. Because I couldn’t follow the rules. Because Tanner couldn’t let even one case go.”

Tanner was Briggs’s first name. The fact that Agent Sterling was using it in a conversation with Dean made me wonder just how much history the two of them shared. This wasn’t a conversation you had with a kid you’d met once when you arrested his father.

“What was the girl’s name?” Dean’s voice was lower-pitched than Agent Sterling’s. I struggled to make out his words as he spoke.

“I can’t tell you that, Dean.”

“What was her name?”

“You’re not authorized to work on active cases. Leave it alone.”

“You tell me her name. I’ll leave it alone.”

“No, you won’t.” Agent Sterling’s voice was getting harder to decipher. I wondered if she was speaking more softly because the alternative was starting to yell.

“I made you a promise once.” Dean’s voice was controlled—too controlled. “I kept it. Tell me this girl’s name, and I’ll promise to leave it alone.”

My fingers tightened around the tube of lipstick in my hand. Briggs had let me read through Locke’s file. I’d memorized the names of every one of her victims.

“Isn’t it enough that I swore we would take care of this?” Agent Sterling said sharply. “We’ve got some solid leads. I can’t tell you what they are, but I can promise you we have them. It’s a copycat, Dean. Paint by numbers. That’s all. Daniel Redding is in jail. He’s going to be in jail for the rest of his miserable life.”

“What’s her name?”

“Why do you need to know?” This time, Agent Sterling’s voice got loud enough that I would have heard it even if I hadn’t been standing right outside the door. “You tell me that, and I’ll answer your question.”

“I just do.”

“Not good enough, Dean.”

Silence. Neither one of them spoke for at least a minute. The sound of my own breathing seemed unbearably loud. I was sure that any second, one of them would come storming out. They’d discover me standing here, listening at the door to a conversation that I knew was more private than anything Dean had told me.

But I couldn’t move. I couldn’t even remember how.

“Her name was Gloria.” That was Dean, not Sterling, so I wasn’t sure who the her in question was. “He introduced her to me. He made her say my name. He asked her if she’d like to be my mom. I was nine. I told him I didn’t want a new mother. And he looked at Gloria and said, ‘That’s a shame.’”

“You didn’t know.” Sterling’s voice was quiet again, but still high enough in pitch that the words carried.

“And once I did know,” Dean replied, his voice on the edge of breaking, “he wouldn’t tell me their names.”

Another torturously long silence. The vicious beating of my own heart drowned out the sound of my breathing. I took a step backward, a tiny, silent step.

I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be listening to this.

I turned, but even with my back to the door, I heard Agent Sterling answer Dean’s question. “The girl’s name was Emerson Cole.”

Back in my own bed, I closed my eyes and tried not to think about what I’d overheard, as if by pushing it out of my mind, I could make up for the fact that I’d listened at the door for far too long.

I failed.

Dean and Agent Sterling hadn’t just met each other before. They knew each other. They had history. Stop thinking about it, I told myself. Don’t do this. I couldn’t stop, any more than Sloane would have been able to see a mathematical equation without calculating the answer.

Dean made you a promise once, Agent Sterling, and whatever it was, he kept it. The closest I could come to granting Dean privacy was to try getting inside Agent Sterling’s head instead of his. You don’t like thinking about the Daniel Redding case. You care about Dean. Michael said you’re afraid to even look at him, but clearly, you don’t blame Dean for what his father did.

Another implication of their conversation finally sank in.

You know that Dean discovered what his father was doing, don’t you? You know that Daniel Redding made his son watch.

The words Dean had whispered to me the day before, the secret I’d been sure he’d never told anyone—she knew it, too. Somehow, that made it harder to hold on to my resentment against Agent Sterling.

You think you can protect him. You think if he doesn’t know what’s happening, it won’t affect him. That’s why you didn’t want to tell him Emerson’s name.

If Agent Sterling knew him so well, if she cared about Dean so much, why couldn’t she see that it was the not knowing that was going to kill him? It didn’t matter if this killer was just a copycat—the fact that Dean had needed to know the girl’s name told me he wouldn’t be able to make that separation in his mind.

He’d blame himself for this girl, the way he blamed himself for all the others.

I told him I didn’t want a new mother.

And Daniel Redding had replied, “That’s a shame.” In Dean’s mind—and maybe in his father’s—at least one of Daniel Redding’s victims had died because she wouldn’t make a suitable replacement mother for Dean.

Because Dean had said he didn’t want her.

So much for my resolution to stick to profiling Sterling instead of Dean.

Thwap. A small, cold projectile hit me in the side of the head. For a second, I thought I’d imagined it, and then—thwap.

I opened my eyes, turned toward the door, and wiped the side of my face, which was damp. By the time my eyes had adjusted to the light, I’d been pelted for a third time.

“Lia,” I hissed, keeping my voice to a whisper to avoid waking Sloane. “Quit throwing ice at me.”

Lia popped a piece of ice into her mouth and rolled it around with her tongue. Without a word, she beckoned me into the hallway. Fairly certain she would continue throwing ice at me until I agreed, I rolled out of bed and followed her into the hall. She closed the bedroom door behind us and pulled me into the nearby bathroom. Once she’d locked that door, she flipped the light switch on, and I realized that, in addition to the cup of ice she held in her left hand, she held a sparkly mint-green shirt in her right.

My eyes went from the clothes in Lia’s hands to the clothes she was wearing: black leather pants and a silver top that was held in place by a chain around her neck and had no back whatsoever.

“What are you wearing?” I asked.

Lia answered my question with an order. “Put this on.”

She thrust the shirt at me. I took a step back. “Why?”

“Because,” Lia said, like the two of us hadn’t fought twice in the past forty-eight hours, “you can’t go to a Colonial University frat party dressed in your pajamas.”

“A frat party,” I repeated. Then the rest of her statement sunk in. Colonial University. The scene of the crime.

“This is a bad idea,” I told Lia. “Judd would kill us. Not to mention the fact that Agent Sterling’s already on the warpath, and all Sloane and I did was build a mock-up of the crime scene in the basement.”

“Sloane built a mock-up of the crime scene,” Lia corrected. “You didn’t do anything other than get caught.”

“You’re a crazy person,” I told Lia, struggling to keep my voice to a whisper. “You want us to sneak out of the house to attend a college frat party at a university where there is an ongoing FBI investigation. Forget about Judd and Agent Sterling. Briggs would kill us.”

“Only if we get caught,” Lia retorted. “And unlike certain redheads in this room, I specialize at not getting caught. Put on the dress, Cassie.”

“What dress?”

Lia held up the glittery thing I’d mistaken for a shirt. “This dress.”

“There is no world in which that is long enough to be a dress.”